Problem is, we remain for duration, trapped
inside our language, believing what it shows us,
pretending ownership of our perceptions, and
around our ideas, our words, language wraps
a box of separation, this apart from that
each content its own identity, ready for listing,
like stories within a collection, toys in a chest,
fictions shorn of every hanging thread
devoid of connection to the great everything,
and consequently fictive.
My intellect and yours both understand
how any story’s end begins another story,
each beginning marks an ending, and
each occurrence results from others
in other stories which all connect as one
very large story without beginning or end…
but to grasp such a concept for the telling
lies beyond reach, for grasper and grasped
must both have identities, separate and
bounded, secure in our box of separation.
We exist as sensory organs by which
a boundless universe experiences itself and
always has because it never began, was
here already, and everywhere, and
if there were a beyond, there too, thus erasing
the here and there, the then and now and
spinning, shapeless without any center,
past any imagined ending or beginning,
nouns becoming verbs and vice versa, all
avoiding capture within subject or object.
And so to communicate to another
such understanding evades language,
giving way only to direct demonstration
by means of one’s presence and action
thrust into the timeless moment of now,
without assurance any communication
actually occurs or if it does, without indication
whether perception distorts it (or not) and
can this be why the old ones created
images on rock faces along their path?
…and does the sycamore demonstrate truth
by encouraging the tasty morels beneath it?
Poppathomas's Blog 