Abbey Road
by Michael Kriesel
Apperception.
Knowledge tattooed on my
brain.
Like knowing my left hand’s there, or time’s
contemporaneous.
Everything
demanding
God’s attention all at once.
Every
bill falls due now. No credit
for
the lord of time who floats above the
grooves
of linear experience. Old
hippies
remember Abbey Road
In
grooves we live, forced forward. In dreams we
jump
the vinyl wall, travel astrally.
Kept
in line by time. The only way we
learn
down here. The perfect training tool. Time
merely
measuring matter in motion.
No
matter, no time. Just eternity’s
ocean,
and consciousness, attaining to
pure
light’s height, looking down on its record,
cued
to every note at once. A burst.
Release.
We become lighthouses on a
shore
with no sand or water, one at a
time.
A light for others to steer towards,
until
we’re all light. Eternity’s not
very
long. A winter walk. A movie
where
you’re frozen between frames, like slides. You
exit,
enter doorways in the air, as
you
balance on emptiness, between fields,
zippers
jingling a second, stepping through.
~
first published in The Writer
