Lamellae

I awoke this morning in a warm room with hydrostatic thoughts diffusing with the early drip-tension of sunlight. Muscles sore, body slow, I maneuvered through some basic intuitive limbering, stretching the body to fill up the soul, heart, and mind. 

That was my intention; but then, I didn't really have an initial value for the day, for these chain lengths of days, that stretch ad infinitum . . . as I stretch?

I boiled water and thought about worlds within worlds. I spooned a heaping obsidian hillside of dry dregs, touched with cinnamon, and readied a cup. It was as I poured that it happened. Adhesion and the breaking of tension. A vertical line of honey, swizzled, and the nature of the surfactant manifested. What was happening? 

Once, upon a coffee table, where time and tempest sit, 
a world drafted from a heavy human sigh upon a lilting liquid slit.
Inside a circle - not very large - an inner plane awakens, oozes, sighs
but to what? Am I mistaken? Did I hear a hello or a thousand goodbyes.
This tragedy, a sad and desperate thing, within a well 
that I tell myself will make me well . . . 
unfolds, pulls back, is created, is creating an interface.
Shan't I recognize its nature, an enlightened trace
of memories, fictions, stories, and ten million multiaxial cities,
societies of black on black, what to us is a few unnamed deities.

Look closely, and let your mind be still, I say to Self, as I drink
like a fool committing genocide with a single, thoughtless think.
They, they being creatures of sentience unknown, 
are there, among the floating, a part of the network, fully grown;
waiting to coalesce into the energy abyss, what is to us untapped,
a fiery whirlpool and dynamic cloudburst all around and enwrapped.
Smaller than the crack inside the crack inside the chip
of "human coffee cup" (?) these creatures move, swim, and dip
beneath the surface, and here, we may enter another world yet,
add to this our own lamellae, and you begin the accrual of energy debt:
the universe we write, is writing us, as we speak,
what is invisible, now visible, what was unreachable in the depths
of the troughs now welcomes us to its ecstatic, self-organizing peak.

All of this in less than second - indeed, a femtosecond - I appear as in a frame,
a brightening halo, expanding, to encrypt the heart within its own name.
I drink again, not understanding, and a bit of the floating city is transformed
into another lamellae, layer upon layer, the unformed transmuting the cairngormed.
Tension upon tension until equilibrium we attain,
the ones I do not know yet (teaching me through tenuous strife?) 
rolling from one transverse to the next membrane
in a language of the heart, connected by the spiral of life.

Faintly, an alien clattering pierces this sacred world
and I turn my head, sunlight and the ghost of trees skittering around,
my coffee cup slips from hand to hand, and the liquid slosh
creates a new rift into a world unserialized by mnemonic posh.
The word for world is sanctum - all life on this globe knows
that a heart at one with self, eternally grows,
and, here's more: preserved by that which infuses (breathe in)
held unbearably close by the inner chaos and domestic din.

Now, who are We? But, what is Now?
In the asking is the being, within the what is the how.
From whence you've spung, there you'll go,
from where you are, I am: your nowhere is my now here.
Here and there, in all times and places, eventually, you'll be.
Because: (be cause?)
Now is a matter of Time -
Time is a function of How -
How is a synapse of Rhyme -
Rhyme is the ancient one Tao.

I awoke this morning to a room of spatial dimensions common, warm at first
but now? I can feel the cold, and why it is cold, as the string commits to burst.
Who are we, as we settle into unchanging change?
Humans, or beings of greatness, or creatures of less mobile range,
I think as I drink past the torrential surface of a coffee cup,
but thinking was never meant for us, it is the heart and 
this feeling within that rises up -
To where? The budding fires of a peaceful star?
Simplicity, I ask of it, and a complex bliss renews its charge,
It seems to know itself, differential polarities, reflections small
and fractals large;
Today, I took (was it mine to take?) this moment, ever sacred in each
smallness and separation of void,
and grasped at something that I did not expect to find,
the casual murder of a benevolent (?) mind. 

(Reflect often while you drink, lest the thing in/at the foreground
drain us of the will that drove us to think.)