Whispers

Where do the others live, the ones who sent us here? The ones who exiled us to the earth?

The whispers-- I often see their reflections on walls

the swirls of paint
the patterns of cloth
the random clouds
and the fallen leaves
they float just out of sight
they ride the dust on sunbeams
they hide behind mirrors
and they watch us

I never try to speak to them. They watch but stay forever distant. They hover at the edges of my vision.

disembodied
silent
unreachable
unfeeling

If I spoke to them and if they answered me, I would not understand them, would not hear them. It must be part of the exile. But I don't know.

I am a clock face with numbers in random order. A fragmented rainbow in an oily puddle. I am a hand puppet
do not remove the puppet
you would not wish to see the hand that animates it

I am Gilgamesh. I am the thousand-year-old child. I am one person. I am a chorus of a thousand souls. I am the wandering exile. The imprisoned exile. I am nobody. I am female I am male I am nothing I am alien. There is no fixed definition of what I am. The alienation is too profound. The dissociation is incurable.

Fragments of song lyrics become trapped in my head. Shards of poetry and insight echo in my mind. I try to grasp their meanings before they drift away. Songs hold answers. Amidst a little static, the sounds of alien choirs float on the ether. Only a few finely tuned poets and musicians receive them. The clues to meaning are in the fragments. Don't let the tune get lost. Don't forget the whispers or the fragments.

Musicians jam with electric guitars and drugged poets write rock songs and all their fragments must mean something. Or nothing.

Whispers from and about nothing. Accidental meanings that clear up all mysteries and create no new ones. Artists create symbols to represent what they see on other planes. They don't know where their symbols originate but the exiles know. Exiles recognize them and quiver. Then, suddenly they cry. And they cannot explain why they cry or express what they know.

Nobody knows all the levels of meaning. Joni Mitchell sings we are stardust...we have to get back to the garden... An exile hears her song and begins to cry softly.

is the way to understanding
found in the secret places
poured from a chalice
painted on a talisman
embodied in crystals
invoked by chants
or a totem
or a rune
a charm
stone
jewel
icon
is it found in sacred places?

Look carefully into the jewel.
It contains other worlds, other realities.
Is the answer alive?
Does it seek me as I seek it?
Would I recognize it?
Do rituals unveil it?
Do books describe it?

The Prophets knew all the secrets.
They spoke truth in symbols
put it behind veils
embellished it with ineffable beauty

I'm terribly alone. And I wait and wait and wait. Why do they watch me? Nobody is coming to take me home. Nobody cares.

They are never coming back.