wisefool

Every moment,
the present separates from its self.

A relentlessly
quivering strobe
of
mitosis.

An endlessly
replenishing membrane;
a self-sealing film,
that is
perpetually filled
with vital force,
and pinched off;
exocytosed
into space
and now subjected to the tyranny of time.

A consciousness
bulging the mold of being.

Feeling
every prickle of the breeze and its electric stasis.

Sensing
every ounce of gravity and its bottomless black pit.

Revering
every wave of buzzing awe and the fragile sphere that holds it.


I batten down the bonds with every breath of dear life,
filling my psychic sails with every prāna and apāna;

letting the waves crash o'er me. . . . .
letting the craves wäsh o'er me. . . .
letting the days splash o'er me. . . .

I am the foam washing upon every shore.

Caught up in the cosmic churn
from urn to urn

rotating in the resistance
from distance to distance

tumbling in the turbulence
from tau to tao
and back again.



If I shift my weight, I'll slowly be slurped up into shambala,
atom by atom
sinew by sinew
thought by thought.

Everything is a long game. Stare at the present long enough and it will eat itself.

__________________
Say hello to my frontal lobe.