"Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait" -Longfellow

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Toward the UnMan

Unravel Me by Sandra Dieckman
help comes in helping
as health comes in strengthening health everywhere.
       the only lie we've been told is division, separation;
  who gave away the infinite discovery for easy access anyhow?

I challenge you to think anything out of existence
           and if you can't, then everything's a part of you.
   and that's it. there's no more defending huddled god
     or posturing for pitiful petty entitlement
                    and there's no more encroaching 
              on love
         as the only recourse for reason.
love is enlightenment because true love-
                                                ubiquitous love-
     does not divide, dominate or depreciate.

the problem with moles searching for the undying light
         is met with the woes of a lazy desire for the creator.
the endless space is more fundamental than actual space
             and the finding of a perfect lostness
        is the only true “here I am!” 
even as compassion will clear the path
   to our gone hearts
                   it must be ok to let rocks be rocks
                   and birds be birds.

men. the man. maleness. manly small fortitude and fence drawing.
   these are the artifacts we bring to wield at our fear
and heal with our self-pity singing refusals to self-knowledge.
          as if we could poke the atoms of chance into ordered barracks
      with our golden thought-cocks!
    who are we so ready to fight anyway?

there are no enemies left in the illusory dark
    only the cosmic mire of our own twisted yet shallow 
  collective imagination, only the gilded empress of sport,
         only the hands of tyrants, the tears of toddlers lost in the grave,

and the dusty ambitions of ants-
    who CAN get bored-
but cannot intuit balance

even for survival.

there's no true ambition in true creation
    only un-bored bluster and battered metaphysics books
bought for and from the markets of pretend and waived vainly
                           at mother spring
              while the forgiven memory of an elephant bellows songs
    smoky and river-wide.
 there's only so much figuring to do
           before the tears of a God-filled child
well above the aquarium walls. and there aren't any places
      to stop for finding yourself
when you're on a too serious business trip;
touring the giddy colors of paradise.

"if we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other" -Mother Teresa

if there are 14 billion hands in the world,
  it shouldn't be so hard to lift this collective self
     into higher realms
        and lower our pride into the warm slowness of unflinching love.

if life and death set us even and God's spread, a little in each;
  it shouldn't seem odd to be constantly seeking one another
     emboldening the vacuous calm of divinity everywhere
        and rejoicing over how deeply we we can teach ourselves to kneel.

I never learned to be ambitious.
the electricity running down my spine has always been enough for me.
           but I do need my mother
        to hear the depth of my yellow light in her veins,
           I need my sisters to learn a clay mountain of love
        in remembering my most joyful imperfection,
           I need my father to see my singing
        when he falls asleep in his chair-
I need Felicia to be certain that in my farthest away
                  I carry her mystical pumping heart
and would pause God's noise to be alone in our own trembling silence.

I have an ambition to become myself and be fully glad in it.
after that, I have an eye for unlearning "I"
           shirking all comparison and calculating
        and standing eyes closed and arms wide
           soul-nude and glowing with all the promises in my blood
        craving and welcoming the cosmic tide of impartiality.
to become and become and become and...

"Our scientific power has outrun our spiritual power. We have guided missiles and misguided men." -MLK

only the smallest happy
      is more powerful than bombs and values.
moving aside hip truth and yawn devotions,
the branches
                  of original darkness
                                 divides themselves from themselves.
are we on the way to work again? saying hello under breath?
are we passionate enough about forgetting our senses and sensibilities?


when in doubt, let's freak 'em out. and muck up what the crisis is all about.
we gotta get over achievement
            and becoming
                  and even being...

we have tasks of spirit too illuminated
       and warmest stars that will reach through the hilly chills.
   we must talk about the colors of memory
         laid in across all the men and women
            that we make out of our impatience for selfhood.
nobody is a mystery
  because there's never an answer-

          you can go ahead and steal God from the rock and roll egg.
you can't even imagine what you are
               and THAT'S why you matter.

sex wakes up early everyday to rule the world-
        having no need of devils or maledictions-
   dominant and slippery, solid and chalky,
     patient and venomous;
no one is spared from the frantic stoic static
of the constantly incubated orgasm.
          Freud even sucked his own cigar dick.
          Camus even died spent, raped by his ultimate auto fears
       trying to acquiesce so sweetly.
          and Nietzsche even swooned permanently into the babble of ecstasy,
       titillated and shamed by the bloody ravaging of that sainted horse.

fortunately there is nowhere to fall from,
nothing in creation we can't inhabit with our inhibited flirt
   or the roughest cajoling,
              nothing exposed not tethered to the ever saluting phallus
                 of our over-achieving desperation.

  let's put our house in order and go to bed.