A skull is a resonating chamber,
a human-shaped bottle for storing echoes.
A Great Mystery holds me up to its ear–
who is listening to Whom?
Awareness merges with such a sound,
A skull is an organic amplifier,
a condenser of ethereal transmissions,
an inwardly-curving bone around a hollow void,
meant to be dipped daily in a field of silence–
held to the ear of a Great Mystery.
Over time, carefully tended,
the silence cools and coalesces.
Its oscillatory register falls
until what was once beating everywhere
and at once with time-shattering speed
has collapsed into a single droplet.
One drop of Knowing
is a good day’s work.
Such potent distillations
inspire the Bone Maker
into creeping motion:
plates shift tectonically
and skulls drift into new octaves.
Like this, we all move together,
shells drifting into the pattern of a new egg,
a codified, pregnant Pangaea.
A million skulls tuned as One
could topple a wall,
smooth out a world,
into new species, unencumbered eras,
or unprecedented flavors of time.
Dipped into the same pool at dawn,
each hollow horn becomes
an echo of a common spring.
We multiply what we carry,
carry what we know,
know what we are Given.
Over time, as Knowing incubates:
Our modern reason is a kazoo
in the side of the skull,
the cyborg’s logical enhancement.
Our skulls have become buzzing factories,
assembly lines of meaningless permutations
expelled through our ears to litter the sky.
Now the rules say what may be so,
instead of the Silence.
The echoes we are Given are missed
in such bristling cacophony,
no longer cooled by our presence,
and remain as vapors.
We can no longer hear one another.
There is no multiplication,
is a good day’s work
repeated for a thousand years,
one skull after another
dipped in silence each dawn, carefully tended.
We’ve seen vestiges of such possibility.
I saw gourds fly once, in the darkness.
I saw a human, walking across the sea.
In between breaths, my kazoo stuttered,
and I heard a thousand beings, chanting.
I cannot escape the feeling that kazoo time is ending,
that a Great Work has been tended behind the scenes,
that despite ourselves an orchestra has been grown,
a vast field of skulls shaped into trombones and violins.
I cannot escape the feeling that a pure tone will sound,
that we will look up and see an incredible kazoo
in the smiling mouth of a Great Mystery, Who,
with arms raised, a great world-stirring baton at the ready,
stands eager to conduct the first measure of what comes Next.
* * * * *