To Meaning

We smoked tea on the shore and saw the sentience
Of irascible tomorrows, where eternity became
Our golden souls. There was no you or me, but
An emptiness of Him because everything is bliss.

Stop. Sit. Listen to the womb of your being
Pull you back to the cave and away from your
Light thought. You can’t go home because
Home is where paintings are judged by ear.

There is no lyricism now, only the ghost of –
Miles Davis playing with eternity on his eyelids,
and that was just “atoms of dust,” becoming what
everything is, so listen to some Jazz and fill your night.

And be sure to inhale the ethereal flower of passionate hearts
but don’t let the burden of working youth crush you under
Chiffoniers built by dullards for Jesus and golf. I imagined you said,
Under the purple sky: "Shiva without Shakti is Shava." And so it is.

Seeking a non-linear exposition where experience coalesces
With thought. There’s a position that inertia can be cosmically
Interlocked with volition. And so it is. The golden ecstasy
Of meeting and being to a point of transcendent realization.

Be kind. Be true. Do what you want. Even in your dreams,
Lest the sky cracks to golden rings eroding senseless mysteries
Of earth bound blood. Embrace delirious pearl intelligence
And freedom of thought. It is guaranteed life in the void.

A wise man once said – after he drank fifty beers at the
Imperial Café, passed out wrapped around the loo, was shit and
Pissed upon by forty people until he was caked in human excrement –
“What difference does it make after all? --
anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven,
for what's heaven? What's earth? All in the mind.”

I call it eternity, brother. What do you call it?