The White Light Epiphanous Vision
an existential poem
Realization
a never-ending vision
the horizon perpetually receding
solitary, spinning
quite alone
eyelids dissolved
that second of freedom
when the heart
skips a beat
where is the ritual
that means more than this?
where has it all gone
if it ever existed at all?
opposite each other
a naked couple
straddles a white steel flagpole
gazing hungrily at the twisting flag
flapping lazily in the warm breeze above
sweat glistening on their slick backs
they squat in unison
tilting heads back
grasping the pole, then sliding up its length
shimmying, legs elongating
their bodies stretch and merge
transformation of national pride
into a serpent, twisting on a skewer
meaning — in pain
or in fantasy . . .
what follows us will be our shadow
our blood, hot and boiling with hate
wanting nothing better than to kill
our rotting memory . . .
to the insights
of the poetic vision
truth dictates ignorance
to replace purpose
nothing is as plain as it seems
when you put words to it
when you apply words to the world
hopping like a sand fly
ducking diving dodging hiding
behind between on top of
wind-blown dunes on the coast
alive with writhing copulation
through the swaying swishing cutting-grass
pink bodies entwined in a sandy furrow
sand-rash, cold limbs, and bloody bites
human predilections
this is it
the excruciating realization
that we are microbes
amoebas under the moon
in the grand scale of things
a grain of sand
washed up with a billion others
indiscernible, purposeless
and that’s how it should be
despite the presence of mediocre intellect
and a natural tendency
to think of oneself as important
perhaps of some consequence
to the greater scheme of things
(whatever that may be!)
‘truth’ — that elusive quagmire of common census
inferring evidence
that many can make one reality
and that it is without variance and truly
indisputable . . .
bullshit!!!
statement of assumptions:
— everything changes
— smaller realities negate bigger truths
— mutability rules
— life begs meaning/purpose
— purpose/meaning is applied belief that is not necessarily determined by ‘truth’
— life is a metaphor for death . . .
— what else is there?
kids leaping clouds
as quick shadows scroll
across the concrete path
passing fast like planes above
everything collapses eventually
collapse = expansion due to reversal of time
my god, my god — why have you forsaken me?
why can’t we see wind?
death becomes us
more and more
shifting stark worlds
impure to pure
the harsh white light awaits.
If you enjoyed this poem, you may also like my poetry collection, Corpus Delicti: Selected Poetry. Download your copy via the link below.
