Blindfold [poem]
Why can’t all things in heaven and on earth
be simple lucid and revealed (such as what
developed long before my birth and what will
someday soon transpire after I fall in a heap)?
How come so many mysterious things insist
on being concealed? I swear I won’t misuse
them or take advantage of the knowledge
sell them or abuse them. I promise from the
bottom of my beating heart that I will bring
there no dark thing where evil can result or
use the data to exploit the black side of occult
or ill-thought schemes or wizardry deceptive
or confounding so that others would be badly
influenced by me — becoming no more free.
Why should there be so much more that I
don’t know than I do? Why is there a space
between this magic flesh of mine and y o u?
(By “y o u” I mean all points of consciousness
outside of little me [who must feel similarly]
which on this earth do walk and talk and movely
play as restless probing ignoramus castaways).
Making love is the closest that two fleshes
(literally) can come to being as one but that is
never close enough. I know that so much further
into every atom neuron particle’s being I could be
and swimming in the drownly void between their
maze of molecules my infinite creation’s crown
will wash the mystery from my puzzled frown.
With one small flick of your fingerthumb divine
you could show me all there is I want to know.
But you choose to keep me here in blindly and
unfindly darkness so that all my life is but a quiz
in a fallen world where people fight for all the
stuff they numbly dumbly think is hers or his.
I never get the answers that I need to keep me
sane and in the sun. Why must I wear a blindfold
which enshrouds not just my insight or my eyes
but which is tied so tightly that my spreading
wings can hardly fly? Already there is so much
I can see quite naturally beyond and au-delà the
confines of my mere humanity. But I can never
rest or find my sanity until I have obtained the
sole aim of my thrusting, lusting, bullshit-busting
crystal sea: The so far all-elusive master-key.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 