A Scuffed Contentment

Most fantasies go like this—

Proper names and common nouns,

Unattached pieces of light,

Encircled by narrative

Scraps of connective tissue

That swirl around and around 

In the mind, make a vortex 

Of inertia, dread, and hope.

But most fantasies aren’t this.

This goes by too many names,

This, unnameable as God,

(Also named too many names)—

Here-and-now, experience,

Presence, the Thing-in-Itself,

On-going, quotidian,

Moment-to-moment, blooming,

Buzzing, what’s happening, this.

No one fantasizes this.

What would a fantasy be

That did not roll up the mind

Like a tight cyclorama 

Of lurid, implausibly

Projected mythologies?

Can one fantasize what is?

Only by not naming it,

Maybe, putting terms aside,

Dropping all analogies

That are themselves fantasies,

Fingers pointing at the moon,

Fictions of animal bliss.

The problem with existence,

As with mere divinity,

Is whether, without the names,

Without the attention names,

Narratives, and sculptured light

Bring dreams, this ever exists.

Let’s fantasize this like this.

Set yourself aside with me.

Whisper what this feeling is.