5/11 and 12/2013
a place, a time, an Age
ancient, modern, futuristic
wanton, obscene, deadly
bright, holy, innocent
I wander there,
free perhaps ...
tired, rested, joyful
near 7 billion souls
are with me,
wandering and wondering
and then there are the quiet ones,
the ones who don’t need to shout
and get everyone else’s attention ...
the ones who are content just being themselves ...
that’s a hard enough task, being just the human being
we want and need to be.
we inhabit the World
we billions ...
but just what is it we inhabit?
what is this World?
Does it have a story?
Our time - via the “scientist”
sings songs of big bangs and long
hidden sea swells of evolution
upon evolution, upon evolution
until the human being appears,
on this grave stage: the World
so there are two now
us billions and the stage - the World
we seem to be its progeny - this World
of big bangs and evolutionary trees
made us out of itself ... or so the tale is told ...
but when ever did the stage make the actor?
do the floorboards transmute themselves into
feet and legs and hair and teeth, and
ultimately speech and song?
by the myths of science, a long long tale
to be sure,
the stuff appears out of nothing, and
having more time than god (who it is
declared by some to only have taken seven days),
the stuff from nothing makes a human being ...
a miracle of accidents and random chaos
a mad tale we tell children, who lacking
yet reason have no basis on which to disagree ...
when these children play with sand on the beach
we might suggest how they too can create castles in
the air - visions of billions of years where everything
is made of pieces of sand, thrown up into the air
where wind and tide take all these little pieces
and rearrange them into countless forms
stars and suns and planets and plants
and animals and us billions on a stage ...
great power and wisdom must this miracle
of accidents and random chaos have,
for its mad tale lets us breathe and
bleed and talk and walk and fuck
and get drunk and cry and be sad
and run and wear silly hats
when I was young, I was told this tale
in books and bits and pieces of language
although the tale in Church was not
the same tale is in school
until one day I discovered thoughts!
invisible to others, mine only to have;
but thoughts nonetheless ...
whence came these miracles of meaning
in which I swam .... the tale of the myth-making
scientist was that I had a brain - some material stuff
that lent me thoughts, and perhaps even lent me the
thought (not true it seemed for some) that I even existed
so now the tale got stranger .... a miracle of accidents
and random chaos made a stage on which us
billions danced and with grave madness and certainty
the priests of science declared:
I was not! I was not! I was not!
I do believe I prefer my silly hats, and
would rather have tea with a mad hatter
then believe the miracle of accidents ...
why ever would I think us billions had
no point, and were but a virus and a disease
on the poor earth-world, hell bent to destroy it?
that strange thought others sell me
is their vanity - their belief they know better than me ...
I’d rather remain a child in love with play,
than follow the mad scientist off the cliff
in the cart of the miracle of accidents
who is he to tell me what to think ...
How shameful to insist he knows better
of a past no scientist has even seen
but only dreamed, taking his theories
for great truths, ...
all the same too, the priests of books,
called religion, who also tell me what to think and believe ...
how crass of them, how arrogant ...
is there a truth which is sounder and better
than the miracle of accidents and the old teachings
in dusty books shoved in my face in Sunday school?
who do I ask?
not these men, these priests of science or these
priests of religion - they hardly seem reliable ...
perhaps methinks, I should ask the World from
whence it came ... will not the world itself know its
home, is place of birth, its future ...
the World lets me dance on its surfaces,
hide in its caves,
play on its sea shores
walk in its rain,
and parts the clouds for me at night so
I can see the stars ...
a good companion this World ...
it gives me fruit and grains and meat
and eggs and fur to wear if I am cold ...
its lightening gives fire, and while I
pursue its secrets there is one thought I
have which rebels against the priests of
both science and the books of so-called gods ...
it is the thought I first felt in early childhood
that the World was alive and magical
and that She/He/It knew me as I knew it
we were kindred this World and I
both of us billions and the World
had self-consciousness and Being
I was its Child! Its beloved Child!
Now there is a tale well told - some think
it is too primitive, given how many aboriginals
tell the same story, where trees can talk, and
rocks can sing and stars play on seas of light
I like that story ... I want to be part of that story
I want to be the Child of Father Sky and Mother Earth ...
so boo I say to the miracle of accidents and the myths of dusty old books
go away and leave us billions alone - stop confusing us with
the madness of priests of either science or religion - we billions need
none of that in order to touch and love and dance and sing
and play on the stage of the World that loved me into Being
and gave me thought so that I could know and sing myself the World’s
we are all brothers and sisters, cousins and kin ...
animal, plant, stone and star -
and we billions -
all related and loved
and in love, should we so choose.