Against the mountain ghostly trees
return to budding green
as the mist departs.
Facing the mortal radiance
of all i may become
i leave my fading shadow
with these words.
Against the mountain ghostly trees
return to budding green
as the mist departs.
Facing the mortal radiance
of all i may become
i leave my fading shadow
with these words.
Bodhidharma tried heaven until he understood
that heaven is a mind enclosed by exclusive
concentration on the pleasures and woes
of its imaginary self. Ignorant and uncaring
about the servants or the victims
of its perfect world.
Zen is a mind that lives nowhere but
wherever you are at this particular moment
of your night or day and obviously it is
not confined to any particular social position
being a come as you are occasion.
Zen does not exclude itself from suffering,
heartbreak or death. Nor does it separate
from the bliss of remembering
how one funny, wise and imperfect soul once loved
your crooked heart.
If there is one primary choice to make
at any moment of your life on this circle of
dark moments and flashing days,
whether to remember love
Gebtu was the most important religious center in the area. Its principal male deity was Min, a sky-god whose symbol was a thunderbolt. He became a male fertility deity, and also was regarded as the male deity of the desert region to the east.
The gods inhabit a parallel Earth
imagined by collectives of submissive minds,
an Earth abstracted from reality,
an Earth populated by imaginary species
including the one that imagines it is wise.
A collective dream puts the world to sleep
as it entertains us passengers on our unsinkable ship
serenely plowing thru the plasticated sea, the band playing
to distract us from thinking about the wretched
lifeboats overfilled with refugees
from smoking villages and sinking coast cities.
To distract us from asking why
this world of dreams and lies?
What is their source?
Our real brains of course
floating here in real heads atop real bodies
in our separate lifeboats, cabins and deck chairs.
But now we know
that the gods only think
if we think their thoughts
instead of our own,
only speak if we speak their words
instead of our own,
only have bodies if we embody them
instead of our own unique, unfolding natures,
yours and mine.
All stories begin with a blank page
To remind us of the physical papyrus, palm leaves, paper, wax,
or digital circuitry of elements and electrons that
mediate the flow of language that carries thought
from mind to mind.
And page two always starts in the middle of the book
because that’s where the real story is actually unfolding
on both sides of the page you’re reading now
one side is memory, following right behind the next word
or the silence which follows the last word that vanishes
in fire, ink fade or dust.
One side is you and one is me.
I probably don’t know who you are, unless you are one of the physical few
who find their way to the Clear Light Cafe, but let us be of good cheer,
dogs can’t do this and neither can butterflies
but we can.
And neither of us knows what will follow the last word, possibly
in the middle of this particular moment of
the effect of different strings, voices, minds singing
on the same frequency.
Like the frequency I share with those who know
something of the Great Moment we call by many names.
The Red Monk calls it zen mind, I call it the master frequency
because the Red Monk tells me that when he enters zen mind
he feels like the Master is walking in his shoes.
The Red Monk tells me now that in their nightly meetings in Tushita he has begun to receive detailed notes of the master’s journey through China and India, which he calls his rahnāmag, a pilgrim’s guide to zen. We have been thinking about publishing it here in Dysutopia and, if you are actually reading or hearing this then we have not worked in vain. He tells me stories of visiting the master in his cave in Tunhuang, in an oasis in the great northwestern desert. He thinks it happens in a kind of dream because the Master has been gone for fifteen centuries. He thinks the Master is an eternal possibility that wakes in various situations, like dreams and roadside diners, laundromats and hospitals, anywhere a mind happens to let him in. Wherever there is an open door or a crack in the wall he passes thru, like an ocean. I tell him not to worry about the metaphysics, I just want to hear about the latest part of the adventure.
Selene and Dahma were in Egypt, he says, about 430 AD. They got out of Hippo just before the Vandals seized the harbour and burned or captured all the Roman warships, for their own fleet which would become a force of desolation around the Middle Sea. Such was all the talk in Alexandria where everyone was asking if Alexandria would also fall, the Roman garrison being so small. Now they were travelling south, up the Nile road in a small camel caravan. He had acquired some delicate objects of Etruscan gold and Selena had saved a little from her casual labour as a travelling scribe, a writer of other people’s letters in formal or elegant Greek script so, richer than they looked, they chose the relative safety in numbers and travelled with others in small caravans. They were taking the slow road to their spring rendezvous with The Captain at the Red Sea port of Berenike. Winter was warm but people were tired of the dull, sometimes sandy sky. Such is the weary world until the first flowers peek from the dead gardens and the dream of spring wakes to the dawn of its reality.
In each caravanserai they would rent a humble room then he would mind their stuff while she bought food or she would stay in while he went for a bath. They would trade information in the inn or bath house where a hookah might be passed around. Dahma found the effects of cannabis comparable to the entheogen the magi imbibed, the wondrous hom. Pounded into a liquor and drunk in rituals, the first haoma plant, created by Ohrmazd, the purest form so to speak, is a shining white tree that grows on a mountain in paradise and, being also a god, gifted the world with her seeds, carried to Earth by sacred birds.
Do you like this shit? asked a dark woman with long white hair who sat in the wide circular tub, between several other bathers who were also sharing the hookah, pouring water on their heads or sitting in deep appreciation of existence itself.
It’s fine, said Dahma, but it’s not hom.
Not soma either, said the other.
I have heard the Magi use something called hom, said the elder.
I’ve heard the Hindus like something called soma, said Dahma.
The elder poured a handful of water on her head and recited the following:
We have drunk Soma and become immortal; we have attained the light, the Gods discovered.
Now what may foeman’s malice do to harm us? What, O Immortal, mortal man’s deception?
Dahma smiled and in his crooked Greek said, this sounds a little Gnostic. They claim that somewhere in their scripture Jesus says, you are all Gods if you believe that I too am God.
We all God! laughed the elder. Our hands and minds in a world, Our sentient bodies, every word we sing, speak or write, every brain and each thought that informs each language. Where does a thought come from?
Maybe it’s a kind of flatulence, said Dahma, mental indigestion. From eating uncooked lentils. Or smoking hom.
They smoke it? In a hookah?
Sometimes they drink it, sometimes they burn it in a ceremonial brazier, said Dahma, and everyone leans to breathe it in.
Haha! laughed the dark bright elder, here’s another verse from the Rigveda:
Heaven above does not equal one half of me.
Have I been drinking Soma?
In my glory I have passed beyond earth and sky.
Have I been smoking Soma?
Mom and Dad gave birth to someone like you.
From Mom that someone received the nature of Eve
as a unique unfolding articulation of That
about which nothing can be said.
From Dad they received the nature of Adam
as a similar unique unfolding emanation of That
about which nothing can be said.
When that someone dies the dance they are
into an unbounded sea of particles and waves and
a fading sequence of physical and mental intimations
about which nothing can be said.
The Red Monk appeared in the way he does, as if the Clear Light Cafe was a virtual reality show in which parts of the illusion are added or removed at the whim of its programmer. How do you do that? I asked.
We do it together, he said. I remember the first time it happened to me. I was in a deserted monastery near Ayodhya. As I meditated in the darkness I asked myself how Asanga was able to ascend to the Tusita Heaven where he encountered Maitreya and concentrated for an hour on that question until the dark room vanished and I found myself sitting in a sunlit mango grove, face to face with another monk and I bowed. He bowed back, asked my name and said he was Asanga. Where is this place? i said. How did I get here?
By slowing your attention, he said. The slow move further into solitude as they pursue not stasis but the stillness at the center of a whirling gyroscope.
The fast believe that heaven is almost full and want to get get there first.
The slow know there is no object so small but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.
They also know that the miracle happens when beauty or danger slows the mind with urgent attention to the unfolding now.
Have you noticed, I asked, whether you slow others even as they quicken you?
Like warm bodies cool in contact with cold bodies which get warmer. Yeah, sometimes I cool and normal things seem to move so fast they become a blur, a hazy atmosphere around my own body and other solid things like rocks or tree trunks with boughs in a blur of buds and leaves.
He paused and said, as I get closer to people and other changing forms they change more slowly and slowly or suddenly come into focus, as if i had just awakened in some public scene. Objects become more detailed as I slow to see them and they slow to be seen.
But even a normal person can sometimes invest such detailed attention in a second of clock time, I said. When everything seems like a scene in slow motion.
Sustained attention means more information and less blur, he said, so a mind that lingers on an object or thought or scene records so much detail per moment it feels like the load it normally takes on in an hour. And you think, after it passes, that the second of clocktime must have passed more slowly.
So this slowing and concentration of mind must have consequences.
Yes, he said. One consequence is that a patient mind receives a lot more data about the objects of its curiosity. And develops deeper knowledge of them than a swift skimmer does. Skimming to and fro in search of something that does not require patient, respectful attention.
But the full flowering occurs when the slow begin to see each other thru the blurry world of the fast, to tune in other beings who are also radiating and receiving accessible wavelengths of inner light. When that happens we naturally collaborate in the enterprise of helping ourselves and others wake from the Great Sleep.
Do you think all humans will one day wake to this freedom?
Probably not, he said but when we don’t keep focussed on that objective we fall back into complacency, followed by loss of faith and vision, the light fades and darkness rises again.
It has to do with density, he said. During an hour I may process the same amount of data, whether I dwell or skim. If I skim I know a little about many things. If I dwell I know much about one thing. Like war or gardening or my mind.
To attain knowledge of my own nature I reserve some attention to an ongoing observation of my own mind. Which leads me to observe the mind of humans in general. A mind of many gods, some at war with others, some at peace, working together or alone in observation of our personal and collective journey to desolation or biospheric life.
March 26 for more precision
tho neither the mountain nor i are
precisely anywhen but forever now
even when my dust is finding work
in grasses, the silky sails of dandelions or
the milkweeds of my small Ontario towns and
in clots of snow that litter the flat lawns
of yesteryear from which green stems begin
to appear by warmer lanes farther down
this cold morning hill from which an
approximate I eyes the still snowy crown
of my morning mountain over there
beyond the river and the town.
One soft, Mediterranean morning the custodians of the new Museaum discovered that someone had nailed a tractatus to the front door, a large sheet of sail cloth blotted with blood red letters that warned of the inferno which awaits the unsaved in this life as well as the next.
They soon learned that these messages were currently being posted at the synagogues and halls of Gnostics and Manichaeans and the persons posting them were members of Cyril’s private army of six hundred parabalani, which was accused of involvement in the hideous murder of Hypatia little more than a decade before.
The Platonists conferred and decided to find a middleman who could appeal to Cyril to protect them as friends of the Church who prefer to worship the One in a different way. Someone suggested an emissary would be good, a Platonist Christian perhaps, like Augustine. Could Augustine be the middleman? Then they realized that another middleman would be needed between themselves and Augustine and someone remembered that an older monk he knew told him he had once corresponded with Augustine about theology. The Platonists met with the monk, one Pelagius of Celtic ancestry, in his seventies and portly but lean and robust of mind. Augustine and I disagreed, he said.
Over a theological question? asked Proclus.
About grace, he said, the sense of strength, forgiveness and love.
Augustine said that the experience of grace can only come from God.
I said that this view promoted laxity of spiritual practice and a false sense of virtue. People will say, I need money, I guess I could work but I think I will just steal cattle and ask God to forgive me.
In Platonism, said Proclus, we believe that the cosmos is held together by pistis, our faith in the One and Its faith in us. The faith that makes all good things work in harmony in spite of the sheer persistence of social decadence and decline.
So, Pelagius said, you share in God’s power or grace by seeking constant communion with Him, as some Christians do. Augustine said that we cannot rely only on prayer, good words and actions because we are too impure to manifest grace unless he agrees to supply it.
So, I said, when I feel an abundance of life and illumination you would say this is the power of my will to freely release these innate God-given powers. But Augustine in your understanding would say this event could only be a present intervention by a passing angel, conferring a power that only an angel can supply.
The goddess of Grace, said Seleni, who illuminates the dark moments of each shining hour.
The men looked at her with lifted brows.
You probably know her by different names, she said.
Christ’s Comforter, said Pelagius. The Holy Spirit.
The energy of shared pistis/belief, said Proclus
That wakes us from our sad dreams, said Seleni.
That makes us jump for joy, laughed Pelagius.
The Voyage To Hippo
It was wonderful to be on the sea again, away from the dark brilliance of Alexandria with nothing below but blue water, nothing above but blue sky pierced by an orange sun thru a cloud of dust that rose from the land to the east. An omen? We followed a well mapped periplum from Alexandria then west along the coast of Egypt to the coast of Proconsular Roman Africa. The grain basket of the Western Empire it unfolded a great and ancient oak forest that carpeted the land between its hamlets and its farms.
After five days sailing we put in at the port of Thunis to buy fresh vegetables, water and wine. It had all the colours of a prosperous market town but there was a shadow in the air. Few yachts were sailing eastward now but many were arriving, fleeing the 80,000 Vandals who were only a days march east of our company’s intended destination Hippo. Led by their general Gaiseric they had crossed the straight of Gibraltar, with a flotilla of some sort and proceeded to pillage their way across the northern coast of Africa, first to sack Carthage and now approaching Hippo.
The eight of us (Seleni, Proclus, Pelagius, four Berber crew and I) sat down over an amphora of Greek wine to consider whether we would keep on or not. By the time the keg was empty Keep On had won. Where, I wonder, did that faith and power come from―God or the wine?
Two nights later, soon after dawn we approached the harbour of Hippo Regius and saw it lined on either side by a row of military vessels. We sailed up to a floating barrier of massive logs, part of which I saw was a wide, iron-plated gate. A pier projected on either side but a man in uniform raised a spear and waved us to moor on his side. A half hour later we were riding on rented camels up a dusty, winding road to a man in a high castle of brilliantly weird theology.
We were greeted at the door of the monastery by A monk who led us into the dimness of an empty hall, past a small shrine beneath a dark, emaciated African Jesus nailed to a cross, thence to a dim study where Augustine sat in his bed, eyes closed. The monk touched his shoulder and the old man woke. The monk explained who we were and the old man looked at us and nodded then waved us over. We introduced ourselves and the monk brought chairs. Then the monk whose name was Leonas brought bread, dates and water and the five of us enjoyed a conversation.
Looking at Pelagius the old man said: I denounced you at the Council of Carthage, affirming several doctrines you denied.
First Doctrine: Death comes from sin, not man’s physical nature.
Pelagius: Simply wrong. Every body is naturally mortal.
Second: Infants must be baptized to be cleansed from original sin.
Pelagius: Simply washed to cleanse of waste birthing products. But could mean symbolically shielding the newborn from toxic substances or malign social influences.
Third: Justifying grace covers past sins and helps avoid future sins.
Pelagius: There is also the natural grace of awakened compassion that comes of seeing that all are flawed in some ways, large or small. But this grace is the natural unfolding of a seed enfolded in each new child’s nature until it is waked by the light of understanding.
You failed to see, Pelagius, what I and the other bishops clearly saw―that if godly grace is something that any human soul can produce then the question many will ask is, what do we need God for?
Pelagius: We needed God to make each of our ancestors–and therefore each of us―a mortal being capable of grace.
Yes, said Seleni, but that doesn’t mean we are just roiling in sin until he decides to intervene and enable us to produce a kind thought, word or deed. Maybe He created us then buggered off or died. Do we still need God?
I needed Him, said Augustine. I needed to feel that he forgave me the great sin I could confess to no mortal ears. I needed to confess lesser sins and share my meditations on His glory with other members of His Church. I needed the Church and if people decided they no longer needed God the Church would die. A church without a god is nothing but an empty stack of boards or stones.
But I have heard there is a church without a god, I said, somewhere east of Samarkand.
Ah, yes, said Augustine, the congregation of Mani who proclaims himself the apostle of Jesus and the avatar of Buddha, Krishna and Zoroaster, a chameleon god who assumed the local myths of prospective converts. The original religions rightly said this Manichaeism is simply obscuring the real differences between them. When I scrutinized those differences I finally came to see that there is only one way for me.
The Way of Jesus, whispered Pelagius, but there are differing views of that. I started the whole dispute back when I first criticized your idea that we lack the freedom and power to choose and do good out of our own God-created better natures.
Yes, said Augustine. I said that only the grace of Christ imparts the will to choose and the power to preach and perform God’s commandments.
And there was one more thing, said Pelagius.
Yes, said the dying sage, I declared that children dying without baptism are excluded from both the kingdom of heaven and eternal life.
Another thing we need a church and preachers for, said Seleni, to ensure that children are not damned thru no fault of their own.
I saw Jesus as one who embodies spiritual perfection, Augustine said, being a third of the One which Plato saw as a soul with nous/intellect, thymos/anger and Eros/bodily desires. But Jesus offered a direct path to heaven plus a perfect body or your old, godless misery back. I was tired of Platonism’s intellectual complexity. Would it be better to live a life of belief, I wondered, but few believe without evidence, so need miracles which are simply events for which we have no scientific explanation. Finally I decided that the gospel was good for people whether if was scientifically valid or not. And I developed this conviction as I preached it. Jesus is after all the Word, with all possible meanings of that assertion.
By recognizing that, he said, I saw and preached that he embodied all true prayers, sutras and other sacred arts. As such he has dipped in and out of incarnation since Adam. Being the word that links separate bodies into one being with one voice. The Devil also never forgets the power of the word, even as he profanes it with his lies and uses its heat to burn his enemies, of which he most hates those who use its sunlike power to illuminate his darkness.
So he rambled on, old Augustine. They will soon forget me, he said, but maybe they will remember my argument.
Which is? My silent face implied.
That God from the beginning was the Word, that became flesh and dwelt among us.
Why? I asked.
Overcome, said Augustine, with love and heartbreak.
The Spirit, being everywhere, never felt separate from any form of life and felt herself to suffer with each of her children.
The Father suffered from hearing the cries of the damned in the hells he had created to curb the excessive violence and psychopathy that inevitably result in biological systems, the only alternative being a world of will-less golems. He suffered without end the great irony that humans now chose in their millions to embody will-less surrender of their innate powers–to be slaves to time and fear.
The Logos (the Word made flesh) comes to give each hearer a second chance to live eternally in perfect submission to no one but God who only asks for the voluntary support of His elect and their physical means for the broadest possible work of spreading the good news about the direct path to salvation thru Christ.
Beautiful, said Seleni: first you give them the poison then you offer them the antidote―for a small price.
Before we left next morning Augustine sat up in his bed and asked Pelagius to hear his final confession. We’ll wait outside, I said.
No, he said. You may as well hear it all.
Being at Heaven’s Door i will soon come to my reward for both my good words and my lies.
Like all other humans I was born utterly wicked, accentuated by the occasional moment of grief for my pitiful existence.
I lived the last half of my life in sorrow for having abandoned the mother of my child because I could no longer endure my self contempt for a philosopher who loves a woman, knowing that the great Plato himself had consigned them to a spiritual status lower than that of men. Problem was I never dreamed of making love to anything but a lovely maid. But I knew that my Platonist friends and mentors mostly loved boys more than girls―or pretended to love them to enhance their social-economic trajectories. Most of them like dogs learning to fly by letting themselves be goosed.
But we are innately the devil’s meat, He owns us body and soul.
He binds us with our sense of being unworthy, crooked, low, unclean, convicted of the crime of being born into the skin of another son of Adam, the sinful son of a sinful man. He binds me still.
It’s not too late, said Pelagius, to accept that you were born as innocent and free as Adam because the Lord paid for his sin and stands ready to forgive what are yours alone, if you ask him.
You always were persuasive, Augustine said, a preacher of infinite argument and unflagging devotion to truth―as you see it. But the net result of your theology would be a disaster for the Church.
If a man feels no shame but thinks he can stand on the same plane as any other sentient being, including a god then why would he go to church?
To be present disguised as an ordinary man? I said. Gods too must have their small amusements. To support the church for the benefit of those who have not yet remembered what we ultimately are.
Augustine was silent then, simply staring into a familiar darkness, a ghost who still grieves the loss of his flesh. When he looked at me I flinched at the presence of a wisdom won through loss, a wisdom inseparable from the unforgivable folly of his darkness.
He saw now what was written across that darkness before it became words and then he said, I betrayed you, Pelagius.
to prove that I cannot not sin.
Then, said Pelagius, your god made you that way―so the sin is not yours but his.
That is the glorious truth of it, said Augustine, I have been simply the instrument of a false god, a product of my own guilt and defective logic.
I have run out of time, he said. Tho I do not believe that time exists beyond the present traces of the present’s former states.
That’s time past, Said Pelagius, what about time future? The barbarians are literally at the gates. You can come with us to Alexandria. With a fair wind we will be well away before they get here.
These Vandals are looking to build an empire, he said. That means an end to sacking and pillaging and keeping public order. They, like all the empires before them will find the church very helpful in keeping the masses distracted from earthly concerns, like grinding labour for too small a share of its profit. Perhaps I will have an opportunity to speak with him before I die. Anyway my attendants will take me to a secret place of refuge if need be.
The monk then brought a small table that he placed on the bed above the bedclothes, a surface fitted with a recessed inkwell, pen and paper. Augustine lifted the pen and said, Pelagius, you and I will now write a letter to Cyril , advising him of my great respect for Plato’s philosophers in the hope that some of them will find their way from Plato to Christ, as I myself once did.
Later we learned that Augustine died soon after our visit. Gaiseric’s vandals sacked Hippo but left the monastery untouched because, as Augustine saw, he decided that he could utilize the pacifying function of the Roman church.
The future never arrives but present changes and choices mean that the present is changing in a certain direction, becoming more like a place of peace or war, well-being or sickness. Some consequences are very improbable, others are virtually certain. If you don’t wear a hat in the rain your head will get wet. If we fill the sea with plastic our nets will fill with nothing but dead fish. So a well informed picture of possible futures is a guide to the direction of change and tells us how our actions may steer it so that the present changes in a direction that reduces our personal or collective suffering.
The past exists only now as traces and imprints of earlier forms in shapes and structures of the present. Based on those imprints we form mental images of things that leave their traces here as they dissolve and feed the ground of energy and atoms.
From those traces in external things and our personal memories we imagine something called time as a continuum between all past, present and future things. Between what no longer exists, what now exists and what does not yet exist, between decaying or growing actualities of now and the immediate possible changes that are condensing from them.
The flow of changing forms always moves from cause to effect, seemingly along’ a fourth dimension of form which intellect abstracts from neural memory which is deposited in chronological order. Likewise the memory of earth and space, of geology, archeology, and biological evolution is deposited in chronological order which can be read by assembling artifacts or fossils into meaningful sequences and radio-carbon dating. The memories of brains and space generate histories which describe events in chronicles.
The development of writing naturally led to thinking of time as a book in which the present is the current page but this led to the fantasy that the past still exists as the previous pages and the future already exists as the pages not yet read.
The present is also like one frame of a movie but differs from film in a few ways: it is not a two-dimensional image but a three-dimensional moment and is not motionless like a film frame but may appear that way to a brain that cannot detect the motion that occurs in each millisecond. But the core difference between reality and film is that this moment is not preceded or followed by other moments all simultaneously existing on celluloid or a digital recording medium. Rather each part of reality is an array of three-dimensional things that are constantly, dramatically or imperceptibly changing.
Having abstracted the axis or dimension of time from the order of memory it’s natural for mind to imagine that time exists and extends beyond the changing now but I think it does not. This is why I avoid movies about time travel. They annoy me because they assume that the past still exists and the future already exists, further up or down that non-existent book or strip of film called time.
So nothing moves from the changing present into the nonexistent future and nothing fades from the eternally changing present into the past which no longer exists tho it can be partially read from present memories and its enduring effects in present things.
The only real moment is what is unfolding now. It has been unfolding since the beginning of all things and it will continue to unfold until all things end but at no point in its unfolding does it become a past moment tho it makes memories as it goes.
Likewise it does not at any point become an actual future moment, tho clocks and calendars change, but is always the unfolding now. As it unfolds the present array of possible future nows changes because each event and choice conditions what choices and changes can still occur. If Nestle drains your water table you will have to buy your water back or stop their pumps. If all the lions starve, your unfolding now will never include the splendour of a living lion.
So what good comes of seeing there’s no time but the present?
It’s good and needful sometimes to engage in fantasy so long as we don’t lose sight of the difference between imagination and reality. Imagination makes it possible to imagine future possible nows that are likely to result from the current choices we are making and so make better ones. But only acute attentiveness to the unfolding now enables us to see and enact large or small, incremental choices as they arise.
Discarding the consensus that the past is unchangeable allows it to dissolve, tho some of its traces in the present persist for good or ill. But we need not be its prisoners forever.
Discarding the notion that the future is predetermined by God, Fate or the unchangeable past frees us to choose different possible future states of this unfolding now.
Fully appreciating the real present we find ourselves in a garden of plant and animal souls, a garden everywhere despoiled, by the fear and greed of corporate kings and the clockwork soldiers of time.
Imagine the world on which snow now falls
in fat fluffy flakes
limning everything near enough to be visible
thru the snow fog
with thick soft snow.
Imagine that invisible beneath the snow
a planetary grid divides the surface of our Earth
into innumerable geometric tiles
like the pentagons that cover a soccer ball.
Imagine that you are standing on
such a pentagonal tile
just large enough to give you
Imagine that each of its five sides is bounded
by five other tiles some occupied, some empty.
Now you must choose
to stay where you are or move
into an adjacent tile surrounded
by another set of choices.
Imagine there are consequences
for each move makes you richer or poorer
stronger or weaker
more lonely or more loved
lighter or heavier of heart
more or less alive.
Imagine that each move you make
also affects other beings including humans—
a soft word taketh away wrath
a hard word hardens it
carefully listening enlivens the speaker
half listening turns him away.
Imagine that every human on this global chessboard
is also making small but consequential moves—
eating a plate of cow meat or tofu
turning a key that fills the sky with carbon dioxide
or drains the electric grid that dams wild rivers
kneeling to pray to a cosmic tyrant
or voting for a populist thug or
moving two fingers across a board tiled with 26 keys
knowing that if enough of us deliver
words of truth
to minds that can still hear it
this empire of lies will vanish
like February snow.