Strings, Boxes, Doors

I came upon the Oracle,
the android dream machine
out of one side
and in one side
in-through-out-unchanged.
The fragments of ideas
keep changing
perpetuating themselves into a sticky ball
that I can’t get rid of--I’m stuck in quicksand,
tracing shapes into Floam with my fingers,
shapes that will outlive me.
The Serpent Mound I’ve made,
you’ll see Not so cordially,
in accordance with some broken code
that didn’t work the first time
(won’t work this time).
Every day
I don’t write a thousand words
on the page, it’s empty
strings of words, beads
strung together
the cord(iality) holding them together
snaps
lashing back
to what where how it was Before Beads,
in Principio.
“I have this obsession with beginnings and ends.
Birth and death,
Overshadow life and decay,
Every second to die
To be reborn.”
We’ve spoken this monologue
Since the very beginning.
How could this be so linear, and how could I be so separate from here?
Where will we be if we keep going forward, turned around walking backwards?
(Not for the sake of rhetoric. Earnestly, how could there be an end?)
Through a tear in perception:
Om patterns of light
852
852
transferred, Om in the Center.
Down the Middle
of the Earth and Grounded
dissipating soul back into moths or feathers,
fairy dust, glittering specks
of light dissociate.
Where are they going?
What will they be, are they (and is there such a thing as) me?
The questions have always been more im porta nt than the answers.
Cradled spooning god, curled up into the fetal position,
eyes wide open, staring out curiously, earnestly
as a tabula rasa,
ramblings inside from the heart of Om.
What I do
Does not affirm “my” identity.
What is just as transitory as is,
and this ever was.
A millions specks welded together
to form my soul--
my identity can’t be something owned
by anyone.
Writing “my” only tells you which million specks
clustered together, over Time.
I don’t own my body,
the shell I am renting,
I can only affect
my actions, thought--Do I own them? Will I own them?
We think
(this matters so much).
We think, think, think
We’re looking and searching
for knives, daggers, patterns, similarities,
some way to divide the Whole Place up,
into neat little boxes;
searching for things
whose molecules are stubborn, stuffed together.
Where are the answers
that don’t matter
to the questions
that we Always wanted
Semper
Always
to be made Out of It.