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He Doesn't Really Know What It All Means

He doesn't really know what it all means,
but he gives it access to his heart, free-range of his mind.
Not expecting an answer to the mystery of life
because it isn't petty enough to have one,
he explores its horrors and wonders along the way
making small discoveries like rings and keys in the grass.
He doesn't look at things darkly through a glass anymore
since his binoculars turned into the third eye
of a mandalic kaleidoscope that has a way
of turning his chromatic aberrations into enlightenment.
And if he does it's usually a nightsky squandering stars
on those with the eyes to see them in the starmud
of their flesh and blood, in everyone of their insights,
an intimacy with billions of midnight suns all shining at once.

Mind includes the brain but the brain doesn't include the mind.
Just the way love includes the heart, but the heart
is a mere nugget of love, compared to what there is of love
it takes more than the measure of a universe to contain.
This is the cruising altitude of a submarine
that has spiritual aspirations of becoming a flying fish,
forgetting that love and mind are formless and without images
that can be grasped or rejected like stained glass windows,
totem poles or icons. If love were as brittle as that
it would surely break. You could lose it. You'd
need to defend it. It could be wounded like a rose
that suffered haemophilia for the rest of its fragile life.
You'd have to look for it down on your hands and knees
late at night when the grass is wet, with a lantern of fireflies.
You'd have to put the pieces back together with the binding energies
of the strong and weak nuclear forces if you ever
stepped on it accidentally like a nesting English skylark's egg.
And if you ever ran out of it when the water palace
of the black Taj Mahal turned back into a hovel in a slum,
you'd have to beg, and that would either empower your inferiors
or open a window of opportunity as big as the nightsky
for the indefinable to be merciful to the unattainable.

But take it from the experienced astroalchemist he is
if you mix a little starmud with a splash of moonwater,
and stir it in your heart, and let it sit awhile,
then drink a great draft of it from your skull
as if you could swallow a whole river in a single gulp,
down to the last drop, this feeling will overwhelm you
and halfway between midnight and the new moon
love will lend its eyes to your mind,
like the nightsky does starlight to a mirror,
and both will disappear into the longest, clearest light year of their lives.
If not, he tells himself, it's binary galaxies with binoculars
passing through each other like the ghosts of two starfish
trying to find a dynamic equilibrium to their maculate lucidity
like a gyroscope in a space where you don't really need one
but for the optics of what you can see
with your naked third eye, is probably tender and wise.

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