When I bought you, I didn’t know what you’d become;
You were slotted for drab budgeting,
The infernal dollar keeping that quickens my heart;
Something about you changed this fate.
You reminded me of the inferno within,
The parts of my that wish to combust in passion;
(Why could I never let my soul be set aflame?)
You called to the old poet in my soul.
Now you’re decaying;
I knew this would be your fate,
You carry a commercial mark that is no longer you.
You’ve shed the business “Minimalism Art” and have become Austin.
One day your casing will be in tatters,
This faux leather and foam wind-bound;
But I will keep you;
I will mind you as writing in you mends my soul.
I am the dead tree outside,
Still standing despite heavy winds.
The poet from the window piles on his conjectures;
I was supposed to fall six months ago.
Spiting this man, I stand more firm,
Even with decay all about’
This charge proves my obstinance,
That man of flesh knows not those of wood.
My leaveless branches are a sign of demise,
but the situation is also a boon;
My nakedness decreases surface area
So the wind cannot batter me as it does my live kin.
My bull’s head doesn’t make me invincible;
One day the man in the window will be there to hear my fall,
And he’ll think of George Berkeley,
Then continue on with his metaphors.
He predicts my death not as a poet,
but as pseudo-scientist,
I hope, at my demise,
He attends my copse as a poet
I stand between two trees:
One live, on dead;
One verdant, one vivisected by wind and
Riddled with disease.
I want it to be a symbol of
Man’s struggle to live
While in a perpetual state of dying,
But this is a clumsy metaphor;
The live tree is dying too.
I feel the wind caress my skin;
It’s not the same wind
The one that comforted me
As a child.
But it does feel the same,
and so I am thankful,
Accepting the wind as an old friend,
Picking up where we left off
All those years ago…
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 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.