More III: Prime greed

Poetry, Dec '13
By owais

The more I know,

the more I don’t know.

When did it begin

– whatever exists –

and if it did begin?

What is time

if it is?

And where?

Is there

a where?

What is it?

Whatever does not exist

does it actually

not exist?

And if in imagination, only,

why in imagination? Only?

And whatever does exist

but not in imagination,

why not in imagination?

Can it

or can it not?

How far does it exist?

In what other unseen

and unknown

and unknowable

dimensions does it exist?

How can I know if it does

or doesn’t exist

beyond knowable?

How close does it exist?

For all elementaries

there are yet elementaries:

what are the ‘elementest’

of elementaries?

Are those particles

or waves?

Or fields?

Or else?

How small does it get?

How large does it get?

Is time a reality?

What else, is a reality?

What is consciousness?

Am I alone conscious?

How do I know? 

Who, or

what else is?

Others

speak to me,

and make love to me,

or to my body,

or perhaps,

just have sex;

yet others

can kill me: 

yes, perhaps, they too

are conscious – but when

and why did that begin? 

For each?

Is it because we are each

self-contained, mobile and dynamic systems

with our own inputs and outputs

and memories and operating systems?

Is it all a mere illusion, because I

and you

and they

can move and get fucked –

that we think we

exist?

If I ask you

whether you are conscious

and you say ‘yes’, but

the caged lion in the local zoo

cannot: is he

conscious?

Is a honey bee conscious:

her sting is an evidence of whose consciousness –

mine or hers?

Or both ours?

Is a bed-bug conscious?

Is an amoeba conscious?

Is the young and fresh

jack-fruit tree that I planted in my garden

conscious?

Is the bee-hive conscious:

they sure, parts of the hive

come at me, as one –

and migrate as one;

often, live, and die

as one:

how could the hive

not be conscious?

What of the city I live in,

or the Earth-bound humans?

Mammalia?

Orchidaceae?

What of my heart muscles?

They do talk to each-other,

and to my lung tissues;

and work, as one, without any intention

or currently, effort

on my part: if they are not conscious

why do they cooperate and live

and make functional, a city

I call me?

Is consciousness

only that, which I

live?

Or only that, which

I directly sense?

As in, those that I fuck.

Or only that, which communicates

verbally with me?

Gesturally, as does my dog?

Or only that, which exists

at the same level of consciousness

that I do?

Could not Earth be conscious?

The little rock that I just kicked

and will never give a name to?

What of the Milky Way?

Of all that I do

what is right, and good?

Is there

a right, or good?

Of what I know

or believe, what

is true, what false?

Can there be some

that is neither?

Can I even know?

Is the colour red

real? Evidently, not.

For my dog sees it not.

Is ultra-violet a colour?

For an eagle?

For me?

Does existence exist

only as relative

to entities? To entities

conscious? Or otherwise?

If perception

with the senses

five, and extensions

makes real;

and conception, knowable,

what of that

which cannot be sensed,

or ‘intellected’?

Or do I call, all this

God,

and be done with it?

Why can I no more

do that?

And why is it

that I no more can

be normally greedy, and run after

more power

more fame

more money?

Why must I

go for the Prime?

Why must I

know?

And yet . . .

Why is it

that the more I know

the more

I don’t know?

owais calls himself the ‘sucker for love’ – for knowingly, he not only trusts, but lives on that rainbow which does not actually exist.