I wrote this last night as I stared up at the stars, feeling as if I was one of them.
God is silent?
The infinite is always speaking. The moon is talking.
The rocks are talking. The flowers are talking. The homeless man
in the gutter is talking. We don’t hear the ethereal
because we believe in the myth of mundanity.
There is no such thing as a mundane moment. There is nothing
that was not carved from the very flesh of Krishna. We have swallowed
our own mediocre lies whole, traded our eyes for a thousand voices
screaming what they think we should see, telling us who we should be.
Our rudimentary language marches forward
in a relentless straight line, repeating
a loveless, pointless lie about why we are here:
You are born. You work. You die.
God’s language flurries and dances, a song shouted, spiraling
and dizzy, ecstatic, from the mouth of all that is, everything at once
hammering out an intricate code our caged, conscious minds
are too small to even begin to comprehend.
To learn to hear one syllable of truth, you must assume
that everything you think you know is a lie.
The beginner’s mind knows only what is.
It treasures the gray smooth stone as gold. You must erase
the imagined safety of the linear and embrace chaos. You must rise
into the stars knowing that you are one of them, understanding
that though you have forgotten the message of the holy book scribbled
on your bones, the music of Saturn’s spinning is your native tongue.
You must come to see that a religion capable of bringing you
to your knees simmers in the whorls of your fingerprints.
Summer wind is a sacrament. Thunderstorms are baptism.
The piss drenched alley is sacred soil.
You must feel the echo of your own heartbeat in the quiet thrumming
of a bounding grasshopper’s knobby knees. You must lick the ground
and taste your own reckless pounding blood. You are not at your core
a tame creature, nor are you broken. Only your shell is cracked
so when you are ready you can break through to the true treasure.
Your yolk glistens golden, ready to be revealed, in all of its divine
wholeness. That terrifying never ending dissatisfied roiling
at the edges of your sacred skull is you trying to get out.
The seer’s secret was this:
He bit into cactus fruit
knowing he was kissing
the mouth of god.