Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Brushed Awake

     What do we brush against--with our bodies, with our souls? What brushes against us? Sometimes it's invisible. That's when existence touches us most deeply, changes us most.


     a hand brushed my arm once    it was as much as I could bear    that's the way sometimes when the heart's connected to every cell of the body    one touch capsizes a world!    but what about all the years no hand brushes against my skin?    what about all those moments the void instead caresses me?    then the faintest stars leave livid scratches    you can't tell but they're there    through them my heart's blood slowly leaks away

     I can't read the map of my own loneliness    I have no compass needle pointing beyond    no beaten path stretching ahead to follow    maybe it's a reality hardwired into my DNA    what I brush against I can't predict    what brushes against me might mean nothing or life and death    more likely I'll wind up with dozens of chigger bites    they inflict a certain kind of love but I'd be happy to live without it

     a Wing brushed my soul once    it was as much as I could bear    that's the way sometimes when the soul's connected to every atom of the universe    one touch capsizes a world!    but strangely enough this wasn't the only instance I've felt brushed by that Wing    more and more I feel lifted     as if an immense and invisible Ardor now envelopes me!    surpassing even the tenderest human touch     an Angel's wing-beats guide me home


     I long for the day when the human race finally wakes up. Some individuals already have, but most remain fitfully asleep, tormented by bad dreams. The common denominator of these nightmares is the delusion that we're inherently separate and divided beings. But those who are awake know otherwise.


     the sleepers tossing and turning in their scratchy cocoons dream they're awake    I know    that was me once    I won and lost many battles but sleepwalking all the while     so much still had to die!    those hypnotic self-images parading across the blaringly lit stage set of my mind     those famished eyes glaring from the pitch-black cellar of my fears    I dreamed I was a hero doomed to tragic fate     and what I dreamed came true

     real waking isn't the fitful glare that spasmodically shoots out from a lurid clash of phantoms and shadows    real waking's almost imperceptible    a radiance barely tinting the soul's horizon    it's not even noticed at first    mesmerized as we are by the glittering labyrinth of fun-house mirrors    seduced as we are by the appetite's endlessly gyrating merry-go-round    real waking comes soft    and silent    and slow

     but like an x-ray    penetrating every slightest crack and corner of being    until nothing's left except an emptiness that sings and shines    then everything living finds a home    what does it mean to be awake?    just this!    no more separation between us    no more barriers dividing heart from heart    suffering from compassion    grief from love    when sleepers awake we rise up joyously    freed at last of our old splintered shells


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