A Moment Before The Big Bang

We all had tears of laughter in our eyes, shouting, "Don't speak the Word, don't create heaven or earth. Let's just stay crushed together in this unfermented juice!"

It was no use. The Old Man cried, "Let there be light!" Everything's been tumbling downhill ever since, from chaos toward perfect order. We all began fermenting.

Now we are a tangle of vines, both luscious and poisonous, beyond the broken fence. Our mouths are full of honeysuckle. Our ears are clover petals. I am lost in a bio-galactic meadow among pulsars of dew, gazing at a string of moons through a dragonfly's wing.

Your otherness is questionable as mine. We are dreams of light in each others optic nerves. This field must out beyond ideas of right or wrong. Rumi wanders barefoot here.

Now drink from the bowl of my heart until it's hollow. Then drink even more. Let us both become the bottom of the well. We long for the gush of a rounder emptiness, a ringing sound that shakes the belly of the void before God speaks.

We got here through repose, not pilgrimage. Now we reveal, by laughter alone, the secret of the Sabbath:

Spin the atoms of the world from how you see it. Each breath is the ocean of love. Be here prior to Light, the energy beneath the form. Let all concepts dissolve into blues of the sky behind your eyes. Only your secret joy can recreate the earth.


Painting: Breughel's Garden of Eden, at the center of which is not the human couple, but a peacock whose tail has not opened. What does this mean? Nothing.