I wish chance had not operated
and heaven exists, so there be no parody
filled with becoming bourgeoisie
some of whom are said to be
in servitude of God–really I’m hoping for
an orange kind of mandala,
or some medieval cross,
or recipocral karma.
Really chance is God. How he rose up
in the guise of a garuda,
swift of martial prowess,
charged with electricity–
would you be a talisman
or at the very least
a mnemonic to our sacred origins
within our mother’s womb.
Here I drink whiskey
as an opiate, asking aren’t I irreplaceable,
asking in self-defense,
while my love languished,
primal and mossy, moldy, leafy
as tobacco, in some sepulchral memory–
if language be the currency, exchanging,
falling into penumbra.
What is the state of your mind? Is it related to your body? Guess so. If so then those peeps with beautiful bodies would have beautiful minds, and vice versa. No? Yes, mind and body’s related. I think a lot of the time it’s body over mind. Guess if your body is ailing in some way you’d not feel so good huh? If you have a killer bod, you’d be over the moon most of the time? Awkward pause. My job’s only to ask the questions okay? When we are not rigor mortis, and are functioning relatively okay, we ought to induce in ourselves a state of bliss. That’s mind over body. Maybe these two take turns to dominate each other? Really it should be mind over body, because the mind transcends every effing thing. Anyway this train of thought has me feeling macabre, morbid and what-have-you. It’s also due to this poem I read too. Read it and respond to it in some way.
Suddenly the worlds of death and substance seem to pause
in their mechanical obedience to the rules of time
And tension: we, the holders of Philosophy’s new Bibles,
look away from everything we know corrodes, and speak
Pentecostally, if cautiously of the Plan of Man, the engines
of his mind’s consistency, the freedom from delay his towers
Know, forever rising from cartographies of hope!
But the ghost which Yeats would revel in will not be sent
Out naked on the roads for punishment–no element
may carry life’s prefigured comical audacity
Beyond its blood-veiled site: nothing waiting on this moment
or this pen will freeze the spirit to a mind-free shape.
Peter Porter, “No Heaven Cold Enough”