On the beach from here to eternity,
Burt and Deborah embrace
in that onrushing tide –
from the viewpoint of the Mystery
there really is no mystery, only What Is,
forever washing over the sands of itself,
engulfing faux-lovers in the silvery liquidity
of an eternal cinematic embrace.
We love to speak in similes and metaphors –
each creature possesses a magic language
that summons form from emptiness
and makes things seem to be
what they are really not.
telling ourselves a story,
technicolor or black and white.
From moment to moment,
the person we speak to no longer exists.
Except for a play of imagination,
it seems that they actually never did,
yet when love makes love to itself
on the beach, the tides respond
in that sing-song mantra:
When we finally lose our heads
to these lyrics, we’ll be done
with all narrative lies,
Then we can start whole.
The mind is not configured
to comprehend itself –
it’s what passes through eternity
like a meandering gypsy caravan;
and you, that smiling soul-eyed girl,
laughing and singing from a wagon
even as the calligraphic credits roll —
“None of this, Sabu!”
I see you now as I saw you then,
only the costumes have really changed.
We’ve wandered through cities, climbed mountains,
crossed rivers and seas, always to return again,
to meet again, to love again.
In this virtual reality, with all its plentiful props
and synchronistic story lines, one may find
our tombstone epitaph, playfully carved
in the shifting sands of another shore
for all the fictional characters to see:
“Isn’t it just so, my Love,
Isn’t it just so!”