God Talks: Overdose at 2 A.M.

Float a moment. Let all go. Let all sink.
There are screams going down, down,
aging, dead. Detach your head then get
inside it. Sit quiet. Sit so still it scares
you how fast the continent can drift.
Fact is this: We. We are here. Put your
ear to the ground to hear in your head
what’s coming close, ears to hear
the word you feel, whatever it was,
which meant (in a sense) catastrophe.
Put your ears to your tongue (it is tied
to your throat) and hear what’s being
said beneath our breath. Else drift
and listen, tooth to tongue, bit by bit.
Remind me the sun won’t wait.

Your mind, I mean: you can’t believe
it’s all in there; everything you need,
your head. I thought you’d be ready,
set for the dive off the end of the board,
the scattering of all your borrowed
particles back to quantum multiplicity,
the soup, simultaneous salty/sweet, hot,
cold, the deep, the dust. Yes, it’s a slash,
a crackle, but a blossoming. You wouldn’t
believe how good it feels to cease being
that “I,” the one you have dragged
everywhere for fear of not existing.

Step over the edge, loving Cain, loving
Abel, loving the un-being of all you can’t
imagine yet, through the beat of wind
that never seems to have begun until
you wake or half-wake wondering what
it means, that “long ago,” that “never”
as you listen your way into the silence.