I find that twenty-four years later,
I am still screaming while blind,
running down an escalator
and the act of opening my eyes
does not wake me anymore, I am asleep
sleepwalking a pattern, pilot-less,
a train on an incomplete rail.
I am not looking for who I am,
I am just looking to wake up, open my eyes
to the first primal light whence we came,
and for Moksha, I would like to stay there,
or, never reaching those fabled stars,
drift to the fringes of the unknown,
step outside the box that confined,
and then look in,
a scholar of the universe
with old concerns resigned
Here, there are mirages of control, and
motivations of dreams control the waking man,
walking him at night, unaware.
Far from learning from our mistakes,
I find that practice makes more of them.
I find speech does not serve its purpose,
by giving myself the ability to communicate,
I have made it easier to garble sentences.
The Lost and rarely found department of translation,
where very feeling means less
every meaning feels like less
there are so many of them floating
like dead fish on everyone’s pond.
No one wants to touch them
or even talk about them, but
the birds feed heartily on the water.