Feeling To Infinity

It wears the kind of look only you know —
see, it is your own look.

You move towards yourself but disappear
in the moving, and only something
inexplicable arrives.

It is not a sensation, not a thrilling bliss
or any kind of common or uncommon excitement.

Without gravity or density, it appears to be
empty, yet it is empty of emptiness too.

You called out from your secret place,
now here is the response.

When the family dog comes running, tail
wagging, you know that you are home at last.

This home is not a place on any map — if it can be
located in time and space, then whatever that is
is not this, nor is it even close.

Nobody can point their finger and say,
“Here is the mind” or “There is the mind”.

When the river merges with the ocean, it doesn’t
breathe a sigh of relief or make any special claim —
it’s just water into water, and nothing need be said.

In your transcendental form, you recline on the embers
of your own funeral pyre as memories, thoughts,
emotions, and perceptions all go up in flame.

Only you emerge unscathed, moving towards yourself,
wearing the kind of look which only you recognize.

Everything which came before completely disappears
in the movement — only something inexplicable arrives.

Even if it seemed really important at the time,
what did it actually amount to in the big picture?

I’ve heard there is a great sea of consciousness,
and so the big idea was to drop some hooks down
into this dreamy ocean, bait them with experiences,
then troll along to see who or what would bite.

Sooner or later, we come swimming along, innocent
as little minnows fresh from the egg, spot the gleam
of reflected light, then bite off more than we can chew.

We wriggle around a bit from one scenario to the next,
but once we’re hooked on experience, it’s hard
to let go and get ourselves free.

The more we struggle, the deeper that hook
digs into our skin, until at last we collapse,
give up, and then get reeled in.

Wouldn’t you just know it —
it’s a “Catch and Release” program,
and soon we find ourselves back at sea again,
perhaps more suspicious this time around,
at least until the bright gleam from
that shiny hook draws us in.

It seems we have short memories, we forget
that things have already happened before.

Time is strange that way, now we can
predict what has already occurred.

Imagine that, when we look backward,
we are also looking forward!

If you’re not confused by this, you are
probably just taking things for granted.

Maybe it’s better that way, just letting
things take their natural course.

The big secret is, it’s none of our business.
The wise know, it’s futile to try and interfere.

We’re the audience, let’s not get carried away
by things which merely come and go.

Bodies, worlds, even vast universes of things
arise and then disappear right before our eyes.

It doesn’t take a prophet to predict that no thing
will last — that’s just the way things are.

When the credits scroll down, the audience gets up
and leaves the theater, then the silent cleaners arrive
to sweep things up before the next scheduled show.

You won’t see it in the faces of the children,
but look at the photos of adults — you can see
a loneliness in their eyes, even if they’re smiling.

We were like thrill seekers — somebody recommended
this place, they said it was a bucket list adventure.

We jumped right in, we couldn’t wait, we never read
the fine print, we were eager to have some fun.

Maybe we didn’t realize we’d be stuck here for the duration,
wearing this awkward body costume, watching as humans
tore each other apart for god and country and dollar bills.

Yes, it was all so very fascinating in the beginning:
touching, tasting, hearing, smelling, seeing,
but little by little we all seem to get homesick.

“Enough is enough”, is the common sad refrain,
but then we discover that the lesson has just begun.

This being human is, for most of us, a kind of school,
and if we should happen to find ourselves here,
it is usually because we have something to learn.

Love, and the way we resist it, is lesson number one.

Just so, let’s visit that steamy jungle! The kitchen now is just a distant memory as we make our way through the thick foliage, wielding our machetes like pros, while swatting the occasional mosquito drinking for free from our necks. We lost our compass some time ago crossing an alligator-infested swamp, so we are not sure exactly where we are. The sun is going down and we still haven’t made camp. The ominous growls of some large creature which seems to have been following us all afternoon are now much closer.

As dusk begins to settle over the jungle, a canary perched in a branch just over our heads trills out a long series of piercing notes. We have never heard anything as lovely, and we are captivated by its sonorous beauty. The melody is so incredibly mesmerizing that we forget we are in a jungle. In this exquisite moment, we are lifted up and transported to some distant and exotic land. When we finally open our eyes, we realize that we are back in the kitchen. The first light of dawn is pouring through the window, and when we reach up to remove the towels over the cage, the canary begins to sing.

Like the other animals, we once understood immediately,
but then we became proud and went mostly deaf, and now
require poets, mystics, and physicists to explain.

We still aren’t sure if that airborne mail comes from gods
or science — maybe there’s really no difference in the end.

Just so, the writer is out sniffing the breeze, then hurries in
to write it all down before he forgets what it showed him.

There are noxious fumes rising from the machines,
while lifeforms collapse in slow motion around them.

Great clouds of toxic smoke regularly encircle the globe
so that humans can revel in the dubious joys of palm oil.

The wind makes no judgment, it is just the messenger.
When the great glaciers melt to reveal bare rock,
you still won’t hear the wind complain.

Come floods or famines, rising temps or longer droughts,
climate warnings or denials, the wind will carry on the same.

Crowds of deformed fish are afloat on the ocean’s surface,
their bellies exposed to an indifferent sky, the stench
so revolting that not even hungry predator birds
will dare swoop down for a meal.

Those aquatic dead bob aimlessly on the tides, sharing
the fouled water with miles of oil slicks and floating
plastic refuse — the ominous signs of advanced civilization.

The wind will share all this and more, but how much more
can we bear to hear? It seems we’ve not yet heard enough,
but for those who do have the ears to hear, the message
should be loud and clear: unless we turn this ship
around, the wind will continue but we may not.