all space is filled
but we see emptiness
and then thinginess as the guardians,
destinations for our sight,
landmarks for tongue and touch,
residences of familiarity,
our bodily management
from projection’s feedback.
all space is dancing
but the music is so very soft,
maybe not sound worthy
for human ears to hear much less, listen.
but then, all of stuff is made of sound,
low frequency sound nonetheless.
couldn’t hum low enough
for the mass of it
to be a spirit joining in on the chorus.
our senses are dedicated to separateness,
to that which we come to distinctively regard.
worth is our funny set of oars
in a quantum ocean of means.
we are the attacks dogs for meaningful.
we defy Fibonacci’s sequence as if it were law.
we have peacock esthetics for show, in mind.
our playground has unconsciousness
we bury our dead before they are born.
we are the witless ritual unaligned.
knowing, as our residence, does not help.
we could be that tai chi through all space
but our sense for mystery
requires for the confounded
to be unknown,
fact-check and conclusions as necessary baggage.
we can’t go home.
we can only make believe
as our religion of assumptions as bedrock.
we live behind the prison of distance,
under the watchful eye of time as the warden.
molecular is mocking us for our levelheadedness.
somehow we would rather be in control.
how small can a concept get
and still be beyond its own destiny?
space is reverent even unto itself.
we are in on that journey
but only effectively to look out the windows
as if a bus of intelligence takes us
where we, as tourists, want to go.
all space is there where it is
and we, are just here,
riding high and mighty . . .