Contemplating these rocks. . . these ancient boulders
those millions of years. . . those multi-layered strata of time.
I notice, as magasphere. . . tumbles down onto mini-island . . .
and many islands . . . as Magaspection crumbles. . . to minispection:
here. . . now, in my own space. . . my own time. . . me her now in
Time. . . whatever that is. . . as this civilized mind time-travels . . .
there he is on an island . . . methinks it is on Malta faraway, far back
in Time. . . whatever time is. . . on some Mediterranean shore
shaking off snakes. . . Paul of Tarsus. No. . . wait. . . not that Paul.
Methinks its the only-living-boy-in-New York-Paul. . . when the
New York Times said: God is dead. . . but (but it was only for
a couple of days, y’all) . . . anyway I was thinking of that other Paul:
“a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries” Paul (I remember, as
I sit in the water of this island). . . but the island speaks its mind
in sounds of silence. . . and the lapping of the cosmos . . .
on the shores of Time. . . these shores of rocks broken and cast down
from the peaks of planetary history. . . the heights of planetary
accumulation tumbling to the waters below. . . as rocks tumbled
down long ago onto this shore, long ago. . . and yet still . . .
they tumble down to. . . where ocean defeats rock . . .in the
Sands of Time: rock, rock and more rock. . . long before Bo and
Chuck and Buddy and Elvis rocked around the clock.
Clock? Oh what’s a clock? a clock, by any other name,
or any orb by another name, would tick as neat-ly . . .
would click and trickle time, as forlornly as a weeping planet
falling apart in Eternity. . . whatever that is. . . Selah.
