Far be it
for me to attempt to define the universe,
But I
slammed my mouth into a piece of lumber while riding a bicycle once
I
survived, so
What if
our universe is a molecular bubble in the drinking glass
Of an
oblivious normal being of another realm taking a parceled second
For her
to imbibe and eons for us; the metaphor is old, tired, and trite
Replicated
by a Men in Black cinematic, Oprah “Ah ha moment”
In a
sphere on a cat’s collar or a Wachowski brother’s Matrix
Of
battery bodies plugged in an alternate reality of blue or red pill
Acceptance,
rebellion, complacency; this pondering is a withered toupee
So I
rerun these volumes of what is life, why are we here, existential bulimia
Every so
often to regurgitate an excursion form the normal
Placation
that I, you, we are simply ants burrowing and collecting in a single hill
The dirt,
the seeds, the eggs, the permitted fornication for some based on pheromones,
The
work-all-hours drone monotony for others, Disobey your roll,
The
others will quell your foul mutiny, Les Miserables, Hugo who
What if
the world is solely in our individual dominion?
The
passers, the talkers, the celebrities, the homeless are all projections bent
Around
the one inescapable constant, the perception inside one’s head
The soul ricocheting
like a pin ball, doubting, comparing, oscillating
There is
a universe for each of us, exquisitely detailed, as if Van Gogh
Colors
dance, to do justice is impossible if not viewed directly
The
canvas pops effusive in a way preposterous to a screen print
Thoughts
burst levee banks in a consciousness unrestrained by
Fact and
fiction, blood pumping and literature sleeping in stacks
That a cranium
never gets around to absorbing, but in that page, in that volume
Lives the
answer, Oh my! The solution like a mother’s embrace of who we are in pace
Of the grand,
someone found it once by search or accidental door opening
The
thought came detailed and went into the vat of silence
The ants
marched by, occasionally glancing at the black-hole open doorway
The
expanse inside infinitely dense, yet as a speck of pollen
Aloft in
front of one’s computer screen, definitively visible, yet dismissed
But then
the ants are not ants, but projections of the tangential realities
Of the
infinite other individual universes, pausing, blurring if that choice
Would
really be their choice if they were fully here.
The
challenge therein, is not showing others the door,
But to
see the door in them, the corridors everywhere
Every
face, heart is but a purview to a slideshow in a parallel path
A universe
unto itself that one’s conscious action can penetrate,
But for
that moment of rebellion, to risk the other ants turning on you
To be
beyond the knowledge of certainty, and into the discipline of the inherent
The core
of right’s counterweight to wrong; gram by gram thud
Into the
purview parading behind one’s eyeballs
Maniacally
cackling escapades of insomnia at times
Yet, solace
is in the sensation of a desert of sand grains
Descending
like a tempest of liquid precipitation
The
would-be water buries our body into nothingness
And all
that remains is that stark black canvas inside our skull
Firing
neurons, dopamine, receptors and blockers
Hollowing
out the pathway for a choice
In that
decision under the Gobi of grit is the essence of commonality
The
kernel of what matters
Despite
the distance of appearing to never touch
The
infinitude of iterations of this simultaneous experiment
The
segregation of the apparent landscape of time and space
We are in
fact connecting in this instance of choosing
The
impossibilities have exploded in a confetti of gray matter
Into
energy itself tuned to harmonic vibration of the one
Sung in
silence for we need not ear, mouth, or eye to witness
Such
grandeur, in that we become the door, naked and plain to all
