Worldview

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To claim a worldview as mine
I would need a different worldview.
For as far as I can tell,
hard lines and sharp edges
lie only in the mind and not
among the trees, or out at sea,
in genetically modified corn rows,
in beehives or in blossoms,
or even along anally manicured suburban sidewalks and their hedges.
To reduce the All to any symbol
we lay to waste to common sense:
we muzzle the mouth of truth,
preferring mumbled puzzles and propaganda
to the plain cosmic understanding of our early youth.
But seeing as we stand at the inverted precipice
trembling with desperate hope
that we might dive into the sky
and leave our nature destitute
in the face-name-less muck and dust,
I must weave a wide web of synonymy
spanning Heaven and Earth and the hells we devise
to occupy self-imposed seemingly finite times.
All is a Field.
God is Source.
Æther is the Creator.
Consciousness is Psyche.
Brahman is Atman.
Self is Other.
Unity and Unity is Trinity.
The Divine Mother, the teeming infinite pool of all possibility.
Chaos is order: the void holds unfathomable free energy.
Duality begets the ten thousand things.
Anything makes something.
Everything is no thing.
Now•here we play in stories:
crystal facets of water’s gem
distorting and reflecting
that one aboriginal photon
into every form imaginal.
The selfsame electron spins ‘round
every atom in the quantum fog.
Doggystyle may be a super position
but have you lotused lately,
leaning ajna to ajna,
trading breath in casual rapture,
rooting around for the crown,
leaving ‘I’ aside while left eyes
rightly gaze
drawn down the lazy river of souls
toward that bottomless lagoon
waiting at the every-pointed center we came to forget that we share?
I’m ashamed to ask you to compare—
Killjoy was here.
The poet inclines to remind us
that the wild panoply of yucks and yums we deign to loathe and savor
provides the very reason we splinter Mind into bone-caged minds.
A thousand and one days and nights later
we still will not have run out of flavors.
For we measure beauty in difference,
while Mother Nature waits indifferent.
Try as we might to stage the play,
shadow puppets on the wall of the Cave,
our machinations die with History,
as anything fixed or written tips into the grave.
We breathe to choose and choose to breathe.
We live to sing and dance with the birds and the leaves.
We bear into the world with plenty to burn.
We die when we feel ready to return.
But all the shortlong while,
between Land (Āina) and (Lani) Sky,
we mercurial droplets of Sea (Kai)
wiggle and glisten until we reunite.
The world I view looks the same inside,
only downside-up, and backside-front,
with the circle of time snipped apart into interwoven lines.
All I really want,
playing as this guy
on his last extra life
is to be one up and out
standing in my field
laughing and crying
all at once forever.