Confusion, Chaos, Cosmos, Creation

A thousand syllables into the confusion and the world dissolves,

like the sunlight tripping across the carpet.  A voice filters 

through the room, animating the mind with a language 

that is neither comprehensible nor understood; but laced

with intimations and melodies of being that transpose themselves

through the room the way a Koan might;  waves of energy 

moving through waves of energy, oscillations of sound and 

silence that interpolate with whatever meaning might exist 

in the world between worlds.  In the morning sunlight, there 

is a chiarascuro of veins:  a hand that dances as if it is sewing 

the light, or being maneuvered into being by some strange series 

of mysteries.  That is all there is:  a strange sensation of 

anti gravity, lifting, falling, rising and falling on the thermodynamics

of mystery. 

A world ago, ten thousand lifetimes away, there were other events:

a synergy, perhaps: the chandelier swaying through scintilla, 

the scintillations of the mind resplendent with effortless emanations,

the human eyes like doorways into some unfathomable night,

lost in the daylight, hovering in the moment, hummingbirds balanced in a hurricane

of imagination.  Across the room, that morning 37 years ago,

there were twelve strangers: composed in perfect randomnicity: like a painting,

trapped between motion and memory, between TS Eliot and the namelessness

of the Eternal Anonymity, the one everyone is born with and nobody survives,

and the room was spinning against time,

like a clock that was wired by some ancient magician in a perfect curiosity 

of chaos and confusion, creation and cosmological order 

tripping from brain to brain. 

Reviews

[Nick.B]

Interesting poem you managed to pin here that makes us wonder again and again...love the composition of the poem, it's something "fresh" and well written, great job

[Hawkmoon]

thanks