It was no use. The Old Man cried, "Let
there be light!" We all began fermenting. Everything's been tumbling downhill ever since, from perfect order toward chaos.
Now we're 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.
We are dreams of light in each
others optic nerves. Your otherness is as questionable as mine. Am I you or me? This field must be out beyond ideas of right or wrong. Here, Rumi wanders barefoot, half-tipsy with the wine of ambiguity.
Come friend, drink from the bowl of my heart
until it is hollow. Then drink even more. Let's 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 a sky returning to the black hole of love. Be here prior to light, the energy beneath the form. Let
all concepts dissolve into the blues behind your eye. The earth is created by your secret joy.
_________
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.
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