When I was born in the 1950's
american culture was embracing right angles
poetry was beat
architecture modern in juxtaposed quadrangles
every size and proportion of blocks
built geometric puzzles and art
explained itself in grids of
white and black, or color.
Everything could be broken down
to golden rectangles in the end.
But that logic escaped us
as we discovered that smaller then tinier
and deeper and grander
and even more expansive
elements of the universe were
swirling into fractals of
spirals and coils and curves.
We can no longer compartmentalize our lives
As all the world magnifies now.
Every little thing intersects, overlaps, and calls to
every other thing we experience,
hear, see, know.
We are swept up in a whirl of voices
hearing our friends, family, celebrities, dissidents.
Their siren song wafting up from glowing screens
and filling our daydreams with a cacophony of
opinions on every stylistic and political nuance of our lives.
The divisions are gone.
The barriers, the boundaries, the safety zones.
All day long their mash-up of thoughts and feelings
elicit a visceral urge to flee to the shore,
the mountains, the jungle... and experience
what is raw and un-opinionated:
Come fly with me up into this
whirl a fight to swirl myself into
all of it and retain my uniqueness
in spite of all of it.
I now seek and sing my soul's song
hear myself and my experience
in my own head
just one decibel above the cry of public
and formerly private outcries.
Be the little burl in the massive maple with me
Live in the conch's swirled home
Circle the whorl of a baby's cowlick
and the rose.
We are spiraling out of control into the universe
of both the tiny and expansive with
a sweep of the arm with the paintbrush
with everything rotating on its axis
everything spinning away
and coming back.
Curling ocean waves ripple from
another continent wash ashore
and pull way back again leaving a trickle
in the fractals of sand sliding under my toes
calling the salty blood in the
tiniest capillary of my little toe
to speak with the microbe
in the tiniest tide pool
across the barriers
of skin and seawater.
Maintaining this dialogue that
ever expands and contracts
(like our pupil contracting to focus on the stars
and relaxing to see cellular floaters within its orb)
tires us but drives us on
with the fantasy that
if we could only trace the perfect spiral
walk nature's precise labyrinth
and speak the absolute truth
we'd be free.