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Miasma

I see the space between
Earth and Heaven
Maya and Brahman
As bubble film
I will metastasize through it
And become light

I am in an anteroom with God, He says
Oh the things that man could do with an orchestra
As much as you can hear the music
In this life you can never fully attend to it
Always some distraction; cicadas or a motorcycle
Prevents the final crossing over

We can talk about what happened 
It was an instinctual involuntary reaction
Set off by a chemical catalyst
That started a program that just ran
I, around it, gave meaning and words and a story
Just to be able to explain it to ourselves
It was Love, but also something was attached to my mind
That I could observe but had no power to affect, or to overcome the script
To delude us both, I said that it was only Love and I was in control
But that was a lie
Or was it?
Were you the light that touched me
Or a biological response 

How can a man transform himself into living music?
This makes him immortal
To make a song is to live forever
Art is Eternal in a qualitative sense
This is the way to commune with Atman
To receive His Language in the form of free thought
I can know God exists because I’m yelling at Him right now
What say you Zarathustra?
They saw him as weak and sick, feminine and childish
They didn’t know the whole time that they thought they knew what he was doing
He was really transcribing himself in music
Which traverses the film unimpeded

You’re drunk, old man!
And we’re both stoned
Night is the best time for us to talk
I love to sit and listen to you rave
You were supposed to be so respectable
So this is a triumphant disappointment for me
Your young friend seems too serious
I’d rather not talk to him right now

I can never get my mind around the whole of you
While you wait, you can travel in time from here
Would you know if you’re really woke?
I will become Art too, it is my solemn vow
To take this path to Brahman
He's just so pedantic
I’m back in my Maya-form
He wants you to constantly try to see yourself as the world sees you
I cut myself on Atlas Shrugged
He was a convergence of light and fire

One must always taste the steak
You felt not your body
Go down to the room on the precipice
And drink from the stream
You can’t recall it’s parts
Just the feeling of the sublime
For this being tragic, we aren’t all that sorrowful
Bob Dylan shows us what we really are
Some of these forms become twisted and ugly

June 19, 2020

Copyright © Andrew Jung

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