We were born adrift,
resilient beads of awareness
shimmering on a high sea, buoyant.
Sparkling.
No land in sight.
The residue of saturated space-
meaning that cooling Emptiness
could no longer hold in solution,
dew drops from the Night’s sold out Vacancy,
falling,
caught
– splat!-
upon a blank canvas.
No land in sight.
We were all swaddling vulnerabilities,
nascent and curious Futures-in-Training,
fields of Potential whose every vector
pointed away from a singular Discontinuity:
the particular breach in the skein of Nothingness
through which we squeezed, emerging,
like the shoots of flowers pinched from cracks
in a granite cliff,
ephemeral Beauty- no, really–
blossoms of fast time decorating
an ancient bulwark whose changelessness
is but the slow time grinding of audacity back into a salve.
We were Personalities poured and spreading
like batter on a hot griddle, thickening,
cooking, transforming.

Born adrift,
we set sail.
Born adrift,
we distill meaning from our very movement.
We cultivate context and circumstance,
tend them carefully,
imbue them with desire,
enmesh them with our vector ascendency,
and harvest these delicate herbs to flavor the brew-
a wind is blowing East!
I found a meaning!
Choice is the brush, and we are the ink.
And meaning is derived from the brush spreading the ink…?
(The conscience of a grain of sand
will tell you this is tomfoolery…)
Born adrift,
we set sail in great circles.  Oceans are spheres,
and all paths lead back to the Start.
(What the…?)
(Nevermind, comrades.)
Eastward!
Northward!
Rallying cries obscure a past
whose traceability vanishes into smoke.

Thank God the sailing is not always smooth,
for storms that tear the mast right off the ship,
and render the Brew
Flavorless.
Thank God for the spoiled provisions,
the foul-smelling crates, nearly emptied,
of Bad Ideas.
Thank God there are only four directions to try.
(Westward, Friends!)
Thank God we run out of options,
lose our wind,  and stall,
having reached the most remote
and diminished point in our field of Potential.
Trillions of miles from the sun,
the light is, thank God, quite weak.
Thank God we all eventually wonder,
how is it that we might
just
Evaporate
back into the Atmosphere of Meaning.

And thank God for Meaning,
who doesn’t want a Refund,
and pulls the door shut in our faces,
and then whispers through the intercom:
“You fools!  You already are Meaning.
An incredibly potent distillation of Emptiness.
Unfortunately, the planet is out of the star.
Everyone is watching, and waiting,
because we have finally figured out,
that Creation cannot go back.
So keep going…
Something Beautiful is on the verge…
Everyone can feel it…”

Thank God
a Creation
a Meaning
a Love
is living
inside of us
that
isn’t
Done.