The Thinking Bird Gets Stuck

The Thinking Bird Gets Stuck

I do not exist
but this experience is still happening

movement
is the only thing, waves in the liquid
black liquid ripples stars into spirals, dust collects into globes
of pulsing mineral
the spinning causes off-gassing, striation, upheaval, over slow
eons an illusion of homeostasis
clear liquid ripples cells together, the moon a magnet kissing
salty water
red liquid flows from the ocean floor, through the trees,
through mouths and pens and parchment
and into you,
this experience of it all having happened

movement
bouncing light particles sculpt terrain
rainbow flavors carve phenomena out of optic nerves
waves in guts and bones make tiny creatures within the superstructure dance
the dance keeps electromagnetic pulses flowing into organs
keeps growing
the body is entropy
spreading out over thousands of miles and years, to die
leaving a blood trail, skin trail, tear snot spit cum trail

repetition
the first formless sounds crack ridges in squishy brains
the waves make the triumphant membrane move, the neurons
move, the tongue twists and dances into shapes
sounds bleed out through fingers into symbols
symbols bleed into sets and systems and syncretic simultaneity
the patterns that emerge are self perpetuating
thought is a virus
we cannot find the origin of these waves,
so we name the nameless center (which is absent from the
whole) and plot points, derive equations
the constructed center looks and talks as we do, because the
only origin we can pinpoint
is the one nestled within the squishy brains
but we know that something came from the outside, through
all the sensory experiences emanate outward, making it feel
like the opposite is true
we know there is an outside
but where?

repetition
tracing the line, men act as though everything is a test
men act as though the truth is complex
when it is self evident to the worms and the crows and the
moss
men arrange patterns, the rest of us try to codebreak
we know the patterns are flawed, the products of men’s minds
but hidden in the complex test is a list of obvious answers
“this is not as it appears” and “try your best to nurture growth”
and “you are not one” and “everything is a contradiction,
absolved by its continued existence and our ability to perceive
it”

the orchid grows to look like the wasp and the wasp grows to
look like the orchid
the wasp will fuck the orchid for ten thousand years
and yet men dream that all of this comes out of their squishy
brains
they see the pattern in you and think that they created you
they can’t understand that you, the other, are the one creating
them,
all the others are creating them, constantly.

maybe consciousness is a substance
we absorb through our digestive tracts
or perhaps it is airborne, ambient
shining in through the skin
perhaps diffused inside the minerals of the planet
concentrated in the liver
or, most likely, it is a wave that moves through us.

i do not exist, but i wish i could let the pattern go
but when a hand touches a hand
five points of energy to five contact points
when faces and turns of phrase and ideas
reveal themselves the same everywhere, everytime
when secret words from childhood spring up from the lips of
a strange mouth
when numbers add up
when mass culture shifts globally to accommodate a precise
line of flight
without anyone ever asking

it is hard to unsee the stitchlines on the firmament
it is hard not to see the stars in your own mouth

the only pattern exists in you
you read this
and in doing so
make this
you make me
by reading me
conjuring me out of the silent liquid
into divine sound and shape
thank you!
***