The Unholy Mess Of Your Consciousness


Every time you point at God, he disappears. At
least it would seem so in the interruption. I believe
he assumes your disguise: penitent, petitioning,
amused guide offering souvenirs of pain and prayer.

God is not a resting upon but a reaching toward
without division between the seeker and the prize,
no hypocrisy is brooked here: if you are the singer you
will be the song, the last note rung out
until you have become indistinguishable and none.

Hold the silence in your tone across the emptiness,
allowing travel among the realms, between
your throat and sound; these immeasurable distances
of space and time, black holes where knowledge dies,
echoing as stars wink on and out in various positions
like border lights
along the boundaries of skin and air, the observed
alterations again of flesh amid the infinites.

You do not stop to praise with diffidence, yet wonder –
your mind and chin tilted at a slight incline,
with no suggestion that you indulge yourself by questioning.

You know God is listening: no difference
between what is now a request, what corresponds as reply.

You are made manifest even as your doubt denies:
with every instant where you stop at rest,
a conscious thought of light will cease and bless.

The unholy mess of your consciousness does not represent
nor constitute any guarantee of diligence, or authenticity.

When you begin again momentarily you know God is listening.

©Dean Baker

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