You don’t grow, Hef,
through fields full of poppies
and apples and ladies made out of
glass slippers and bunny ears,
tequila shots and pajamas hanging out.
Yours will be no meeting at a pearly gate
with some bearded, winged McGuffin
or a weighing on a golden scale
of what remains of your heart
against a single, white feather
as your cells rot away
buried next Marylin’s bones.
It’s time to open,
although time, per se,
is not really involved
since—stripped of your moppet ensemble
you called a body—
there is no progression along
the imaginary line you call time,
but instead a circular
(or, more precisely, hyper-spherical)
connection to all points simultaneously.
You give off waves, Hef,
that, if you could see them—
which actually you can,
if you cared to learn to look—
resemble the upward and downward motion
of rapidly beating insect wings or birds,
if you take into account
that upwards and downwards are just two
of the many different aspects of direction involved
that include forward and back,
inside and out,
yesterday and tomorrow,
full and empty,
deep and shallow,
spicy hot and cool as an iceberg slick,
and a whole slew of other axes
from stem to spindle
that make up this beautiful, confounding
mess you have called “I.”
We know. We know. Such concepts are big.
Don’t worry, they will eek back in
as your focus dissolves open
to accommodate more of
All That Is.
Your centerfold core awaits.
All you have to do
is fold open the pages
and be the spirit
that you always are becoming.