Poems

With every moment forward,
we embed into nature.

The environment: “my” boundary.
I experience only my pipeline,

tunneling through the world.
Grasping at light’s end fails.

My tube collapses in rear view.
Unmoving, it inverts.

Its walls, my only involvement.
Yours is distinct.

Like noodles, we slide
along one another,
sharing the same bowl.

Can there exist a Nihilist,
believing in nothing?

Alternatively, is it possible
to be an individual,
capable of believing anything?

Does a being manifest
to believe in nothing?

Perhaps one has never existed
to have the capacity of belief!

Blobs of neurons fire in a sea.
Briefly, a Nihilist arises.

I pinned a category on myself.
I must fully be that.

I declare,
“Look how much I am that!”

Soon, I am something else,
along a new trajectory.

Bathing in murkiness,
without definition,
I swim in a present.

Nature wears no words.
They are unique to humanmind.

Ecosystems are not sentences.
Brains and mouths make them.

Paragraphs, unique to homo Sapiens.
Our noise-scribbles are unreality.

Applying word laws,
we inhabit fake prisons.

Words are dots, lines, and curves,
meanings from shapes.

Noises emanate from our squiggles.
We hurl them back and forth.

Along pretend connections,
they merge and morph.

You affix your own labels,
then suffer from them!

Can you perceive your word prison
and unshackle your definitions?

A concrete shell,
we imagine our stone selves.

Hostile environ,
my impenetrable fortress

Unyielding self declares:
“I am mighty! I am correct!”
“I demand! I fight!”
“I judge! I accept nothing!”

“I” am miserable, yet…
peace when rocky skin sheds.

Disintegrating into ecosystem,
we attain sediment.

Are you striving
to be a certain way?

Do you wish
to appear specifically,
presenting what you think
you should be?

Do surroundings mold
a fake “you”?

What is our base material?
Shifting, wet clay.

The self, defined by its own illusions,
captive of its core delusions.

Can you observe
the separate as intruder?
The possessing as alien?

With nothing to invade,
it becomes Dissolver.

Blathering on
about silence and emptiness.

Libraries are filled
with volumes on oblivion.

Language continues
to spew forth.

Is profound nothingness
intolerable to a self-mind?

Oblivion, nothing, void,
what absurdity!

We apply letters
to absence of all.

Pointing to emptiness,
where does it land?

Obscuring inner silence,
where are the words?