Singing the Way

Go ahead–you

know you want to 

sing a song of
the earth to a

new tune. The
imagination

more real than real—
isn’t the song sung
deep all songs, and
madness firmly

embraced, all
clear-eyed sanity?

Sing on, heedless of
the droning—your
notes can be
something new.

Listen: where is
that firm voice?

Is it more than
the monkey chatter
of “more, more”?
To the one we see, 

all qualities cling.
But to the one

living in a self,
caught in the
machinations
of merely being,
each quality is
a struggle with
the real, each

quality a leap
over some abyss.
This world, this place
of the real, is not dis-

enchanted. Merely not-
enchanted when the
chanting leads only to
the in-cantation of

superstition. Of
the not-real.

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