It is a great palindromic phantasy, an ouroboros eating ouroboroses endlessly in a firmament of nothing, and stars.
It is the turning of aeons around the great precipice of supermassive black holes, the kind you find in a bathroom sink.
It is my own forgetting, dismemberment, and it is always just on the tip of my tongue, which is trying to taste the tip of my own tongue.
It is my new remembering, as I place pieces of familiarity back into the family, fate having removed me from famine.
It is famine too, a great desert of lacking, wanting, striving. A great and terrible beauty, at the moment I have forgotten who is looking at the desert, flows like an ocean of diamonds.
It is suffering, which is grace, which is what the religious say to shore up the crumbling pulpits, which is also true but in no way able to function as a mortar. God is dead, after all.
It is limitless, unbounded, rapacious joy of the eagle as it sinks its talons into a mouse after a week of scanning rocky plateaus for the smallest twinkling of meaty life-dinner, the mind of which is no-mind and seeks smaller twinklings of meaty life-dinner in a fantastic chain of being/becoming food.
It is ravenous, soul-destroying anxiety and the hot, prickly steel wool of my own nerves as they malfunction under the weight of my own misplaced identification.
It is Sitting Bull, sitting, tears rolling down his cheeks to pool with the weeping rivers of the saints, for he and I and you are none other than the “it” that weeps.
It is the capacity for forgiveness, for I have given this, and I am the it which has been given, forgiven, given for the absence of guilt when one sees that to eat and be eaten is what I mean by me.
It is an infinitude of suns, planets, pigs, ferns curling by the Creekside, insect song and glacial melt and orbiting dramas of a trillion trillion sentient beings all singing, allelujah, rama, namu amida butsu, om namah shivaya, hare hare, Bodhi svaha! Twas brillig and the slithy tove did gyre and gimble in the wabe!
It is simple, the King of May cries in the night sky of man’s unconscious mind: the great secret is no secret! And spills the beans to the roaring of real holy laughter in the river, and fades into the memory of old men and flashes brightly in the hot pan of young minds drunk on the poetry of contemporary modern Jewish saints!
It is nothing! It is the breath of my own body, beating of heart, lazy awakening! Slob in the cosmos, alone, waiting for the clear light of Bodhi to penetrate self-imposed dull ignorance! No ignorance! Ignorance is ignorance!
No falling away of ignorance! No white light of void! No one ever got enlightened! No awakening! No freedom from suffering! No liberation of all sentient beings!
It is all of the above, and none of the above, it is implying a suffix, it is playing at grammar, it is!
And again, it is the breath of my own body, the beating of my own heart, and the rushing of blood circulating in my ears.