Morning Meditations

Man is multi-dimensional:
Breakfast:
Belly Food
Brain Food
Soul Food

Nourish All Selves.

Word Play (Island):
My I (s) Land, I's Land,
island, surroundings
all exist in and of themselves
each also possesses a Nature.

I assume that the Nature of each
is in fact One Nature;
forgive my boldness, Skeptic.

True Story:
I wrote a poem yesterday traveling
in more than one place at once,
if you'll believe it --
forgive my fictions;
and if you know better don't call them lies
or untrue.  There is a difference between the three.

The Poem:

You will grow
to the heights
of your depths

and there will be Nothingness:

which is, incidentally, the only home
for your Infinite Being.

In other words, you can't stuff Infinity
into something else unless there is aboslutely
nothing there.

Learn to be the Light and the Shadow;
and the expanse inbetween is for you to grow
into a child with Love of All.

Know where you walk:
In the darkness, be Light of appropriate brightness,
in the Light, be the imitating, observant shadow
and study those lights around you.

Meditations on Education

Study the acquisition of Peace
as often as the acquisition of money
for Peace is the Truer path to Power.

Study the Physics and Architecture of Love
and house the whole of Humanity
in an edifice that will outlast
any man-made wonder of the world.

Infinity's Best Disguise

This is as much an argument as it is a poem. It is an argument against the Empiricists (if I may call them this. I don't know how they self-identify or even accept being categorized) who claim that due to humans' size in relation to the Whole Universe we are too insignificant for God to bother with us. This poem responds specifically to Tim Minchin's nine-minute poem, "Storm", and ideas presented by Brazilian philosopher Mario Sergio Cortella.

Infinity's best disguise
is a finite thing.

It is hidden on a beach
in a single grain
and on that grain
some thing much smaller
perhaps living. A bacteria or
fungus or something.

And the beach is lit
by a glowing thing
whose name has changed
with the ages,
Amen.

And the beach is
made of stars
scattered throughout
the Universe, and they
stick to the feet and ankles
of those who like to sit
and listen to the waves
or run in the ionized breath
of the sea.

I started with a metaphor, of course.
We are those living things
so insignificant because we are so small
and therefore much closer to Nothing
than to the Divine, isn't that right?

In the Great Scientific Portrait,
in the Context of Infinite Space-time,
it is so ignorant and backwards to assert
that God would bother with us
or even that there is a God
or whatever He is called.

Isn't that what the statistics say?

But wouldn't the language of Numbers
fail when attempting to speak of
what cannot be quantified? Of what is,
by defnition, unquantifiable?

We are arrogant dreamers
to think we might actually have a significant place
or a Father to listen to our prayers, or a Mother
who holds us close to her bossom to feed,
who carried us to these cosmic shores
and knew we would grow to be good.

If we were important to the Universe
we would be bigger, is that it?
We would be more, is that it?

I wonder about the thinkers who say this.
Where do they keep their secrets?
How would they protect their most precious things?
and, furthermore, what about said precious things
makes them precious at all?

Perhaps their Numbers can put a value
on Life or Love or their children. 
I would like to see that number.
Or maybe neither Life nor Love
really exist if numbers can't add them up.
Or maybe they're just chemicals
just like God is just ideas.

Infinity's best disguise,
is a finite thing.
Humble, and small,
it would have to be a fool
to think,

I
I am special, somehow.
I am loved and the Universe knows me,
watches me, wants me. I am the Universe
gazing upon itself, or,
I am the Universe's secret (and perhaps only)
admirer, and I think She knows it.

Goodnight

Whatever you do,
do not stroke my hair
lean near my ear
and whisper your affection for me
while I lay dying;
do not wait until I am gone
to acknowledge I was here.

Do not hug my corpse
like you never want me to go
or kiss me
as if your very kisses
might wake me to life again ...

don't do it later, don't do it then,
do it now --

again and again.
Then, when we are gone we have no regrets:

Passion was ours!
That eternal fire of myth,
we were there, dancing, weren't we, love?

Yes.  No love went to waste.
There is nothing that remains that might sour.

No tears -- not for me!

I was much too blessed,
much too free, much to loved
that my life should inspire pity,
where ever you surmise I am.

If you cry it is not for my loss of life
but for your own loss of love.

Cry far away from my grave,
someplace quiet.

I would like to take a walk, anyway,
transform into a breeze or some meaningful light --
an apparition if your sanity can bare it --
and see you see me

maybe then you will know,
for eternity I have and always will kiss you goodnight.

The Days

Eskimos are said to have

dozens of words for snow they perceive.

The type of snow depends on the temperature,

the humidity, the day, among other things.

I will come back to this
but let me digress here:

Thinking about Home today.

I have had apartments and houses,

been in cities and mountain villages

and islands and a deathbed, too.

Had to think about Life and what 

in the world I am doing wanting more as I lay

there scared, crying, reading to pass the time,

chatting with the pony-tailed male nurse

who loved Bukowsky, had big Roman eyes
that blinked with the calm I imagine
professional angels possess.  
I wish I remembered his name.

After I was out I read that

gratitude's tears are more beautiful;

crystaline under the microscope:

the guy who'd written the article

had asked the monks and the scientists

and the Eskimos.

He didn't ask me but I would have confirmed it.

When you are dying, you definitely want to be filled

with gratitude.  And being that you never know

when that will be, you might as well keep yourself

filled up good and plenty.

I'm running, I'm going, I'm moving.

I'm curious about you, Life -- and Death,
I know you're there, but I am not so curious anymore --

and I 

just can't believe in only one religion,

one right way to Love other than

completely and, ideally, with absolutely

no violence.  Impossible as it seems
given the human narrative till now.

I got no home,

no roots, but I've got leaves;

no nest, but wings and a brain

like a whale with her mouth open

from the Arctic toward the equator 

and back just to feed well and mate

in better conditions.  Since the beginning

of time the beasts of air and water travel

with a purpose.

New worlds (and by "worlds" I mean

cultures and peoples): one beautiful in this way

the other in that.  All with an Exit sign

over a door somewhere

that, somedays, you glance at

and want to sneak out of.

Being without a home, in this way, is

strange and sad and exciting

depending on the day.

And each feeling can produce it's own

variety of tears if they get intense enough,

if you let those chemicals fill you full,

paint your view, major or minor

the notes in the song of whatever language surrounds; 

but, of course,

it depends on the mood, the context

of my feelings, the day.

Water has a tetrahedral molecular configuration that resonates with the fabric of the vacuum geometry and is thermodynamically inversed: it is the only element that expands when cooled and contracts when heated.

http://resonance.is/

I will not fear

I will not fear.
Fear, I will you no more.
I carry you in no part of me,
you live with Santa Claus
or Vampires and the Wicked Witch
as far as I am concerned.
So, goodbye.

I will not fear
the knock at the door
of my heart asking me
to give,
asking me if I have ever witnessed
Jahova on Earth.
I will not say no and close that door
when the dirty guy with missing teeth
and hands rough as paws comes
and asks for some food
or money.  I ask his name
and see that gloss over his eyes
is a window pane.

I will not fear the charity in my heart
nor the consequences of being charitable.

I will not fear your fear
nor leave you alone with your fear

I will not fear my affection for you
nor your need, or desperation, or imperfection.

And I will not fear my own imperfections.

I will not fear, anymore,
losing it all and having nothing
for I will have given it all,
and go as I came.

If

If it all comes down to nothing --

an infinite void

where, far away, aliens

send out signals

that a great big silent black hole

swallows up

so they never get to us
and we feel alone
and special, at once;

If it all comes down to nothing

and there is no God

we can weigh
and know the race
and height of

then we are wrong

or need to turn the scales

upside down
and be satisfied with simply
believing.

But if there is ever no God

we can feel the vibrations of

such that it seems

when we need

when we want

we can hear Him

then all has gone to hell

and we need to be saved,

if it all comes down to nothing.

If it all comes down to nothing

shouldn't we rise

and reach or listen for something --

even (or especially) if it seems that doing so

defies some law of logic

or empircal inquiry?

Maybe, if it all comes down to nothing,

some should never look down

and others will question

if the fall is not, in fact, only

a matter of perception,

that maybe it is, instead, flying.

If it all comes down to nothing,

fly anyway, child,

and let no fear ever age you

nor the darkness fail

to be anything but

a deep and blank canvass

and you with a
fistful of crayons
and tears in your eyes
from the speed of Truth

there is no "almost" about it:

you are already There.