When it comes to the subject of emptiness,
Are you hell-bent for leather?
Is it a safe bet to say you’re obsessed
With that empty sensation?
If you’re prone to dissociation,
Put your absent-ghost-hands up…
…yup, that’s what I thought.
We’ve got a full house
Full of haunted houses,
I add myself to that accounting.
No matter where we go
When we collectively
Vacate our respective
Our bodies always remain,
Are fully present for every second,
Absorbing each bit of it,
Faithful fleshly servants.
So many sock puppets
Patiently awaiting fistfuls of animation,
So many driverless cars
In the face of abandonment
Tragically taking place
Right outside the filling station.
We’ve been exhibiting the tendency
To run on empty,
To pretend the tank is full,
Despite complete depletion,
Needing our souls’ vehicles cleaned,
Yearning to be windshield-wipered from the inside.
We are in a complicated relationship with the void,
Both annoyed by and beholden to the hole and the whole,
It’s a constant push-pull with the gape and the fullness.
Sometimes, we’re desperate to be vessels,
No more, no less,
Then we morph into vortexes of want,
Vacuums of longing.
We venture into some pretty treacherous
Troubled waters in search of that no-thing-ness
Spoken of by holy souls, sages and madmen.
We sail some dangerous seas
Trying to appease the grievous need.
We are the beating hearts
Bursting forth from our own chests
And yes, it gets messy
When just existing is considered disruptive.
It’s a pleasant enough suggestion to Love the skin you’re in,
That is, unless you’ve let your flesh
Dance against the razor’s edge,
Unless you’ve ever been an
Dislodge the contents
Of what’s deadlocked
In your consciousness.
That is, unless trauma has knocked
Upon your soul’s door
And been answered by an apparition.
That is, unless you’ve got a headful of demons
Screaming for your attention,
And you’d give anything to evict them,
Unless you’ve ever checked out
When the pressure continued to mount,
Preferring any alteration to your mindstate
Over the cold hard slap
Of concrete reality against your cheek,
Unless you’ve ever eaten your feelings
For the cognitive knockout,
The numb and stunned bliss of a donut binge
Crammed down your throat
Like a rainbow-sprinkled, maple-iced
Iron fist of dumbstruck and delicious emotionlessness.
The final frontier
Of our quest to fill the emptiness.
You can live without booze,
Without jumping up
To make sure the front door’s locked shut
A hundred times in a state of compulsion,
Even without prayer, dance, chanting,
Meditation, creative visualization
(Not that that’s my recommendation,)
The point is,
You can live without most anything,
But, dearly beloved,
You still must eat.
Be still my beating heart.
The humility of this earthbound existence,
Of this abject barrenness,
Plumbs a depth that is endless,
And the intensity is eerily
Then it all goes pop And we are lost in the awesomeness,
Beyond the mere sensation of container.