Around Some Lines of Wordsworth

I saw that splendor in the burning roses,

the radiating trees on that day of ultracolors.

We cannot know what alien sensations

Our words blind us to, censoring our senses

Down to the world we make by our beliefs,

Always that sense of having seen

the incomprehensible reality Behind

the machinery that makes the world

All but a few believe to be all there is.

I remember the haunted look in Natalie’s eyes,

Returning home from the asylum where they claimed

to have cured her, when the voiceover said,

Nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass,

or glory in the flower

As she tried to remember what she could not remember,

That poignant something, like a pearl of great price.

Traded for a mess of pottage to restore her

To the common world.

And Fyodor, telling

Many times of the aura before the seizures and madness

When we know the world is not what

The many believe it to be.

Like at Microsoft,

When the database and spreadsheet unlinked,

Revealing their matrix of equations on the screen

Like a glimpse of particles dancing their quantum paradox,

Like the Matrix world of apparent moral mediocrity

Manufactured by underground machines

Being attacked by psychopathic arthropods.

Trailing clouds of glory do we come

But not from elsewhere, from within,

Not a premortal soul descending . . .

Obsolete concepts blind us to the radiant truths

We cannot focus on in the auras of revelation.

Is spirit information? Yet every virus lives

Only on the substrate of DNA or CPUs.

Nonphysical reality’s an oxymoron.

So often we’re given only a glimpse

Of the machinery backstage, behind

The curtains of our play, actors not aware

They are acting, ignorant of the audience

Who also do not know they are acting

In a regression that regresses forever

In the infinite consciousness of the Mind.