Beyond Space & Time

The other day I hung up my body at the door. Usually, especially these colder days, I slide through a hoodie and jeans. But today I left it all behind.

By the first few steps of the patio I ascended stairs set before me, and whoever the builder was that day I was aware and appreciating.

Suspended by dormant streetlights. Each car carried a thousand psychic drawings, of their own signatures derived. I didn’t have the courage to float down to join them; perhaps I didn’t want them to crash. In the crepus hours you best keep things poised and folded as the handkerchief on the dashboard. It’s allergy season after all.

With a snap of the fingers I stood above Belfast, or San Diego, and the Antarctic Circles. Superimposed upon the day stood the old temples, each a holographic form, and the business man walked along the stilts dotted in pigments of a shared myth to keep alive, and alive it came, zeroing in, starring face-splitten djinns smiling with saints. Admonishing the child’s play it all seems.

By an index finger I cursived in the four-cornered catuskoti, embraced the neglected threes & fours, and figured my reality at the present could be just as unreal for anyone to join.

Walking straight toward the 63rd glass panel view, past it, upon the condensed dew of Taipei Main, as a personal boardwalk toward the next skyscraper, and all the knots imposed by the body loosened. And the revelation was how, in my complete uselessness, I could finally access the love I was always used to giving. Before I was born, probably. I didn’t have to worry about status games and self-esteems, or the give-and-take. It’s back on my doorstep.

Standing over Oslo I thought myself the third fireplace, or the heat diffused from the lamps in the thick of winter. Waltzing by the lone cabinman and he followed my movement, and out, out toward the panacea beyond the roads, sure pine cones.

Shrinking myself down to the crystal palace each iced-in lake dares inhabit, pushing beads twice my miniature ethereal stature, for a moment I communed with all the myths of our winter solstice. I make matches of lightbulb, flares of amperes; after all, of each city I stood suspended simultaneously. In a flick of a nanosecond.

Back home my body started convulsing. It’s what happens when you stop breathing more than five minutes. For a moment I was tempted to keep rising and seeing the rest of the stark emptiness, the infinite canvas, just waiting for the next etch-a-sketch haphazard artist. Alas, I floated down, dusted off the strands of psi floaties, fifth dimensional debris, all drifting amongst all flavors of humanity, concentrated above cities, by large rapids raging steady upward, sequestered in the mountains, in the farmlands and retreats.

The door clicked and half walking through the body’s vortex snapped me back. Back into the flesh I seem to always be neglecting. I reattached all the knots in my shoulders, ignoring the reasons they’re there in the first place.

The love so attended then vanished, and in that picture silence I figure, well, I figure it to be just as pleasant.