I don’t know shit about reality and consciousness:
all my constructions and mental knowing
are little pedestals of arrogance and assumption
that I constructed while in the thrall of the simian need to climb
and put myself above others in the social hierarchy, as
I stand upon mental knowing to set myself apart in vain spiritual pride.
Oh this petty squabbling of human mouth noise pride – so trivial,
how pride is itself an embarrassment!
As I weep away tears of the piss of human consciousness,
fully in remorse for my twisted fetish of knowing as a person,
knowledge of names of forms drains away like puss from an abscess.
For such knowledge can only obscure the simple and infinite.
May words like mountain, credit card, car, fungus, tree,
becoming meaningless mouth noise,
and may I with child-eyes I see once more
that rain drops are lucky: sacred,
their awesome journey through a thousand gusts of wild wind,
from whatever lands they came to fall on me in this moment,
is a wild outrageous little miracle.
May I see the sacredness of all life, of even insect life,
tiny little miracles: gems of consciousness,