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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v246) (the November / December 2013 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

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Urban Om

Wes Heine

The motor in my fridge starts again,
and rattles the bottles like bells.
The sink drips a drum basin of oblivion,
and the couple below me fight on a muffled stage,
reminding me that it’s good to be alone.
The rest of the sounds are my own:
a mumble, a laugh, faces in the mirror, the guitar, farts, creaking chair.
Everything except the occasional siren of the city outside,
someone having awful adventure.

Life is happening outside, the neon oil pane,
and this time it’s not mine.
I have the pleasure to watch, which is the greatest pleasure of all.
The voyeur, like God must have graduated from time and trial long ago
to rest a belly full of galaxies, nebulae smoke-rings birthing stars,
and I howl such loneliness,
out loud and long,
but the echo back makes me laugh.

Then the sun returns, as brass smiles ooze molten honey,
and start again the butter churning women, gooey with love,
the white noise of traffic.
We’re all off to labor, whipping ourselves to sleep.
We tow the line of time,
knowing that somewhere in the back of our minds,
it’s building something.
Somewhere we’ve been, somewhere we’re remembering,
but don’t want it given away just yet.

A veil hints the blushing Goddess of ever pulsing love.
She is everything, but more modest that any one of us.
Somewhere deep down in our genes and dreams,
you and me and this tree and the cigarettes burning away in the sky
are no different.
All but cogs spinning in the same puny clock
In circles, arms interlocked to bigger jokes and gestures,
that are no less important.
A jest with purpose.
Friction that burns and warms, as we tow the line of time,
until time itself is revealed as a prank,
and eternity rewinds past forward,
family trees and food chains pull the reins out from under the four-horsemen,
and the web of life implodes, like the big bang remembering,
and every atom splits,
and the gates acquit,
and Ganesh forgets,
and there is no death,
but life is not what it is now,
no now.

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