The Poems:

Attributelessness is an attribute,
     but of what I can't possibly say.
Just how can I talk about what I can't talk about,
     and in a meaningful way?
Impredicability's what it's about,
     it is oxymoronical wit;
which means that I can't even possibly say
     all the things I just said about—It?

Attributelessness is an attribute,
     but of what you can see I don't know.
So don't ever ask me to show it to you,
     'cause it's something I can't ever show.
It's something I can't help but wonder about,
     though it doesn't exist any place;
it certainly doesn't endure any time,
     and can't, therefore, occupy space.

Attributelessness is an attribute,
     but of what I will never discern.
I know that it signifies something that's not
     anything I could possibly learn.
But, something of what I know nothing about
     is a matter of knowledge for me:
I know that I don't know the least about what
     what-I-don't-know could possibly be.

The Source of Everything we see
     is such that it is never seen.
The Source of Everything like me
     is such that it has always been
like Nothing in the Universe;
     somehow it underlies all this;
but Nothing in the Universe
     can understand just what it is.

The Source of Everything that moves
     is such that it is never moved.
The Source of Everything we prove
     is such that it is never proved.
Infinity is not defined;
     Eternity will never change;
and Nothing in the Universe
     can comprehend unbounded range.

The Source of Everything that grows
     is such that this is done with ease.
The Source of Everything that knows
     cannot be known through words like these.
The words can only give us hints
     that vivify and make words sing.
And Nothing in the Universe
     is like the Source of Everything.

It seems to me that life is like
          rideing backwards on a bike,
or running backwards down a hill,
          pulled along at gravity's will.

Although the past is clearly shown,
          the future will be never known
until it passes us and we
          see it from eternity.

And it appears to me this way,
          in deed, because I cannot stay
away from Time, immune to it,
          and, relative to it, distant.

It could be that what I am saying to you
     is really a lie when I say that it's true.
I find it quite possible to contradict
     the meaning of words that I've carefully picked.
You see, when I say that "I'm lying", I find
     that Logic is constantly changing my mind.
The problem is just that, as hard as I try,
     I'm telling the truth when I say that "I lie."
But how can I say "What I just said is true",
     right after just saying "I'm lying" to you?

Around are regions all awry
          in which you hardly find a trace
of matter or of radiation,
          anywhere; out in deep space.

Still, quickly weaving cosmic waves
          are transformed in this nether place.
And particles anihilate each other,
          there, out in deep space.

Though Nothing really is, out there,
          where mass and antimass embrace;
yet, everything is everything,
          eventually, out in deep space.

God, every time I try to think about
just what it really means to be alive
I realize that I will never know
the total truth, from first to final fact.
"From fist to final fact", Man, what a joke;
for all I know there never was a first,
and probably will never be a last.
So, may I ask, how can a finite mind
expect to comprehend The Infinite?
How can someone who lasts so brief a time,
in contrast to the length of time it took
to get this world in order, and to set
the universal stage, and write the script,
how can someone (by whom I mean myself)
begin to comprehend The Absolute?

It can't be done, as far as I can tell;
and, finally, I think that I know why:
the problem lies in language, and in thought.
Of those who study language, some contend
that analyzing language brings about
a better understanding of The Truth.
Well, nothing could be farther from the truth,
but in a way that no one would expect!
For, linguists, who'd been working on these things,
had put two hundred years into their work,
when—finally—they definitely proved
that nothing can be definitely proved.
It sounds absurd, . . . but let me clarify.
See, every natural language has the trait
of being incomplete within itself,
allowing for the possibility 
that we could never finish what we start.
For instance, when somebody tries to prove
that any certain language is complete,
and doesn't ever contradict itself,
they surely can't employ that language which
they're trying to prove is suitable for proof.
They must employ a different language; but
they first must prove this second one's complete.
And yet, they cannot, as I said before,
use any single language in the proof
that this same language is, in fact, complete.
And so, they need a third to prove the truth
about the second language, and a fourth,
in fact, to prove the third, et cetera.

Make no mistake, the last, among this chain
of languages one needs, is not the last!
There is no end in sight, and one must have
an endless chain of languages to prove
that any single language is complete.
Of course, one does not have an endless span
of time in which to prove an endless chain
of languages, in fact, complete.
And this, you see, is, definitely, proof
that nothing can be definitely proved.

Of course, at other times I often feel
that language isn't necessarily
the only way one has to understand
just what it really means to be alive.
There is a kind of consciousness in which
my every thought of language disappears,
and in the stead of verbal images
I find a kind of visual imagery.
Admittedly, this kind of consciousness
is very rare; but when it comes it makes
me feel as though I've found the real me,
that Being I've been seeking all my life.
It matters little that the people who
supposedly are experts in the field
of human minds would say that I'm insane;
their sanity, perhaps, prohibits them
from seeing what it is I really see.
Besides, I'm not alone in thinking that
my brain contains a vision of the truth.
How many brilliant brains proceeded me
in thinking that they saw the Really Real?
And, anyway, if I were all alone
in thinking what I feel I have to think,
my solitude would make me no less sure.
Experience is what I trust, not words.
And my experience has given me
the surety that what I know is true.
I wish I could communicate to you
the ecstasy of my experience;
but, like I said before, I can't be sure
that words will capture what I want to say.
You must, instead of hearing it from me,
experience this ecstasy yourself.
The Universe is what you really are:
an Absolute Infinitude of parts,
where every part is actually The Whole.
Your sense of individuality
can cause you not to see it all at once.
But, if you can ascend beyond mere words,
the imagery will surely show you how
to see each creature as a ray of Life,
displayed out from the central Sun of Life;
and know each being as the Only One
that constantly encompasses itself,
so only Sacred Solitude abounds.