Transfiguration
The burning heat of majesty manifest.
In the back beneath the trees and sky and so much passing by and burying me in dreams, memories…
And my one hand clapping & breaking out of butterfly wings…knocking trees over across a forest
And I cannot hear them; cannot conceive where they fall and I begin
I’m tearing myself apart in Dionysian revery; a cacophony of utter profanity alone in the dark
I’m still here, dead in my mind just waiting for the dead wood to burn and combust, a blaring conflagration of brightness transfigured to flames and smoke…those profane ghosts void of the numinous song who cadence is physical made manifest they physics and bogged down in chemistry; left in the still darkness to find me.
These voices in my head are never not.
Do they happen but for my dreams of America
…or am I just the silence of a god that never spoke?
The transcendental reaching outward and upward collapsing into nothing forever.
I have heard the elementals singing each to each. They do not sing to me…and I shall not presume.
And tho I’ve stopped projecting myself to find order in this endlessly endless; there are no faces in these clouds; I’ve left pareidolia, like hope, with love and cope because…
underneath it all we come undone; are dissolved and unmade; divested of the sentimentality that would hold us.
It was all a lie. Quiet entropy flying apart into disorder that we might lose ourselves in the sky…that we may no longer fly high and are now falling down towards the hole in the ground where it all ends alone in the dark.
Through the fish eyed lens of tear stained eyes — there’s no shape to define this moment in time.
Hubris collapsing into the ultimate heat death of order and scale and dreams of sense.
Nothing was always parting the Red Sea; a crack on a rock thru which flows water, a lonely bush burning contrast and static…the prophecy the legislature spoke of…transfigured into white noise so meaningless it drifts towards silence.
My clothing aflame, my emptiness bountified, my nothing my accolade, my majesty profaned in the dark; I am but working out my own salvation with hopeless fear and trembling.
And then two men appeared; Moses and Elijah (came)…
They were at my side.
A cloud appears in glory as an accolade; the muted voice of god lost in a cloud. Pariedolia in a cloud, that projection of order; that sacred face of god speaking that we should make this nothing into a tabernacle place.
I am that I am that I was and was never.
This is noise beyond data void of statistical order…white noise, bleak silence made beauty manifest in endless black nothing.
Our still birth is moksha transcending samsara and lost in the cosmic horror of the ineffable incomprehension that blows us apart;
into nothing ever…never
.