Silence Nothingness

​
Space, time; a leper and a Tathagata
I asked Buddha about the endless myths
of their origin and apocalypse 
and all I hear is silence
of quantum-mechanical void. 
"Unsayables."

I have felt more than I have seen 
and I have painted more than I have felt 
the "unsayable plentitude" of Wittgenstein 
bubbles just below my skin;
I shut up when I feel as full 
as the pregnant python
OD'ing on an overweight croc. 
"Things, we must pass over in silence ". 

Often I listen to John Cage 
and his 4 minutes and 33 seconds 
of indivisibly-layered mesh of noise and silence; 
Call it soul and body, matter and mind,
black and white or any yin-yang whatevers
because in my psychocosm,  
the anti-particles are not really antithetical. 

I sometimes name things 
or speak or curse or do a little poetry 
in the language of vomits and coughs,
for the things that are Buddha's unsayable
and need to be passed over in Wittgensteinian's silence;
Yes, "Saying the things anyway"
sort of Cagean aesthetics. 

My head, most of the time 
is "Buddha, Wittgenstein, and Cage 
in a bar-brawl," with a face.