Memories Of God In The Physical Body Poem by Stephen Bennett The Playjurist

I've started speaking again now because
of another new name for it
I found, and I think
you listen when I talk, so rather than continuing
this spider game just started,
I instead, opened up this text box window,

with Crosby playing 'Traction in the Rain'
on the media player through
my newly-borrowed-from-the-kids
head set ear phones. When 'Music is Love' started
I had to go off into staring at the screen,
at these lines here
I've finished down to this point... floating
in their text box in front of
the green red and blue spider tableau

and just the way the line endings break off above
the game plays I could make, but am not,
holding myself off the portion of it
that peaked around the text window,
its progress paused now for my talking to you
from this quiet glow of flatness, now.

Now he sings 'Laughing'. And how the devil's music is just
so beautiful. Evil is really not so much bad
in itself, it seems. It's more about what it does to us,
or could, or no. No. No, it's about how we feel. Or no.
It's about how we should never be sad about anything.
Not even about things that are sad.

So often, when I'm looking at a solitaire lay out
spread on a monitor screen at night time
with my hand on a mouse feeling its touch and seeing
my cursor's following of me and my thought
moving together with those two and these three
together as me, and I think I can feel the whole beginning
of it opening out of a place deep in my back...

Do you know?

The ethera of a movement, before its moving goes, before
reaching up out through the body's living meat:
the source-ness that goes from action's beginnings
through to the wholeness of action's results
Have you known this? If we could be talking now,
I mean together, I mean

I'm sure we could agree on a sameness about
your life feeling and mine and what I'm trying to say
and if figuring it out you would try, I'll bet,
because I know you, I'll bet
you may know it better than I,
but have maybe never have thought of naming it,
that word back there... 'ethera' I don't know
where it came from, but I know what it is
but in this writer-to-reader prison yard, could you recognize it
just from these here lines we're in, so... mouse, touch,
hand, action, thought, words, speech, life,

all of this... your mind and mine. Lord God... what a life,
what a thing we are and that we are finding ourselves in.
The little dog
how he barks when you're here, but presses his head
into mine when I rub his ears,
and how whenever one laughs
its an infilling of something just the same as tears
that just takes over,
and that crazy one in church who enrages us, we could throw
our arms around and laugh or cry, and so,
all right! Maybe we would get ourselves beaten up.

But after that we can talk about anything and know that
it's not that much about what we think in the silence
that so took the place over
from what we knew before God's string got cut,
and the beautiful balloon just swam off,
and everything left is just as it seems, the way we remember it.
Our bodies are really dying. But we're so alive.
Aren't we?