Consciousness is the sea
and eyes are like the rays of light
looking deep into itself.
Nothing in this universe is like
this universe of yours—
even this blade of grass is
different
than this blade of grass you grasp;
only the name remains the same.
Beneath the summer sky, some
huckleberry boy is
gliding high above his freshly-cut
idyllic turf
as sonic booms of nineteen-fifties’
fear are coloring
his clarity with contrails of his
elder’s ghastly white beliefs.
Nothing that we know is ever
knowable
but only viruses received from
dreams
infected with ancestral viruses.
The mind divides
this universal consciousness to
pieces
claiming only one particular to be
itself.
Sword-play of war is what must
happen next—
until one finally sees that one is
absolutely not
this sharp reflection in the
mirror.
It’s as if that pure awareness
subjectivity of crystalline glass
intends to know itself, and within
that big intent, the whole intent
objectifies itself in galaxies of
this molecular imagination
evolving in time and space by
calling keenly to itself to see—
it always is and is
never not the mirror.
Now knows itself and a blade of
grass
isn’t really a blade of grass—
a blade of grass is only
a blade of grass.
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