SamadhiMuse

         I get discouraged sometimes.
         I want to understand this world.
         Win through to patterns that will unlock it all.
         But, like the knife against rock,
         I come back duller with each try.
         60 minutes, full of the Sandinistas
         and of 60 cent labor in Juarez
         and the presidential debate
         where two men tried to balance honesty
         against what the masses could comprehend.
         The mystics say there is no place
         to win through to.
         That there is no key with which to unlock
         these things
         and that this, itself, is the key.
         Midway somewhere in the press of evolution
         where entropy’s laws run reversed,
         we are blessed by the local demise,
         in nuclear flames, of what most
         of this universe is.
         No balance is possible, no justice,
         or self-alignment
         for, which ever way you turn it,
         change and the steady-state cannot
         co-exist.
         And whether complexity is building
         or dissipating
         the fractal nature of change
         at every level yields
         local gradients.
         But we stand in the midst of this
         and count permutations anyway.
         Forming laws Ad Hoc, Ad Infinitum
         trying to patch a moving break
         that just cannot heal.
         We are consciousness
         in animal bodies spawned of this melee
         and we imagine God and purpose
         and we get lost in our own daydreams
         and beliefs and systems and fables
         and theories and sciences.
         And we cringe behind these and hope
         that the demon, entropy, will turn out
         to be weaker than life
         but he is not.
         For no matter how high we
         or our evolution will build
         he waits like the drain of a sink
         behind every scene
         at every scale.
         And, in the end, all we seem to have
         is our spirit; that awareness of being.
         And we hope it is more than just
         the echos inside our biocomputers
         gone self-awareness critical.
         Diminish the scales from cosmic to here…
         Rose smiles and my boys grow,
         Chris comes and gives me a hug
         and I run my hand
         through his four year old hair.
         I age and weather and love in this mess.
         I believe, less and less, in anything
         and I love more and more for nothing.
         And I watch for the hand of God
         behind the scenes
         and fear my imagination more than others.
         I live.
                                 gallagher
                                 7 oct 84

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —