03 October 2012

Forty-Nine


49


It is the rare mind that has the wit to examine anything and everything,
Without being befuddled by anything in particular,
Nor everything in general.

* * * *
Knowledge cleaves the enigmatic mystery of consciousness
Into every sort of dualistic conception under the sun.
The forbidden was harvested, and Eden lost.
Fallen monkeys, indeed.
And this pillaged garden will hobble on
For as long as humankind survives its memories real.

* * * *
What can the tabula rasa know of original sin
Until the neuron trail is packed full
Of monkey-mind blather?

* * * *
You could do this,
Or you could do that.
Or that or this or this or that.
Or you could just stay at home alone
And do absolutely nothing.
It is your dream
To play out as you will.

* * * *
You only think you exist.
You only think you are the body,
You only think you are the world, the universe.
Is anything born of the mind ever more
Than a quickly passing dream?

* * * *
Noise, noise, noise, endless noise.
Empty vessels blaring, spewing cacophony,
Echoes of consciousness playing out such paltry dreams.

* * * *
Zen-ish riddlers abound in every time,
Every corner of this temporal, worldly dreamtime.
For ignorance to awaken to their clever, erudite frolic, however,
Is too unlikely to even bother imagining for more than a brief pittance of time.