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survi sharma


COMPLEX


Streams of Consciousness
Oh, But what does it all mean
Hidalgo?
Are we to fly in the face of the
North Wind forever?
My mind has gone blank at the
question.
Stranger still, the story perceived in
prescient anticipation of the exact
mentioned query once expounded
upon spanning millions of miles of
eloquent esoteric linguini, wit and
charm with a dash of philosophic
consequence, to fool you (the
eager) into belief.
What is belief Hidalgo, but the
suspension of reality, for an adept
deeper world of unseen truth?
Do we see reality at all my friend? It
is already shaped by our
perceptions, responds to our
expectations, nay we have not a
clue, perhaps the arcane texts
written by the hobo scholars of old
hold the answer, so yet we settle
on the material and fixate it as the
lone clear star in an otherwise dark
and cloudy sky. Mysteries abound
behind the cosmos. Even when we
look, do we really see, or are we as
an insect upon the written page,
crawling over the plain meaning? Is
our capacity to hear underwhelmed
by our propensity to listen? All
these senses must count for
something, for God is in a blade of
grass, is he not, felt by the trodden
hoof of the foot.
You’re a clever mad man Hidalgo.
Ay, the penultimate creator, singing
in a sea of song, shining in a wave
of light, lost in a dance of fractals,
we are all the same rascal, blind
though we are to the portrait of
man, always creating, same as my
neighbor, weaving dreams into
Technicolor realities to beam into a
future unknown. Our descendants
watching us as reality television,
mocking our fallibility, or perhaps
empathizing and learning through
telescopes strong enough to win a
foot race with the sun; flying
around the bend of space time and
back.
The birds of the island are calm
today; think they favor a
slumbering respite from the
noonday heat?
Mayhaps we’ll take a stroll across
the columnous muddy bed, risking
grey clay mummified suffocation; I
dreamt as such. Yesterday’s storms
make the journey perilous. My own
thoughts leak from the grandiose
ether and compel me to genius, the
condition of the interminably
insane or divine.
My bare feet tread the good earth,
the 3rd density, in a daily attempt
to stay grounded, however my mind
is always floating, receiving
transmitted whispers. Sanctified
secret musings of the muse.
Scribbled poetry of another
dimension, meaningless to the
materially minded, yet wholesome
for the moment. Like a
thunderstorm whose power is plain,
yet unheard and unseen as the
forest falling without a tree. Where
do the tree and the forest begin?
Are they the same root? Like my
thoughts from a universal mind,
the zeitgeist of an all-
encompassing mood, a social
memory complex.
The sophists will claim you are
dodging responsibility. These
tangents serve only to feed your
egoic mind, but put no food in your
belly nor rent in another’s hand.
Ay, but its creation all the same.
A tirade of compulsions. The ringing
of the hill grows, the natural
chorus of bugly unison screaming
its existence into the manifold,
manifesting itself to the initiate.
For what are they asking, could it be
peace?
Ha Ha! Those shrill like cries wound
the ears of the prideful dog, but are
contained in the silences of the
infinite potential all the same.
A man may change one hundred
lives in a day, and earn no material
currency for his unasked effort.
Therefore, who is trivial? I change
the wind by simply being, its
current flows over me and the
endless blades alike.
Vibratory love, what is that feeling,
the realest phenomena of all?
Bliss in its own awareness, reveling
in self-revelation, actualization, the
knowingness of the child who still
sees the spirit existing in each of
the physical realm’s shadows. The
taste of the foul and pure passing
without judgment to the innocent
tongue. A simple being secure with
the wisdom of the wise. Does the
power come from you or the hill,
inspiring motions, accounting on
the page symbolically. Break it
down further. Dissolve. Ejaculate
into nothingness.
What is cheating Hidalgo?
Is the ant called to my arm by its
own volition, how did it find me
here on this patch of earth formed
into mound by ancestors buried
below.
Opening up all channels now.
Death locks the door with life’s key.
Should I let him crawl over me
repeatedly?
Ten words to speak before the
coming of the night.
Creative Destruction
Awake from the trance
Guns and Bullets
Shoot from our hands
Teller of Tales
Faint whisperer
Of sordid man’s
Hallucinatory waking
Follow the Beam
Follow the beam
The world before this world
Secrets unseen
My best thoughts come
As I lie suspended awake in sleep
Before sleep
No troubles
The curse runs blood deep
He closes the book but still speaks
in rhyme
The riddle draws madness
The tongue laps up the fire
Drawn from self same wells
Will and Desire
Pruning and Preening
Political Beasts are we
Lost in our notions
I find, I keep
Braggadocioc Players
Upon the Worldly stage
Every person has the story
Only what is real?
What is fate?
So I lift my hat
To another year born true
A quarter century passed
Play the tune
Am I awaken by words from
another man’s sleep?
What is the source of the tetractyl
nature?
My hexagonal heap
Of flesh and bones
Earth and dust
Brought together again by
unending sound vibrating
ceaselessly
I sleep but am not rested
Eat but am never full
The piper plays among the sand
Whirling in the heart of the caged
word
If I keep my eyes fixated on a point,
in actuality my vision expands and
visualizes all
Reputationally speaking,
I am an ant, with male pattern
baldness
We forget to chuckle at life’s
absurdities, just as we pass by
flowers without engaging the
fragrance.
Rest your head with the hillside
now
Restless wanderer of fantastical
dreams
Treading water silently until our
legs melt
Just as the weary albatross cries its
last song over the harbor or the
butterfly flaps its freckled wings, so
too will we see the setting of the
sun and a coming of the new dawn.
If the chalk works carved in the
abandoned sidewalk are to be
believed, so must we girdle
ourselves for the coming tides and
lift our spirits once more for the ebb
and flow of circumstance. The bike
rides in the gutter all the same, and
the forgotten cemetery stone
stands as testament to the age

Submitted: Saturday, September 28, 2013
Edited: Monday, September 30, 2013

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