I am unlearning the art of self-narration
Because my excessive self-consciousness destroys
Every effort of mine to love simply and straightforwardly.
I read myself into everything,
Perfectly solipsistic, I am the thing
Which shape-shifts and attacks itself with perfect hostility.
I am above all else a metaphor
For myself, forever slipping through
The gateways of perception to arrive in the moment.
For me, there is no escape from myself
As there is no way for a mother giving birth
To escape from being a mother giving birth besides just giving birth.
In this way, every moment pushes through
The aperture of me, flickering in and out of existence,
And abiding in a vast spectrum beyond my powers to conceive.
Perhaps it looks like a cone, with the big bang at
A single-pointed end, the rest extending out infinitely along three axes,
Which represent the dimensions of space, the whole cone afloat in timelessness.
Whatever my universe looks like, I am
Pledging to myself today to just let go and let be,
To trust language to take care of its own flow and evolution.
Today I bath in the baptismal waters
Of genuine abiding, seeking henceforth only the beauty
Of each precious moment as it tenses and releases, tenses and releases...
