for the shaking and the cold

here and now is a man who has more than once
seen, felt, smelled, heard and even tasted
something in life that had no explanation.

the origin is subject to debate,
its nature inexplicable because
touch was never part of the experience.
that it was real is questionable,
that it happened is not.

the cause may have been linked
to the unraveling of old woes in his mind,
to a journey he kept well by for awhile
within the self, a boring into the psyche,
where many ancient voices reside.

to say he was unable to endure or sustain
himself upon these journeys is fair,
for his body did collapse
and his mind spiraled out of control.

to say the nature of his journey was spiritual
more so than mental or physical
is also fair
because the nature of the spiritual world
created a constant throb
out of his questing mind's ambition.

yet here is a man
composed more of questions than answers,
challenged by his failure to endure them,
having suffered and suffering still.

he attempts once more to reach the summit
of his mind's hidden knowledge,
the realm he knows to live by its own accord,
the most ancient thoughts that have no master,
the thumbprint of a collective
over the slide of his mind.


he found himself yesterday
holding up his end of a conversation.

one man said everything is going to be okay.
the positive man's name was king.
king was at peace with the world.

monkey thoughts are dominating you, king said,
let the monkey thoughts be, endure them.

but king overlooked how the man's shaking
was out place, for the midday sun was hot.
shivering the man tried to explain
how it was he felt cold.

he was then experiencing a separation of his mind.
and if it were true the monkey brain was amok,
what could there be
to explain the shaking and the cold,
but the fear?

he who found himself shaking and cold
was standing on a threshold of knowing
that death was not some far off kingdom,
not some tale to be told another day,
but more like a constant river flowing
through to an ocean of all things,
having many tributaries touching everything,
always in contact, never apart.

in the evaporate phase, there in the vapor,
in the solid phase and downpour,
there gathering pools and in the ice form waiting,
feeding off life as it blooms,
registering that life itself is death's food.

and yes he saw death, he was hyper-conscious of it,
and fear became cold and shaking,
like prey stood over by a steady silent predator.

and fear not for pain
but for the contemplation of the nature of this predator,
because death is the end of his body,
what he knows to be his body, by small and large knowledge,
because the end of his body
is perhaps the end of his mind,
the end of his being.

the pointlessness of his life he considers in this moment,
not the whole of life, but one's individual life.

long ago the collapse began, not his but all,
his collapse is a share of the all.

he can see it now,
this universe is like a dying star
with no memory of its origin,
it traces back to a point in space and time,
when everything was all,
and on this side of everything it was good to be.

it was then, it is not now.
memory before the bang of life as is known has been erased.
each time he nears restringing this broken memory,
elements of the universe outside his mind
and inside, by thoughts and happenings
that seem to have no origin,
come calling like a stranger claiming earlier acquaintance.

he believes it is true
that the other side of everything,
having endured its own cold, its own time of doubt,
its own merciless upbringing,
has reached already a zenith of being,
knows now how to maintain its original form,
how to return to the warmth of all,
how to become core and perpetual life,
               without individual body---

he laments
oh how this universe of ours has been forced to expand outward
on behalf of its counterpart
to be mere emblem of an architect,
emblem of the architect's abandonment,
example of rules and functions,
of actions and consequence,
and sequence without observable cause.

he believes
all life forms, on this side of everything,
are allowed a minor rise and fall of consciousness
but condemned to be forgotten after it all.

he observes
if it is an expansion, all shall continue
until entropy has fully asserted itself.
moments and subjects of all
are challenged then to enjoy life's flicker
and not require by an eternal store,
to have this one moment of time
to be this one subject in space
and learn to abide by the passing of all,
learn to accept erosion,
and not to worry
where pieces of being are left behind
perhaps never to be found again.

he says
we are the capitals in this world
and we feed on everything we find
and try to hide the fact
that we have been found by greater capitals
and are, likewise, food.

he volunteers
there is a being who can feed on our thoughts!
imagine how we are a plant in an other's garden,
changed out when our soil dries,
weeded if our flower should show different color,
cultivated for maximum yield,
guided by many messages across time and space,
encouraged to flourish as we are,
but pruned back as the hedge blocking a driveway.

he thinks
perhaps in this metaphysical understanding,
we could or have once been able to render toxin,
be as psychoactive substance,
to be poison to our caretaker,
and, by our essential quality, benumb and stupefy,
therein, for just a moment, perhaps an eternal moment,
to be still a wild flower, still un-calculated,
still able to break the harness,
to grow upwards and outwards,
unbound, without rule, truly free to live
and live without worry for pruning.

yet how often do our own crops fail us
or our livestock orchestrate rebellion?
how many generations of lesser bodies
have risen and fallen
to provide life substance to our own bodies?

we are not so different from our caretaker,
nor shall we be different from our food.

and here he is, this man,
many mind trips beyond the limit of his body,
seeing the real world outside his form,
so far outside it his form would wither,
his mind nearly dying, as flames un-stoked.

he is a match head struck, burning
by accident, perhaps. without purpose, perhaps.
or with a purpose he cannot accept, likely.

for it may be true the entire conception is false,
that the body creates the mind only to govern itself,
not to question the ideal framework
or make argument that would appease the monkey parts.

his worry comes from a glance at the whole,
seeing himself as one part of a string,
one bubble in a boiling universal ooze,
having temporary form, aspirations to grow forever,
perhaps to bubble off
and be separate from the all-ooze---
to reach autonomy, self-renewal, agelessness.

his worry comes when he imagines
how often the bubbles burst and splatter
and fall back into non-distinguished form,
as if the bubble itself never was anything
but a sound attempting an echo
in a timeless vacuum.

and how to change this or how to accept it
are two stories yet to be found true.
and they cannot yet have been found,
for there is too much anxiety in this air,
and that is perhaps the best explanation
for the shaking and the cold.