Star Wars

by George Moore

When the galaxy was far away,
the idea of self emerged from the mirror stage
and found itself a self apart, not so much
clay, as a product of the earth.

Under the hand of Vishnu, Creation
continued.  In one, the conch shell
that sounds of the sea, its great Om
the volcanic rumble of the earth in transition.

A disc in his other hand (one of them),
the galaxy, itself spinning into a new complexity,
where eventually the film gives away the ends
of this same universe in dark auditoriums.

Time warped becomes a sense of self
trying to get back to those first things.
But the club in his last hand shows us
the splitting of the atom, the chain reaction.

Life coming out as darkness peels back
the cover of darkness again.  The figure
rides through the sky on a bird that cannot
hear or speak, that cannot trust its own dream.

And in the last reel, when the gods gather
and look like men in their nether state,
in the in-between somewhere where death is not
quite real, the serpent raises its sleepy head

and bites its tail, and the madness
begins again, forming the perfect circle
of desires that taint the world, out of which
we have come, and out of which we are made.