We live conscious lives in an unconscious
sea; at night, when we dream, our other half
speaks, living, as they do, without fuss,
determined to ignore his golden calf,
and worship the immaterial God.
the mortal world that lived before our soul
arrived gives us his preemptive nod,
taking what they, as travelers, would toll,
here one moment, and gone unto the next,
a pattern, for them, perfectly stitched,
returning to the depths of what was vexed
by their absence—the mind He pitched
when He saved our souls. My dog, for one,
appears at my side, with no awareness
that, for me, he wasn’t here, undone
by time—and, of course, His mortal distress.
When he’s with me, we are like white light:
a composition of different waves—
perhaps red, blue, and green—he takes flight,
then, assuming the color he saves,
when, for love, he reenters the mix—
the Neanderthal, fish, animal, tree,
and plant—living above the river Styx,
recovering from the torment that we
would invite, if He, in fact, was remiss,
and never arrived. I propose, then, that
this unconscious sea—that, in me, i’d miss,
if, for example, I threw in the hat,
and gave in to despair—is teeming
with life. Every blade of grass to its
own particular perspective, a thing
surrounded by a family that sits
on His golden egg—seen and unseen,
overlapping corners of His dimension—
all a projection of the life we preen,
when we look to the light of our sun,
and observe what means something to us,
and the particular dream we prescribe.
My unconscious is the function i suss,
and, because of that, I am His scribe,
translating the harmony in my head.
The Neanderthal steps to the beat of
my drum—our ancestor within our stead,
finding revelation though us, His love,
and this most miraculous dimension.
Now, I ask, if I should pluck an apple
from a tree—is that apple what I shun,
a representation of the bad i gull,
when, in spirit, I honor His flow,
and eat, as i should, to my heart’s content?
But we shouldn't shun what would grow.
I think, the apple was born to relent,
and doesn’t feel a thing—since, i consider,
it represents negative energy,
essentially, yes, the bad that i defer,
in me, since, when I eat, I’m also free
to atone—once, i.e., the taste should cease,
and I’m to wait until i’m hungry again.
Indeed, what we eat is what He’ll lease—
the devil that would take over our den,
a shade from a side that doesn’t exist,
an antipodal requiem meant for Him,
a celebration that He should persist,
His cup running over its goodly brim,
fulfilling its purpose—to give shape
to the bad, in us, that we would console,
arriving, sadly, at the devil’s cape,
hellbent on choosing some tired soul
to whisk away. So, when He eats, He
consumes the energy that the devil
repairs, when, lo, he would force us to be
good, choosing, for others, against His will.