13 July 2015

Four Hundred and Seventy-One


Life is only as free as you do not poop on someone else’s freedom,
And then it becomes the law of might makes right, the law of club and fang,
And idioms galore about power and control rolling on down the line.

* * * *
Every time you start that conversation with some stranger,
A new perspective, a new world, a new universe, slowly unfolds,
Each one its own flavor from sweet to sour to salty to bitter.

* * * *
Sometimes you give your attention to consciousness.
Sometimes you give your attention to awareness.
And in the end, it does not really matter at all.
There is no meter, there is no final judgment.
It is a three-dimensional quantum dream,
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Rest assured, it shall carry on without you.

* * * *
To whom but the rare inscrutable few
Is silence more sweet than clamor?
Sightlessness sweeter than sight?
Tastelessness sweeter than taste?
Oderlessness sweeter than smell?
Touchlessness sweeter than touch?
Thoughtlessness sweeter than thought?

* * * *
If you want to sustain mental health,
If you want to prevent something like suicide,
Perhaps you should transform this overwhelmed world
Into something in which people want to carry on.

* * * *
Strands of chromosomes,
Since matter’s transformation into existence,
Competing across the board in every way for survival, for supremacy,
For immortality of the mortal kind.

* * * *
We are all patterns seeking some sort of respite, some sort of reprieve,
From whatever purgatory the sensory-mind every twinkling imagines real.
The promise of god, of heaven, of eternal bliss, however hollow, is an easy sell.