From real To Ideal
I stand, windswept, solitary,
defined,
alone on the penultimate precipice,
gazing teary-eyed
into
Eternity.
Incandescent
glowing white and cool from
within,
a moth searing and surviving
in its own
self-generated
immolation
and rebirth.
Regaining control from
the
hypnotic
presence
I remove the black jacket,
shiny, decorated,
and worn
sheilded me from rain and wind
and stand exposed to neither rain
nor wind.
My feet extrude through to freedom
grounding me to solid
ideal rock
my boots tumble away, scarred and scraped
to my benefit, my
comfort.
No more stones bruise my heel.
My heel is the stone, and the soil
besides.
Fluttering,
caught in a gale-force zephyr,
my clothes
sport about, winding, looping,
aerobatic
as they softly fold through the
distance
into the vanishing-point.
Gone, with all they said,
"He is of
a class. He is of a culture.
See his face and hands, and accept
our
credentials."
Gone, with all they said and hid.
I stand naked, exposed to
the mockery of culture
and aesthetic
and fashion
and advertising
and
widely-held lies.
Exposed, as nothing of any great consequence
Just part
of the miracle of mammalian life
on a small planet
in a backwater
galaxy.
Inhaling (or not), I center my Self,
and step forth
from
the shell.
I push myself out of my skin,
which felt for me
tender
carresses and bullies' fists.
I shall no longer need your nerves,
sensors,
fine hairs and heat perceptors.
No more second-hand experiences,
I am now
both tuner and speaker.
I pull my self forth from my bones
always
fighting for me against gravity
and stones
and clubs.
You served me
well, but I am become gravity
and the other three Forces
wrapped in
concioussness.
Hereafter, where I am,
there...
is
gravity.
I emerge, dripping with recollection,
from my
blood,
veins,
arteries,
Heart.
Dripping with ironic symbolism, I
grin
to its rivulets and torrents.
"You know what was between
us..."
Ceaseless teamsters in red, pull over and
rest.
I harvest my
Self from brain, and finally, from my Eyes.
I think a while, and regret
not weeping , just for a cathartic bit,
before I left.
And I, the
ineffable I, the immortal and unsubstantiated I,
I stand second space
down,
all undressed
as all matter
necrotizes
rots
springs forth
anew
a thousand times.
Surrounded by similar flames
dark and
light
there and not-there
immortal and near death for the last
time
extinction, and extinguishment
shall we
cry?
sing?
chant?
How shall we be more purified than this,
and what
will be left of what we love about ourselves,
after the ultimate
nakedness
after the smith's flame and water.
Scale is flaked from us like
skin
and with every heating, there is less
with each quenching
we
diminish.
Shrunk and purified like Superman crushing coal into
diamonds.
Dust, glittering and of little consequence, floating in the
night sky of
a million, million storyteller's nights, round fires exotic
and
mundane.
And so it goes...
Same as it ever was...
Allah
Ackbar...
Sayonara...
Saturday, December 04, 1999
Adam Wayne
Whitley
Inspired upon my first listening of Dead Can Dance's _Spleen
and Ideal_ CD.
