On the children,
rain falls like jewels.
They drink each drop,
hands whipping wet snakes,
fingers clutching claws.
Dry has been the month—
Such things come once in a while,
and leave very soon.
Drink now, children—Drink!
Soak the beads into the folds,
into the creases of your lips.
This is the hour!
This is!
This.
Study the portrait on the screen—
the face you see
is an emergent property
of light particles
as they bounce and intermingle
with molecules of glass.
Study the image in the mind—
the memory you’re recalling
is an emergent property
of chemicals
as they splash and soak
neurons of the brain.
Study the scriptures of the Cosmos—
the meaning you’re drawing
is an emergent property
of consciousness painting life
onto stone, water, and air.
What is the real
beneath the shadow—
the truth forming the dream?
People want to “make it.”
I just
want to find truth.
The quest may starve me
while others plant their roots
and their bellies grow full,
but what aches is not my stomach;
it’s a vacuous space within my chest.
Some call it the heart,
though what crackles—
crackles in a deeper depth—
is a space no one can point to,
yet everyone feels
when
cars stop and business
ends.
There,
in that still penumbra,
between stars and stone,
burns this silent shadow,
its kindling unknown.
Everybody wants to be your Jesus Christ
and kick over your tables,
telling you this ain’t it,
drop that drink,
smoke this joint,
write this way
through the Pearly Gates
and on to success.
But you gotta say fuck all that.
You ain’t religious,
and nothing is gospel,
not even poetry.