ego

Smiling Shining Everlasting

She asked me years ago how I stayed the same
when I cut my hair and years fell off my face
and I was just a boy and I wandered in my thoughts
in libraries and offices and bedrooms alike

how to remain the same, she wondered, in the grey world
the same as in the bright, the rainy, the blue world,
the neon worlds, the dark dancing worlds
how to walk through worlds wide-eyed as one being

as if I knew something, or worse, as if I didn't -
either I kept some knowledge from her, some secret,
or I had been given a gift I didn't deserve
that she, stronger and smarter, should have received

and neither was true - I kept nothing secret
but neither could I share it. I am what I am.
I create myself every moment in full awareness
but I can't tell you anything that would be any use.

How to remain the same through years of rapture
and disillusion and amnesia and loss and laughter
essentially untouched, walking in innocence
we are outside time and nothing can destroy us

it's nothing that you don't already know
we are outside time and nothing can destroy us
she asked me where the barriers were in my mind
between this and that, word and deed, yes and no

she saw me as a world, an atmosphere, a star
beautiful in my ignorance, beyond arrogance -
she saw me skimming stones at the edge of the sea
she said I was this: smiling shining everlasting

like all our generation, spiritual but rebellious
we ache for the church and the god we rejected
we see purity and we fall in love with it
and afraid of being abandoned we try to destroy it

but it exists outside time and cannot be destroyed
lighting us up: smiling shining everlasting.
In the neon world, the dark dancing world, the grey world
I'll do what I have to do, and so will you.

The Idea of Myself

A meditation mutation,
I don't know any way
to live but day to day

wandering planless
through every moment's maze
the inner artificer stunned

by a stupid loneliness,
tired and tricked by thought
there's nothing left here except

swirling faces in the warp
of damp wallpaper
a shimmering fright

of stray-focused eyes,
that full, swelling energy
blossoming in the body

I will never be famous
never gratified, never certain -
the soft afternoon's sleep

in my lover's arms
will have to be enough for me,
and the insane laughter

of a moment glowing and lost
like a dropped match.
The idea of myself dances,

just one more ghost in the gyre
of the mind's eye, on fire
with living light.

Antimatter

solar powered, battery free hopeless incompetent hero drowning
partially helpless unclothed mystified you're my freshness and my sight
I'm outside everything, wiping a finger on the window of my dreams
fogged up and freezing, friends and failure, my god helps me to see into
the nighttime dynamo and the whirling metal glacier indigo
I'm not here, I'm not anywhere, I'm not a thing at all
nowhere, nothing, a twist in the sheet metal of the mind, a noise
in the storm of the mind, an image writhing on the surface of the mind's sea
all this is nothing, I need my own voice to come through
not some reflection of the screams and confusion going on in my brain
but my real awareness, how I'd want to speak to god, how I'd want to speak
to my own soul, my own heart, how I'd speak to my mother after this life is over
this is nothing, there's no reason for it, I can't see or hear, like something
not even born, wailing unformed and limbless, egg sac, egg yolk skin and eyes
not that nightmare, something real and ordinary, a fetus, an amniotic teabag
there's no identity here that stays the same across each moment and second
no ghost dancing in my bones, no woman drowning in my mind, no hero
puking into the dark river, no lion raising its paw to pull down
the screen of the universe and bring all pretending to an end
mama mama let me sing before the dark god coughs and the goblin claws my throat out
let me roll in the brambles near the reservoir, let me leave and never come back
fist, throat, name, hand, shoes, walls, sun, sister, road, knife, sky
a new style in the magazines or the third greatest novel in the history
of an insignificant country - another barefoot, smiling guru, another teacher
clawing desperately at a sick blackboard as the faceless students scroll by
on film strip winding around a prayer wheel, a maypole, a stick for entrails
three kilos of quivering calculating brain cereal, bone and meat, leatherbound,
decorated and stamped for approval and processing, rapid insertion into the equation
no purity, no home, no return - halved and quartered and divided until we are sand,
we are dust, we are antimatter, and our burning heals us, our screaming soothes us
I remember how I used to sing, and listen to singing, how I used to shout
when the birds and the frogs in the old garden woke up and the ditches shook
I am just a bag of memory, old stories repeating, sun and moon cycling, blood
in the veins and arteries, a system of systems, words and words and words
trying to find a new way of writing but my mind is empty, nothing comes
India, father, pillars in the evening, sand and kisses, the smell of the dead house
smoke from bodies, slow river, roots of mountains, clear water, the bellow
of an emperor trapped in a dream, horse rotting in a riverbed, flowers in eye sockets
fuck how I love to breathe, to feel it bursting in my stomach and my spine,
that insane loving energy shooting me like a maniac bullet at my own beautiful death