Like a diver going down into the sea
the helmet seems to seal the fact.
Gold lamé. Stylish. Think of a cloche hat
but made of brass and covered like a Pearly
King's with buttons. Not a diver, though;
not going down into the sea, and not,
most definitely not, a Pearly King.
The monk goes down into a prayer,
a meditation - but the scientists
are here to map the god part of his head.
Where is the godhead in the head, they ask.
They have injected tracers in his veins.
Chemicals. Small shots of radiation.
Something for their sensors to detect.
The parietal lobes, their sensors say
are being starved of blood. The flow
drops ever lower as he dives
into his sea of prayer and contemplation.
This they know because the helmet lets in
their strong pulses of magnetic waves -
gives open sesame to his unguarded head.
The parietal lobes are known to be
the seat of mankind's sense of time and place.
Like eight in ten of others like him, he
will have sensations to report:
a presence he's encountered on the way.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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