Art Show

The Mystery
invites you to
exhibit your best
work in an
Art Show,

the theme of which
is Love,
but that’s so
amorphous
as to be all but
meaningless,

until we see
what you’ve
done with it.

You,
with all that
inventive prowess
prodding you to
astonish us
with your bold
beneficence.

We relish the
thought of being
ravished
by your
song and dance, your
brush strokes, your
wowest witticisms, your
elaborate machines, your
over-the-top dramatics.

I should make it clear:
there are no judges,
no award ceremonies,
because this thing
goes on forever,
worlds without end,
just like You.

The Mystery
is calling it
The Big Bang.

(Photo by Amelia Bartlett; UnSplash)

 

Here

If you are reading
this,
you are AWARE of
this word.
The one right

HERE.

That Awareness
is where
your Soul abides,
at least for
a moment,
until that moment
is taken hostage
by the recollection
that you’re
seventy-two
and you still haven’t
finished your
novel,
and that young guy
in the paper
just published his
tenth.

Go back

HERE.

Just for a moment,
until you’re kidnapped
by guilt
that your tax return
is past due.

Go back

HERE.

It’s your
Interface with
The Mystery,

where your
citizenship lies,
where nobody is
the least bit interested in
your age,

where the words for
a thousand novels
are smiling
seductively
at You.

Go back

HERE.

(Photo by Flavia Gava; UnSplash)

 

Metaverse

The Titans of Tech
talk as if
we aren’t already
living in The Metaverse,

as if
we aren’t already
wandering around
inhabiting our
avatars.

Perhaps we’ve forgotten.

Especially that
the Operating System is
LOVE.

Not just the
Mother Teresa
vibe,
but Love of
The Best of
Motown and
Open Mic Night and
your fuschias and
One Another and
Your Self.

Think of your
Interface with
All That Is
as Awareness.

Pure and Simple.

Think of your
Awareness
being hosted by
The Mystery.

The Metaverse
awaits
The Story of
What It Is
you’re
Aware of.

(Photo by Mika Matin; UnSplash)

 

The Chalice of My Awareness

I was searching
for an Entrance to
The Mystery

when I
stumbled into
one from the
business end of
my Sacred Couch.

It came to me,
between naps,
to attempt to
meditate,
though I suspected
that would lead,
inexorably,
to another nap.

It further came to me
that I should hold
a Mantra
in the Chalice of
My Awareness
that went something
like this:

I Am
Who
I Am
Who
I Am.

I knew
I should cover
the Chalice,
that thoughts
that I should be

other or
better or
different than

I Am
Who
I Am

could simply
evaporate,
without corrupting
the Elixir in
the Chalice.

Sure enough,
in a handful of
moments

I awoke,
deep in
The Mystery.

I recognized
the laughter

at the notion
that I should be
other or
better or
different than

I Am
Who
I Am.

(Photo by Rey Proenza; UnSplash)

 

Improvising With a Light Saber

Before you left
Home –
by Home I mean
your Place on
Boulevard de Cosmos –
you auditioned to
play a Part
in this Theater of
Bittersweet Conundrums,
wherein you have
a single
Stage Direction:

Improvise scenes, from
barren and blasphemous to
bodacious and beautiful,
in which Love –
by Love I mean
that Potion
boiling in a
Cauldron in
The Mystery,
a drop of which
will sprout roses
from a rock, or
turn a festering
wound into a
Tattoo of Incendiary
Gorgeousness –

scenes in which
you wield a
Light Saber,
dipped in Love,
in the face of
Death,
whatever costume
it’s wearing.

Question:

Have you grown
weary,
convinced you’re
not up to
this Role of a
Lifetime?
Painfully aware of
all your missed
cues and
butchered lines?

I’ve heard
the Director
thinks otherwise,
and your audience is
rapt.

There’s no script here,
Brando,
we’re improvising.

And we’ve got
light years to
get it right.

(Photo by Tobias Cornille; UnSplash)

 

Don’t Deny a Thing

You may awaken
one morning
to find your
front lawn
occupied by
demonstrators,
marching around
on long
green unmowed
grass, carrying
signs:

“Even Narcissists
Need To Do
Yardwork,” and
“Sloth Is a
Cardinal Sin,” and
“Your Wife
Deserves Better.”

You may cower
beneath your
pillow,
hoping a few
more minutes of
somnolence
will take the
sharp edge
off the
shame,

or maybe you
cobble together
a sign of
your own,
with duct tape and
cardboard:

“I promise
to be better
tomorrow.”

Or maybe you
panic plot an
exit strategy,
to a place
where no one
knows you.

Maybe, just maybe,
consider this:

Put on a robe,
walk outside,
smile at your accusers.

Invite them
in for a cup of
tea and some of
those chocolate chip
cookies.

Sit with them
awhile,
chat them up.

Don’t deny
a thing.

You may find
them to be
quite harmless
after awhile.

After all,
you’re made of
starlight and
eternity,
you’ve got a
fan club of
angels.

Why are you
worried about
a few protesters?

 

Witness Protection Program

Suppose you have
witnessed the
explosion of
light
that big banged
the whirling worlds
and multifarious
luminosities
into expressions of
your Being.

Suppose you have
witnessed the
weaving of Being
into generations
of breath taking
exhalations of
incandescent
Beauty.

Suppose, after
All That,
you desired to
plummet from
those declarations
of the Divine

into this humbling
habituation
that nevertheless
delights us
grinning
hangdog
humans,

eager to
play our
Lovepower
games
against the
imagined
Darkpower,

the better
to scatter
the Light about
on the Earth.

I suppose, after
witnessing
All That,
you might
need some sort of
Witness Protection Program,
to hide your True
Identity.

I’ve seen your
clever disguise,
and I love it!

But I know
Who You
Are.

(Photo by Mika Baumeister; UnSplash)