In the
universe, the one that surrounds the world (perhaps the mind as well)—someone
once threw a ball into dark matter, dark energy. After that that someone
created, gravity—I do believe—and threw it somewhere out and over his head, and
it exploded—; from man’s way of thinking, it caused a Big Bang, somewhat in
that unseen form of matter that pulls the universe—supposedly this way and that
way, thus creating the great expansion, that has gone on since who knows when,
again man’s speculation would say, fourteen billion years, give or take: which
slowed everything down a bit, and its thrust (its push, threw everything in all directions) which is
still keeping it airborne: carried by the shove that was set in motion; hence,
when it loses its momentum, it will crash, I do reason, and all that is
left—again I do reason, will be the ball
(its substance: what is hanging onto it, in it): that is
all that will be left—I repeat, everything else just: waves, just waves in
nothingness: waves that were made by that One person who forced out, as a result, nothingness and all that it
created will come to some kind of a standstill (I replicate): —it has to: for what
will carry it—when all the engines that run the universe weaken, and the
nuclear force and the electromagnetism collapses? When the protons and neutrons
no longer come together in the nucleus of an atom, and no longer do the great
galaxies spin fast enough, and thus fly apart. Save that, that someone we—most of
us that is—call God, does not create something else out of some kind of a new
nothingness.
It’s how it was, how it had to be, how
else could it have been: all this nothingness come about to surround the world,
with all its “t’s” crossed, and “I’s” dotted, with its universal gravitational
balance. We normally don’t think this way, lest we want our minds to become
mad.
I heard a voice in this dream I had
within my mind, it said: “I am immortal, I sit behind the suns, and write
epitaphs, for all living things, then I open up their lips, an endless task it
seems at times: the zenith of life comes from nothingness—and I, I alone hear
their dying wish: to remain, to be: to some extent, to be like me forevermore,
come to my eternity. Eyeless faces, pale and un-molded, that is what you all
were once, but by my graces so you all became something more than nothing.
“Orion’s illumed by my side, showers me
like a rainbow with its gasses, breathless orchard: it is the magnificent
mocker of the universe: perhaps you would call it such. Hence, should I touch, only touch it (lest I destroy My
own makings): only touch its burning drums, put my finger into its
aflame winds—what I created it all out of—nothingness, the horse’s head would
roar, as if into a merciless, pitiless volcanic eruption, yet the moat around
my untouched garments, it would never reach—and with the beckon of my finger it
would go silent.
“The Universe is like a squeezing viper
at times, a sacrificial rip in all its proportions, the magnitude that I’ve carved out of the thrust, as you call
it—or have called it, from the push: from end to end, or as you have now
proclaimed, its endless, end.
“You see, and you don’t see, that I
created all this out of oblivion at different stages with different utterances,
and when you study this more, you will understand it more, you will understand
me more, why your existence is, at all. It is not that I need you that I molded
you out of clay, pasted you together from that thrust, twist, wave, and roar—
because that was all from emptiness; but it was from me to you, a gift of life,
and that is called love.”
#1366 6/5/2006; written while at the El
Parquetito Café in Miraflores, Lima, Peru, one afternoon (reedited, 7-2012)
Reedited 11-2012
