Bug

I hardly use my
frontal cortex anymore.
Primordial modes of unknowing
have come back to me,
lost dreams, remembered awakenings.
If something smells like
my grandmother's pudding,
I eat it, no questions asked.
Hug me, I hug back.
Glow gold in wetland mist at dawn,
I will approach you,
trusting the flavor inside flavor,
the light inside light.
Without a Word
the crystal of creation
arises in my optic nerve
before the world appears.
I leave naming things
to dreary philosophers
and follow a dissolving sweetness
as you follow this breath
to your next one.
Clear ideas are above my pay grade.
I listen to the crinkle of uncertainty
through insect fuzz
that sings in my skin about some vast
entangled kaleidoscope of food.
That’s what caterpillars do
and they turn out all right.
Belly down, inch by inch,
inventing a path with hundreds
of meditating toes,
quivering antennae tuned
to the invisible homeostatic motherhood
that warms the cosmos,
even darkness,
until a dreamy inward blush
invites them to wrap their bodies
in gluey amber
and after a nap in the uncreated
shatter their cathedral cocoons
with the splendor of stained glass wings.
I’m just a worm
on a glistening stick
whose Way has many branches
but never a wrong turn,
my soul a mindless stream of neutrinos
pouring through the soft spot in my skull
from God only knows how far
beyond Andromeda.
I could do worse than be a bug
munching my pilgrimage of empty holes
through green, toward deeper green. 

Photo: self-portrait