Bonafide

Joints they creak reminding,
there's a funny way of finding
the remembered part of all of this:
that we are always all of this.

The lines we draw between
the funniness of conscious being
and its countless complex feelings
demarcating self from world --
an ancient trick self plays on self
so that it may grow old.

And feel old, a wealth of experiential finding,
that finds these funny ways of finding ways of finding finding,
that wind around and stay inside event horizons wide,
inside outsides, between these eyes,
blind spots constantly confide.

(Bonafide.)

The absences are felt as much as presence.
Precious prescience premonizing promises to keep.
Lying down paralyzed in the cyclic haze of sleep,
we dream and cultivate and propagate the things we steep.

(Sometimes awakening from the worst of dreams to weep.)

And so it goes, when the mind is ready to accept
the possibility of pondering the terrors of its depths
that wring the horrors of our nature as we rip ourselves apart
only to sew it back together when the sun burns up the dark.

The dark will then return again, as will again the sun,
until the universe realizes it is one.
And when it truly does, when the mess is all connected,
it will blow itself to bits because to bits it is addicted.