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12/14/09 - (2)
Dead Moons
Often, over the past three baker's-dozen years and seven, I've caught my contemplative psyche lost in thought, Lost at sea, in its found-and-lost ruminations, Repeating a mantralike distillation of Biblical wisdom, Which it's grown fond of chanting, twilight to twilight, As if, by some esoteric, cabalistic quirk of faith, It might infer a truth beyond truth.
From whence this cryptic, Solomonic pith emanated, Is, in and of its living, crucial self, Even more obscure than quintessentially unknowable, Yet to this night, forty-six years after I began writing verse, I can still hear this abiding aphorism echoing, Whispering, iterating, reverberating, pulsating in my brain, And I believe it and I are still complicit in our spirits' kinship.
This magical, majestic, mystical approximation of God's mind... Ah, what is it? Take my curiosity out of its misery. Expose my imagination to some evocative provocation, The mystery of civilization's aging intellect, The sagacious key to the cosmos's sacred interpretation — "Humans lose sight of what they're losing, Long before death reflects its luminosity on their dead moons."
12/14/09 - (2)
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