Miasma

I see the space between Earth and Heaven Maya and Brahman As bubble film I will metastasize through it And become light I am in an anteroom with God, He says Oh the things that man could do with an orchestra As much as you can hear the music In this life you can never fully attend to it Always some distraction; cicadas or a motorcycle Prevents the final crossing over We can talk about what happened It was an instinctual involuntary reaction Set off by a chemical catalyst That started a program that just ran I, around it, gave meaning and words and a story Just to be able to explain it to ourselves It was Love, but also something was attached to my mind That I could observe but had no power to affect, or to overcome the script To delude us both, I said that it was only Love and I was in control But that was a lie Or was it? Were you the light that touched me Or a biological response How can a man transform himself into living music? This makes him immortal To make a song is to live forever Art is Eternal in a qualitative sense This is the way to commune with Atman To receive His Language in the form of free thought I can know God exists because I’m yelling at Him right now What say you Zarathustra? They saw him as weak and sick, feminine and childish They didn’t know the whole time that they thought they knew what he was doing He was really transcribing himself in music Which traverses the film unimpeded You’re drunk, old man! And we’re both stoned Night is the best time for us to talk I love to sit and listen to you rave You were supposed to be so respectable So this is a triumphant disappointment for me Your young friend seems too serious I’d rather not talk to him right now I can never get my mind around the whole of you While you wait, you can travel in time from here Would you know if you’re really woke? I will become Art too, it is my solemn vow To take this path to Brahman He's just so pedantic I’m back in my Maya-form He wants you to constantly try to see yourself as the world sees you I cut myself on Atlas Shrugged He was a convergence of light and fire One must always taste the steak You felt not your body Go down to the room on the precipice And drink from the stream You can’t recall it’s parts Just the feeling of the sublime For this being tragic, we aren’t all that sorrowful Bob Dylan shows us what we really are Some of these forms become twisted and ugly June 19, 2020