Table of |
throwing a stone at the moons of theology
The true god looks (without eyes),
smiles (without lips),
thinks (without a skull)
of each false god fluttering
like a shadow on a wall
in the flame-lit cackling cave
far from a burning stone
in a spreading black space
(if he had an inside) him.
Or she, or it, or they.
The noun for god is wrong
and the best we can do.
The pronoun? Ha.
The cold, reflective rocks,
scarred by collision, wander
in shapes around an idea,
an equation, the truth
in the pure way that truth has
when nothing's there to witness.
The moon, polished and thinned by pattern, is high
in a clear sky, is bathed by light, and intends
nothing, is portent to no great event, at least this night.
What in the world holds meaning, and what we
pour meaning into, like beer into a glass, can't
really be told apart, at least with certainty.
Like that would stop us, right.
Meaning this late is something for tomorrow,
which maybe is all meaning is, but
somehow all of that in one direction, out,
like water from a well to the deep dark sky
seems strange. All is reflection and tug
from something else -- ask the moon,
which won't answer -- and the answer
to nothing... and something is missing
that we tongue and worry like a lost tooth.
But something is hidden, shadowed, some part
of a part of the larger whole of the truth, something
shaped like the edge of what is missing in us.
We call it names and sing to it, and hope
that what's there is the lobe of an ear
to catch our praise and tell us we mean,
something to outlast a night's reflected light.
touching the world
God is the keel of the mind
cutting through seas, with an edge
binding the boat and the wave.
Sailors look up at the sky,
stare at the blades of the foam,
certain that something is there
touching them, touching the world.
©Bob Heman: Cupcakes Approaching the Source (2017)