A ship
crosses the ocean,
in the darkness:
darkness, black & endless
no moon,
no stars,
just clouds -- thick & low
clouds that can't be seen
The ship has lights,
but those lights know
an event horizon
Lights sometime
glint against the waves,
those roiling & undulating
waves,
and the lights bounce off
the ship's hull
But no one can see them,
because if anyone could see them,
the seers would be seen--
unless theirs is a ghost ship,
piloted by literal ghosts,
or some other agent of observation
Maybe there is fog --
not enveloping the ship,
(such mist would be felt
on the skin of those on deck)
but, rather, a fog between
where the ship is,
and where is should be
For it is surely off course,
listlessly drifting,
all hope arrayed against edges:
edges of ice
&
edges of the world
Not that the world is flat,
but, perhaps, it's not fully sculpted:
maybe nothing lies outside
the range of the seen:
outside the bounds of experience
It sounds crazy,
but all kinds of crazy
form in a mind
submerged in darkness
There was an old man from Indianapolis
who - about the big race - was passionless,
"it's far too many miles
goin' nowhere with style;
I wish I'd been born in Minneapolis!"
The Monkey King with magic staff
outmatched monsters and gods,
defying the Jade Emperor's
edicts against all odds.
He erased himself from out of
The Book of Life and Death,
and lived through the Crucible --
nearly holding his breath.
Finally, the gods called Buddha,
though some had their qualms,
but the one thing Monkey couldn't do
was leap from Buddha's palm.
