Somewhere, on some Kerouac corner,
studded, decorated in the stars
of his own homeground,
The Watcher stands, clothed only in
a black duster and black bowler
derby, haloed
by the street lamp above,
the very mist shroud of this fog,
souless, illuminated, wrapping the
Watcher in all it?s passive movement?s
glory, golden yellow nothing around
the Eye of the Mind, the Watcher stands,
detached seemingly, tho OHMing
to tune with the Great Universal Mind
Expanded, knowing all and stilled
still by the nothing truly he can know
Having set this, he tips his hat
to no one in particular and steps
striding forth leaning his Self
peering into the empty streets,
it being late night and all in house,
and seeing the nothing he almost
came to expect in such a pesticidal
existence, the Watcher, he lays the might
of the karmic
balance,
he judges, do we, the people, favor the feather
or the heart? Right, wrong, left
sidways
D
o
w
n
,
p
u
,
does our degree of weight in the balance
of things condition our continuation amongst
the universal bodies surrounding?
He comes upon a window,
leaning, he peers in to fill his
infinitude with the flickering yellow
light of the fireplace blaze,
the family of two cuddling, in such warmth
they provide their own, (an almost seeming waste)
the mother, her daughter, they gently
stroke the others hair, whispering
the sweet promise of someday light
bright day will reach their fog/smog
raped vision, pleasing their love?s mind
and sweeping off to sleep on the winds
of their open flue.
He (tho sexless I am a man so The Eye
is named He) continues walking, He
comes upon a sleeping negro man
sandbagged by his few possessions
and recyclables, close the loop for
cash it seems, he slumbers, taking that brief
break from his demented world view,
the evil world, him the final freedom
fighter, he only sees his own built
and barricaded hell,
the Watcher peers,
gazes, leans in and the militant gasps
shuddering awake under new sight,
gazing into the deep cowl of the Watcher
the Man sees not the face
but the universe, and all it?s beauty
a vision of the natural chaos that
lends to the only true beauty in the world
he sees the beauty of a supernova explosion
as it happens and the resulting galaxies,
solar systems, LIFE,
He sees the awesome power of the
first fell fall leaf, of the autumn
tree green, tho fallen, not even allowed
the color change, it drifts, a dream state,
and smashes to the ground with the impact
of nothing to nothing, an infinite power
and beauty so close;
and the man jolts gazing, he sees his new
purpose in the star lit cowl of
The Watcher, he grows, strong again,
having learned man?s own inner
beauty he works this great power,
and again rights the scale
we regain feather weight, the Watcher,
tired
resumes his celestial body,
an eye, sky wide, horizon long,
an image seen only by those in tune
with it, and its mind
the ever grown infinite mind
of clarity, a mind of buddha
bodhissatva.
The Watcher as he departs
heads down this lost alleyway:
Jack Kerouac Street; the pipes
hissing, they always tried to lead us
astray, and he hears none of it,
sees only where he thinks he was
on his entrance,
he again, strolling,
tips his hat to no one in particular
and dissapears, again a constellation
of infinite and nothing at all
And all that is left is the black duster
and black bowler, a child?s treasure, in the
dark nothing alleyway, an extension
of the earth road, universal road
tree expanding ever.
THE END.