Reflection is an object just like an atom or a wall.
When this object reflects nothing, there is no object at all.
Nothing is so disgraceful for a writer, except to hearken to its call.
No life is there save by this word, a letter, or a number even.
Only appreciated when the song birds sleep.
During the day I replace it with something, so that I may reflect some object.
For "nothing" is as sleep except for one still awake at 5 AM.
Coked up you could say on dark chocolate, green tea, and nutmeg.
Spaces held together by cigarette puffs.
Waiting for sunrise for another day of the Baha'i Fast to begin.
Hollow is how I feel from concentrating on vipassana alone.
But what is peace if there is no knowledge?
"No knowledge, no peace," there I've said it.
Already missing the winter, though I dreaded it.
Or is it "Know knowledge, know peace," I play with it?
So here I hold the philosopher's stone.
In a month I'll question if I really did.
This thing, a thing it is, though it is a chameleon of sorts.
The trick is to never make small talk with myself.
Though at this a seasoned person would balk.
What is left but a heart beat and a nerve?
A silence that will soon be warmed.
Oh yes, at a new day I must restate what has proved the tests of time: what is consciousness?
I think what they really are asking is what gives humanity our level of abstraction.
Why it's been proven: our large brain compared to our body's size.
Why must consciousness be a surprise?
DNA that formed from the elements: is this a more abstract conclusion?
Or, should it be found in a vaccuum: where no one can socialize, so only one team of scientists can win the prize?
Is it in God, to which I say a Prophet has said we will never ever know.
Within reason, to know God, our DNA would have to further differentiate.
By this, I mean, these mutations is what we are after.
To evolve, could this be consciousness' answer?
Without sleep, no meat (for a year), what other memories could rhyme: deer?
Rabbits and squirrels, mosquitos and trees all sleep, but please: I'm on a numbered clock not a clock of the sun.
Remember when the Braves won?
Remember when the pool was no sport, but fun?
There I go in frivolous pastimes.
Insight, insight, insight, my superego clamps down.
Produce a pearl for Hello Poetry to muse.
Although sometimes these poems I think confuse.
Humanity's joy shut down by a virus.
But an introvert's paradise, what consolation.
To the news half of the ears surmise.
Why is the news about dollar signs?
Capitalism is the Holy Ghost of some.
Give all my money to the Church and Republicans.
Tell us "only Jesus" when only half your gospel you follow.
Tell me Jesus is love when you think hell is beneath.
What grief!
Have you ever heard of the sweet sparrow of Baha?
Calling all peoples leaves of one tree?
Saying every person is equal, no more righteous, nor exalted?
Setting the hearts of the followers of all religions on fire?
They all are One, we say.
You practice yours, I'll practice mine, but never say "hell" to one another, and you'll find:
a better Earth, hearts of heaven too.
A better neighborhood for me and you.
*
But I know some have searched the hearts of Baha, only to find we're "one wayers".
If you cannot find the mercy in us, we're happy for you to join another religion too.
Thanks for inquiring, and if Baha rings so true, but find it's not practiced right, then Baha has said truly no religion is right, no religion is true.
