Everything is Everything



I wish to cry a truth from every mountain top,

Be free, be free, be free at last from its demands.



But no. Thinking it will be enough to go out merely belting from the top



of my lungs that

"EVERYTHING IS EVERYTHIN"

Is foolish drooling, sooner cooling than fueling mutual vision.

And so, these words.



Though I may look at this flower for its own solitary qualities,

The potent latent fragrance that it sends,

The failing health and ailments that it mends,

And how it bows and cowers in the winds,

All reflect the self-same beauty and the power of every flower,



proclaiming yet again that everything is everything.

'Cause if everything is everything, then each and every next thing is also everything.

This truth must be vindicated for me to reach the valley of contentment.

Oh, for the peace of knowing that "What is just is. What is just is."*



I've no choice

but to voice

without poise

but with noise

that EVERYTHING IS EVERYTHING.

Like some vigilante banshee man who can't just rant his slanted rant but pants and pants a rancid chant of rampant slander!

Take a breath, but do not run.

I will speak 'til I am done,

And my words are lost to none.



A brother killed because he stands out,

Kept poppin' pills until he blacked out,

But all his thrills were just his last shout

Over the hilss to those on that rout,

To give'em chills and even cast doubt

In their minds, so that rhymes about crimes give'em time

To define the breath of death

That their brother left for them.



My bed sheets, of a green that may seem not to mean anything,

Are not clean, or obscene, nor, I deem, do they cling, neither sting;

They but lean, and thus seen do they mean everything!



For one soul I express all my love.

My dearest darling, you float far above

All the things of this world.

In fact, you are just like a pearl!

Then your love is all love - is this pearl - is the world...



I didn't cut my fingernails today... I even brought my fancy scissors home from work, and somehow now find no (or little) embarrassment admitting that I never use clippers - I guess 'cause it expresses my personality: ethical but practicle; slightly prim, but also slightly raw - kind of like the universe...



Morbid cataract clings renitent,

As Superficial acquiessence claims the insubstancial soul

Of a decrepit penitent;

A sordid reminder of the subjugating influence

Of a noncommittal attitude toward virtue

- Or even freedom.

And now he's dead, our

Profligate perspective posits

Posthumous excuses,

So we decline what the design prescribes,

Or redefine what the design proscribes.

Or do we.



Perhaps this truth is best expressed in Rumi's words:

"There is a strange frenzy in my head

of birds flying,

every particle circulating on its own

- is the one I love everywhere?"



I will now repeat the line

Until I hear someone say, "fine!"



EVERYTHING IS EVERYTHING!



*I sing "What is just is" to the tune composed by the band Lamb, on their track, "Just Is".