Thursday, December 05, 2013

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?

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

If I ask you
whether you are conscious
and you say ‘yes’, but
the caged lion in the local zoo
cannot: is he
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
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?

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
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
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

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.

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