My name is Wit Warrior,
83 years, 13 months, and 32 days old
The world doesn’t seem any older to me,
Than it did, when I decided that I was bored with it
The many myriad images,
Of desolate forests and broken souls of flowers,
Are but a tiny flickering to me,
In the endless expanse of space that I access

I broke the boundaries with old friends,
All those many years ago
We, like kids in a candy store,
Having a go at every molecule we found colored,
With even a tiny ounce of rebellion
I’ve seen things, heard, loved, and hated,
Opened avenues within me that,
Only the skies can know the true nature of
That sweet word, REALITY
I stitched the fragrance of it fibrously onto,
The deserted canvas of my imagination
And how I’ve danced with its many meanings,
Throughout my years

I’ve seen so many children in the sunshine,
Making choices, that broke them, that made them
To live on omelettes, chai, and rolled cigarettes
To scale the soft cushion covers in high penthouses,
Drinking bourgeoisie wine and making love,
To plastic dolls and rubber toys
Men drift too much to the east, and sometimes the west,
Some choose principle, honor, patriotism
The others choose love, madness, dancing, and rum
The few choose polished shoes and trimmed beards,
The many choose daytime jobs and evening whisky
Men choose too much, but me,
I’ve been as clueless as the sea waving blindly,
With open eyes, at the sky

There is a dimension to living,
That my way of mind has opened to me
It is, a kind of secret door in the psyche
There are two intelligences
One made of numbers, analysis,
Endless counting, metallic, perfect
But the other, is mine
It is untouched, yet entirely felt,
Ungrasped, yet so tangible
There is a kind of style in this way of life,
To groove on the edges, of risk,
And yet stay unbitten, unsmitten,
By it all
To notice the leaves dancing in fall’s death rhyme,
Is one aperture for human eyes
But to see, the sweet untold songs of death,
Being sung in the silence of red and yellow leaves,
To see the sweetness of death’s ugly feminine touch,
To waltz along with the absolute meaninglessness of existence,
That is the other aperture
Through which all men find a strange,
Lasting peace

The language of poetry only creates walls,
Around the sting of life’s true touch
But all men must write, for it is the only medium,
Through which our thirsting aches for expression,
Find fruitful waters

When I watch the news,
Have a little conversation at the grocery store
I cannot help but perceive,
The separation of my soul from the rest of it all
It is not, that I loathe it,
Or that I wish it was otherwise
Perhaps it was meant to be;
The flavorless tunes of loneliness,
The dull vibrancy of a settled happy life,
The absolute security of a lovely damsel,
And the cherishment of fresh, beady-eyed children
I construe this universe to be a great chaos,
Through my melodic explorations into the endless psyche,
With molecules, shortened breaths, and simple silences
I have seen this chaos, and the choice to find melody in it
Men are too lost in choices,
Our confusion is too great to truly communicate
You see me? I walk the middle, the inside path
I am neither this, nor that
I have no principles, I am bound by no reason
But I am reason

I watch the dabbling noisy ocean of humanity,
Striving to induce meaning,
Into their words, their treaties, their theories
So many men who are so convinced,
So sure, that death can be avoided,
By chasing some great dream
I saw it the day I opened my eyes,
With the molecule, without it
It didn’t matter, my eyes were open
I was looking at an old friend,
Death, dissolution, end, finale,
And it felt good.
All men must die, that is what they are born to achieve
There are some things, however,
That last forever
Like questions, born from old answers,
What is man? Who dies? What dies?

“The seeking must stop!”
We’ve heard that before

And all those many years,
As I swayed into those dangerous realms,
Of clear tangible beauty,
And little sweet droplets of tormenting wisdom
I felt it for the first time,
I felt the weight of being alive
And it released me,
Into a blissful corridor of absolute delight
And I saw the origin of this entire cosmos,
It came from, why ‘ME!’

There is an art in life that too few men find the time,
To discover and master;
This art is ancient, so ancient,
And yet so timeless
That drives us to live with magic,
Crawling and battling at ease,
To birth ecstasy in the concrete manors of mundanity
And find fullfilment in the smaller perspectives of movement

We set ourselves goals so high,
And parameters too unreal to be tuned into our realities
Men live with such delightful theories,
Of perfection
It is not that we need change in this world,
You see,
As it is; this cosmos is splendid
This little earth with its little germs,
Creating war, endless murder,
The perpetual social catastrophes in our communities
Lovers appreciating intricate architecture,
Thieves and rapists, terrorists, and masked bombers,
Milkmen and prostitutes,
Drunks and drug addicts, conmen,
The children of midnight doing business at dawn,
The machine maker, the code cracker,
The marketing maniac, the suited salesman,
The suicidal, the ambitious, the artistic, the calculative
I see them all as one creative movement,
One explosion of life
Ah the several aspects of living,
The numerous creaks through which we find expression
These are the lovely little acts of living,
Are sweet scenes in a delightful drama,
And it makes no meaning,
To proclaim the elements of this drama,
Within the drama itself!

But well, that is the folly every poet must turn to,
Every artist, artisan, and engineer of innovative living,
To proclaim the drama, within the great act

We must, so that a few men,
Might wake up to see,
That life after all,
Is quite an intricate thing
Quite a complex thing
And, is quite worth living
Whether entrenched in meaning,
Or abandoned to oblivion

It is not, my friend, that these things,
Might come to your understanding,
One great eventual day
Most of these things are left to die,
Without finding the halls of universities,
And worse, the hearts of living sentient beings
But, what drama is there in understanding alone?
What adventure will we find in complete revelation?
What joy will we discover in eternal clarity?

The dance is in the chaos,
And the truth in the laughter,
That erupt from our untouchable innocence
My friend, it is sweet when we look at the colors of living,
The delectable opportunity for eternal exploration,
Answering the mating calls of the unknown
And yelling, “That’s fucking psychedelic, man!”

artwork: Archan Nair – Alchemy Resonance

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