the actual pingpong of the abyss

in trust not
knowing how
shape will
manifest.

Looking backward
historically so
near so far
at the absolute
mastery of
Philippe Petit
dancing above
the abyss to
come the
only yet
foreshadowed
shock to the
system the
nervous anticipating
fearful system.

Looking forward
a tumid tide of dreams
rearing wall of water
fearsome blotting
the loving horizon
of oracular
potential not
yet more than
hinted at even
in trust not
knowing.

time and space and words amiss,
how can I write this on a single sheet,
a plane of white containment?
Yet we know, I know, the reflected Kilroy
was here, was there, was omnipresent,
diffuse, ubiquitous.
I say I know, by which I mean we know, for
if I know, we know.

Holy the bop apocalypse !
I think I am America, holy
the abyss !
I think I am all Gaia, alcohol
in my veins, my rivers, my streams,
my rain.
Amphetamines in my seas.
My ice caps melting, my glaciers calving, daisy
and dolly, the lamb stew of the imagination.
Science, religion, run amok.
Entertainment, politics, run amok.
Shades of George Murphy—cast him as
the anti-Frankenstein, the deanimator.
Info-insensates, auto-lobotomies, near universal
koma run amok.

Near universal. . .
. . . but this is neither horseshoes
nor government work,
only. It is more.
It is all. It is All. It is Unity.
Or, perhaps more precisely, it is
a perspective on the
Oneness of Being.
It includes the sense of
despair and hopelessness.
It includes the impression of
particular imperfection.
And it includes
principle, choice and action.
A single sheet, indeed.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
with enduring appreciation and respect for Allen Ginsberg