Time is
a slight of hand,
a wick
for the flicker of self-reflection.
Time/space
are the cross hairs, scoping us out.
Time is
baited questions about motives and goals.
Time is
a deaf mute by presence
yet time
is humbled when reality shuffles time
out of
order and lets the measures of time
bleed
into each other,
lets the
frames randomly thicken and thin,
lets the
soup of time through its jugular,
adrenal,
dreamlike, or coma.
Time
feels for these as pulse,
the
projective source of reality bringing time down
to a
boundaryless faint remembrance.
It is as
remote as a groundless inkling,
almost
as an impulse that swallows itself.
Reality
beyond time,
is this
the source of infinitesimal commingling?
Is this
a now without reference?
Is this
an experience with no mind?
Is
witness then just the bouncer
at the
oneness entry door?
Is
knowing just the whale of us
surfacing
for reality's air?
Are we
the free-fall becoming our own breath
of
re-embrace?
When
does this mindlessness reveal for itself a face?
Who is
there left to make the sound
emerging
from involuntary physical lips,
featuring
the impact of the facets of meaning
landing
on us all as scintillating residue?
Are we
all just the butt of the joke of dust?
The jest
of the just of oneness?
No comments:
Post a Comment