You. I. We. Form. Color. Motion. Where do they all connect? How do they connect? Emotion, gesture, being, absence of being: where and what are the dots that connect them, the nerve synapses, let’s say, that animate them?

We play the game of an answer. The wisest among us do not take any answer too seriously. They keep asking, perhaps suspecting that the questions—and the questioning—are far more important than the answers. Are they? Not even that can they say for sure.

Their answers, they further suspect, are capable of being poetry; a poetry reliant not just on the questions but on the way they play the game of an answer. In fact, the questions are the raw material of poetry, poetic in and of themselves.

In this perspective, this context, poetry is all that exists, or rather all that exists is poetic. Certainly all that exists is a game and a dream. We label it reality in order to save face—the face we had before we were born and our ostensible face. And to give our innate mysticism credibility (though we may not be aware of it). We distort that reality with magic or automatic cognitive associations to give our ordinary minds a vacation. To let them fly without wings and leap without worrying about the condition of our legs.

This is the meaning of salvation if there is one. We save ourselves from the hell of literalism and legalism (which licks religion and politics with its flames) by the use of our imagination that is most appropriate to freedom. When our imaginations transcend our egos—or rather absorb them to the point of a practical mysticism—we are truly creative, we are poets, partaking in poetic existence, connecting the dots which both are and join that existence to itself.

Thus we honor the above questions with answers worthy of them. And honor our true parents, essence and existence. We do not just give credence to who we were before our accidental, physical parents were born, but we scrub clean (of the dust of delusion) the face we had before we ourselves were born. Both the embryonic face and the face that shone from a star . . . the face that perpetually smiles at the foot of a ladder (to borrow Henry Miller’s title). It is the ladder that stretches to infinity and to infinite possibility.

Where we can, if we wish, climb higher than ourselves.