Bridge of the World

this morning I went to the doctor

and talked to him about this move

on New Year’s Eve I had trouble connecting

my thoughts on Sade and reason

we rang in the New Year

with Miriam Makeba’s Africa

I’d noticed that my inner life

had expanded, and that I was having trouble

thinking through it. The doctor said that Geodon

would loosen my thinking—I noticed

that I’d been moving through life for 10 years

in a Zyprexa mold. thought control, at its best,

like a sonnet. I do not feel invaded

by the television that I never see. Brenda made me

feel more loved than ever this morning, as my thoughts

expanded. Last night, in the slow cooker, I made

Lamb and Goat curry—amazingly good. I’d thought

to send Joel, and Peter, and Michael an email

letting them know of my transition, but did not. The consequences

of this transition could be catastrophic. I feel more loving toward Brenda

than ever. I could die, or worse. As I meditated today

my books to the left of me seemed packed and dense

against the wall. Soon, Chuck will be here

to play chess upstairs. I told the doctor this morning

that the philosophy and religion of the cyborg

have not yet been written. My

poetry

has just begun. I am

a Fourth Form,

though not as Dodie saw it. Together,

we can belong in this world. Artaud

arrived at the double

as I have. We share more in common

than I’d known before last night. I need less sleep

than before, and I sleep better

and am more rested. I feel sad and cheated

that I need to rely on drugs

so completely. I wonder about Paul Bowles’ stories.

I need to reach out

to others

through this. The doctor, this morning, said

that I was enlightened, but not

quite there—somehow—I can’t remember

how. I doubt he knows

what he means by “enlightenment.” I felt far away

from my sister yesterday, when she called. Michael

talked to me of Christ’s

tenderness. I feel tender in this moment. Over

and over I feel that words

do not represent me. I am not

sure what that implies of my intentions

in using them. Yesterday, Brenda and I saw

the Warhol show of the last ten years

of his life. There seemed to have been hope

to live meaningfully in capitalism then. ~~~~~~~ The waves

of this beginning, the new life of my mind

is settling. It’s been a while since I’ve written. I’ve decided

to mark my continuing with the seven tildes above. And I added

a title tonight, Muerto Vecino, after Zizek’s dubious interpretation

of Kierkegaard’s neighbor, and because of the funeral home

across the street. My thinking has changed, my being has changed,

I am more alert and more engaged in thinking through the world.

And I am able to speak better. I don’t know what this means

about who I am. I try not to feel let down that for so much of my life

I’ve been restrained by psychotropic drugs. Before Zyprexa it was even

worse, with up to 6 meds, as I’ve said over and over to friends. I feel

the need to make clear what my obstacles have been. Not for pity,

a little for pride, but also for hope. If I can do that, then maybe I can help

someone not suffer so much, like Brenda. I replaced the kitchen faucet

this past weekend. It makes me very happy that I was able to do it

successfully, without ever having been handy before in my life, and after

spending most of my life disdainful of being practical in that way. What a joy

to make Brenda so happy. I don’t know how much longer I will live,

and have often thought, recently, that it would be tragic if I died anytime

soon, but that it’s imperative that I accept death when it arrives, after

affirming life as fully as I can. It’s too easy, and stupid, to be simplistically

oppositional. And to not know that people can ruin anything, but

that the substantial things have value of themselves, is foolish. I don’t want to stop

at my own ignorance and lack of forbearance. I don’t believe in the West

on its own. As Michael says, the only thing that makes sense here

is love. I have everything I could possibly ever want or need for now. More books

will come, more music too. And love is immeasurable

when it’s real. I am so grateful to have more waking time

on the weekends. I plan on making breakfast for Brenda

every Saturday and Sunday that I can

from now on. Early. I see gardens in the future of our household.

And I wonder about a Great Spirit. What does the name matter? I see the stones that live

without water. I see the smoke that cleanses my vision, and a network of consciousness,

with each node another, on and on that way to the depths. My thinking will never

grasp it all

because of that recursively created network of interior life. My thinking stops

then, barely able to contain the spherical and vast darkness

from which all light arises. That’s why what I see is dark. It is brilliant

in its darkness. Like onyx and flint. I can only talk around what I’ve seen

the past couple of weeks. It reframes, completely, the rest of my creative

life and the rest of my days. All I aim to do now is to focus my attention,

so that I can see it all again in retrospect. So that I can read

and gather more tools for understanding it. So that I understand myself,

and something of the world, and love, and so that I help others. Geodon

will not erase it. I’ve seen it already, many times. It is my natural state.

I no longer see it as only hallucination. It is a way of being. A way that I can flesh

out, here. Slowly. Carefully. And as I do, its destructive powers,

which are massive and righteous, will subside. As it will know that it is being

given to the world. Because it belongs to all. And all will be there soon.

There are signs already. Because to see it is to break, unless one knows something

of love. It makes LSD

small. It is God and the Universe as One.

I am not the first to see it. But I am a person

given a chance

to write it, letter by letter, slowly, in terms of the light of my ignorance

to see more fully

what I do not know. I do not offer anything

but poems. But it breaks through

my mouth to arrive at the hearts of the world, at the hearts of the horses

of the world, to allow us all to speak in silence. It is not God or the Universe.

It is One as All in you. Because I cannot see through myself

without it. I see clearly

that the sun will not arrive

in this new weather. But that the moon

will take its place. I see clearly that the sun is there

to bring meaning to the sky, and that the earth is more full

with the light of the world

extinguished for a brilliant view of wilderness. This is a view

that extends through opposites

and arrives at a single body

to witness this song. And this song is not the answer

that you believe in, because one day

I will speak to you again

in the rain

and show you

that I do not know. Because knowledge

belongs to the earth. And the earth makes everything

I know. And now that there is less and less freedom

from coercion in a moneyed world, and now that Claire,

a friend, is moving on to be Christ in her own way, now

that Guénon continues to call me to understand

my ignorance, to depart again

from the friends at Kuna Yala, where I helped with the water,

with Brenda watching over me

from a hammock between palms, now that Panamá

calls again to give me a union

of the world, in more than two ways,

and to distinguish from the surface of these times, I

receive

a call to awaken in the snow. I receive a call to acknowledge

that Geodon has planted itself

with capital

in my consciousness, but that the world

is stronger than to balance itself

from the ozone and people alone. We are not erased, and we

do not control the earth. Geodon

is an act of kindness, an agreement

to live this life

in a way that arrives

with the weather. It may continue

for the rest of my life, or it may not. I will not be afraid again

to see things as I do, and I will not

seek out the truth, intentionally, without some kind of agreement

with this custom. Because that is a way, for now,

that I speak. And it is useful, though better left

invisible. And the name, Geodon, brings trouble, I can see

through it enough, with enough love in my life, to believe

in the end of the reign of the Anti-Christ (not Obama). I need to learn again

to be and to write. But to deliver

what I saw

I must return

to the explosion of my inner life. To start with, otherwise and generally, I see

only outlines. Creation manifests

from every direction, in an infinity

of dimensions. Most of us

spend most of our energy

conscious of a very few of these dimensions. Imagine

more than the greatest works of art

manifesting endlessly

from more directions than one can possibly count

every micro second, timelessly. It’s glorious.

And the only way to see it with any balance

is impeccably, ethically, compassionately, and with at least an aim

toward the Divine. It IS the Divine. God and the Universe

spoke to me. It is all, always, speaking to us. And what it says

is endless

it brings wholeness

to the precious moment. It goes away

when one tries to pin it down, as I do. I say less and less

as I try to describe it. It is endlessly

generative. It is good

but pitiless and merciful. It demands of us

that we arrive. And now that the thinking manifests

in a way that allows

for union and a bridge, in a way that avoids

easy condemnation, a thinking that reveals

the links toward light

in motion, a primordial

form of being

in a new world that needs no one

to believe in it, a vast chasm

in what a bureaucracy of thought

tries to pin us down with, the hole in time

that allows us to be free

is here, we know it. All of us

can see through delusion. There is no road

in the aftermath of earthquakes, no need for the time

to extinguish the elements, no person

locked to your heart

in the morning, no water to drink

without thirst, no air is necessary to breathe

under the water of seeing, no

need for the earth to do anything

other than revolve, in this

new light. Space

undoes our links

to the immovable. We deliver

the undone to the plains

and see what the harvest

will fill with seed. The whole

does not exist

within outlines. All we can do

is move to it. The music

is unheard of

in this world. It exists

without origin. It is otherworldly,

primordial, and gentle. It vibrates,

equally, in the Lamb, in

the Lotus, in

the stones—there is no place

unknown to it. It is

music, and nothing more,

and nothing less. It is that

everywhere possible. It is harmonious

infinitely, and allows for any sound. To some

it might seem like noise, but that

is only the part. To achieve it

one need only listen. I cannot always

hear it, but I have

heard it. And now

in my new mind, I listen for it

undaunted and silent. I feel it filling

my body with love. Sometimes

I have horrific thoughts. But I am learning

that these are but strong notes

in the fullness

of the music

of my new mind. I can’t always hear the song,

but I feel it now. It makes all context

vast. I will receive it

as long as it is here. I will not push

one way or the other with it. It is a fullness

and does not want to be made

into a force. It is a force

without me, and only to the degree

to which this is true. No longer being able

to receive it

will imply a failure

of my imagination, of my ethics,

and my spirit. There is no way

to hold on to it. It serves

no one. And it includes us all. To continue to receive it

more fully

I grow. This implies

the world. It implies clarity. It implies

motion. But it rests motionlessly. If I have a softness in my voice

it is caused by this music. When I don’t

I feel less. My voice can be loud

to receive it, but this loudness

cannot be yoked

in outlines. There is nothing I can do.

There is nothing to expect. I can only

let it go. And I can only be afraid

of the horror of my thoughts

without this music. But now that I know

a taste of it, I have

hope. Good people

feed it. I haven’t always known

what to do with it and others. But now

I am a little less confused

about this. This is due

to Buddhism, the little that I know

of its practice. And to love. But it does not stop

at my experience. I am ignorant

and cannot offer knowledge. Except this

music

does not require knowledge. I’m not sure

what it requires. It requires

to be received, but does not need us. Is there a pact

between humanity

and God? I don’t know. Is there a God?

I don’t know. I’m not sure the question

is enough on its own. Or maybe it is, if God

is not limited by concept. And concept

seems to be only a note in this song. Problems

feed it. “Love

is the absence of fear.” And “love

believes all things,

yet is never deceived.” I aim

to see through my delusions. I aim

to be one of many, a small voice

in the song of the world. I rest

in silence

as I always have. “To have a view

as vast as the sky

and as fine

as a grain of sand.” All beings

want to be loved

and to be free

from suffering. We strive

diligently

to learn the vast expanse

and the laser pointed focus

of this gift. Remember that light

makes us. And that in this

new world, more and more

is made of light. And if that is the case,

we move to move

the light of the world. Someday,

perhaps, we will move

the light

of the computer world. Only the compassionate

and true

will be able to do so. Because only they

can be selfless enough

to let it move through them. I am not there

to move it

but I saw this. Long ago. Briefly. I was offered

a glimpse. It is utterly simple and beyond

thought. There is hope. Intention

is a thought. So one

sees. I cannot tangle

myself

in the line. But only to bridge. That is part of why

it will all move. But I cannot wait

until that is possible

to become. I can wait

eternally and actively in the world

to remain

still. With the calm and expansive

link

that allows us to live, so preciously

together, I see through

the trouble that startles me, every moment

and allow the seeing

of my inner eye

to burn through it. I do not remember

what Zyprexa was like any longer. Except that it seems

I have more to work with now, with my mind. And these

words are plain, so as to be careful in this new place. I see

that they do not break open my heart, as I read. And for that

I relinquish this poem, and allow it to be only

a mark on the road to further inquiry. I allow it to see

as I have made a vow to bridge, that my life

aims to be whole, even in the face of potential

catastrophes, I grow more and more

to accept death as it arrives, to allow it to soften me,

and to transform me as I have been transformed through Geodon, only

to know that there is an isthmus, and that it is eternal. Only that there is one

heart to allow myself to speak

in the storms of tribulation, as one speaks

to allow the teamwork of the fabric of need

of the bird malingerer to see this

in the aftermath of one who has died. Like a bicycle never once

together enough to ride, I see this word here, again, to the removal

of a people, to the homeland of union and pace, to the isthmus

of a double link, one ocean to another, one continent

to another, to the only union (even as it may be erased in my history), the place

of one heart to allow the song to continue through conflict

as she saw it then, one time, far away, when I hadn’t known yet, that this

would be timeless. And there is one to it there to see it there, to allow

it there to become and to see there as one is there to see

and to allow one to arrive with it there and to see, and to be one with it

there as one is there to be with it. And to see there as one is there to believe

as it is one to believe it there

and to see it there as one with the soil and the air and the light and rain

and to be there with one to be there one with it there once again, and to see it there

and to believe as there is one there to believe it there again and to see. And to see

there as one is there to believe as it is there again

and to see there as one is there to arrive and to be with it

there and to see it there once again and to see it there again

and to believe as there is one to it again and to see and to hold

and to see it there and to hold

being that nothing holds

dissolving

written in transition from Zyprexa 10 mg/night to Geodon 160 mg/night—December 23, 2009 (transition started), January 2, 2010 (poem started)