Opposites converge within me;
I contain multitudes.
I contradict and argue with myself,
Not knowing what truth is.
Philosophy blurred the realm I thought as truth,
(How naive I was then)
The deeper the digging the more I un-knew.
What the point of “truth” when reality is questionable?
They asked me why I read the esoteric;
Hermeticism, Rosicurianism, new age, and so on,
I told them even “I” didn’t know.
Mind suspended from reality is the best candidate.
Answers come in flashes feeling like lightening,
the esoteric pulls me, not for conversion;
Not that I may practice magick,
Not that I may convert lead to gold.
(There’s lightning in the distance,
It back lights a dead tree next to a a prosperous one)
I am propelled onward to extract metaphor,
To absorb the ideas of all fields and then
To re-experience through these new senses,
that are laden with symbols.
This is my ars magica;
My modus vivendi.
There is a portal I use;
It helps me escape the world,
With its endless clamor and heckle.
This portal is as common as wine,
Though better for you;
It’s as helpful as a teacher,
In the words I read,
There is a portal.
What is the purpose of this pen in hand,
Writing encoded messages of an abstraction’s abstraction?
What point are these pointed words,
Which have no power without you before them?
I can’t learn the answer;
It is hidden in measurements and data,
But I am not an empiricist or scientist;
So the answer evades me.
Still, I’m called before the processed tree carcass,
The parchment on which I impart my soul,
not to measure or define,
but to explore the spirit of the world.
This is the less visceral form,
The medium that encodes and deconstructs,
The medium penetrating reality through lies,
Through fiction and image.
I cannot tell you if the universe is truly infinite,
I am not NDT, or any other pick-a-name celebrity scientist;
But I can show you the infinity of the world within,
The worlds that inhabit each one of us.
I am your Caretaker,
Provider and parent.
I am at your beck and call;
When I take you outside,
I name the beasts, insects and plants for you.
When did you become God?
And I Adam?
In naming these things for you,
Are you telling me the world is my companion?
I am the extreme of the stoic philosophy;
My day dreams are fifty percent worst case scenarios,
My thoughts three fifths doom and gloom;
At least, per their tradition, I’ll be ready for the worst,
But at what cost?
What is this rust within my soul?
To what entities can I attribute it?
Is it the lingering doubt within this medium,
Or is it the lack of rest?
This rust, why has it corroded so much?
Is it my mistreatment of mind,
Force feeding it without regard to limits?
Or is there a deeper aspect?
Where is the soul-doctor,
The one to check my ailments and heal me?
Where is the metaphysical scientist
With his empiricism on my spirit?
I don’t see them, I don’t know them
There is only one soul-physician I know,
And, it was Gibran who knew it, it is within,
Issuing those bitter remedies by which I can heal;
So, physician, can this pain attend to this rust?
I am the acorn;
Not only because of my smallness,
But also my magnitude;
For I contain both.
The acorn is an angiosperm,
They self-contain, so are both child and protector,
Within, they are both seed and oak;
As am I, both child and man.
I adhere to the alchemist’s doctrine,
Men executed or gone mad pursing Great Work,
Because of the one image;
The marrying of opposites.
The all-transforming stone,
The key to ever-lasting life and youth,
Involved the courtship of Sun and Moon
In their infinite metaphoric representations
This acorn soul, then,
is both insignificant and grand,
Purposeless and telos-full
And the observer of this truth has no choice but to oblige.
I am the acorn
Not only because of my smallness
But also my magnitude;
For I contain all.
The image is still fresh,
When my middle school youth conjured you;
You were first an emotion,
The passion and anger erupting from me.
But then you cooled, turned to ice;
You came to look like my doppelganger,
Only with red eyes and orange hair.
I named you Blaze.
This cooling wasn’t caused externally,
only until my pen touched this poem did I know it was my doing;
I couldn’t withstand your brilliance and heat;
You raged like a wildfire, an infinite conflagration.
I am called to you
(or maybe you are called to me,
This maudlin, erratic, but finally content lot)
Our destiny is in our embrace.
Inevitability dictates our intimacy will be short,
For I am man and you are inferno;
You then, are my end, the vice around my neck tied by Ananke.
I accept what comes, I accept the flames.
Leave it to a crowd of my peers
To make me feel alone.
We dress the same,
Work for the same cause,
Drone on in about the same way;
But in the moment of our physical unity, I am furthest from them.
This is like my childhood,
How I’d outcast myself when I meshed too well.
So, what is it that you want, soul?
I belong and you howl,
I isolate and you weep.
I don’t even know the difference,
Between myself and my environment,
Between myself and this inexhaustible world;
Where are its borders?
Wielding the first human tool,
My perceptions, my sensuous nature,
The borders are clear;
Any representational artist can see this.
Murk infests the waters when we “look” beyond.
I see the lush grass,
The plush blanket of earth (though this is dwindling)
And I see it, too, within myself.
The percept becomes the perceiver,
Distinctions between nature and nurture evaporate;
For we are nurtured by nature,
And all without is within.