Written In DC
I have stood
upon the edge
of the precipice
looking out on
the vast expanse
and galactic insides
of both the mind
and space.
A cosmos of sorts
which orders the pulse
of source and iteration,
of creation and destruction,
of sustenance and dissolution,
of saline and of sand.
Can you so find
any more noble a life
than this one that sees
a nebula to be the parent
of the notion that will lead
to the process that will unleash
the ability to untangle the tangles
and soften the plaques of the
brain that has set itself
toward the imploding of its
being toward its own Alzheimer-ing.
Can there be any more
grand a vision than the Blake-ian
fear - not only in dust but in
the quasar and the ancient forward
ripple through time that they emit.
That pulsar blast that knocks us
on our proud collective ass; unable to
explain one small grain of any truth
about AWE and RADICAL AMAZEMENT.
We may build a tower of ivory
- even platinum or gold with
words, and theories, and
explanations that rapture and
ecstasy destroy with that simple
breathless stare
into the depths
of the ineffable.
Mind your words,
lad, mind them well
with me, Walt.
May we know,
together all,
our life has no
solid worth if
we think our
understanding
is our excellence.
Surely, it is that
which we cannot
understand - or give
utterance to
that powers
life ahead.
Watch with me
the tendrils of
the vetch;
stand by me and
hear the lilacs grow.
The shores of
this COSMOS
usher in
wave
after wave
of WONDER
and there is nothing
you can say about that -
nothing.
Emptiness is Form;
Form is Emptiness.
Image, Quasar by Hubble.
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