“Quid rides? Mutato nomine de te fabula narratur.” Horace, Satires (35-33? BCE)
The Law of Mind(s)
I beg your brief indulgence, kind spectator. Allow me this somewhat ad hominem, exegetical tirade.
The wound spits forked sparks in the penumbral sea of solitudinous stench, shuffling forth a tumescent tongue and disenfranchised mass, which trickles in dribs and drabs beyond a veil of obtuse, ill tiding. Metallic teeth cutting breath.
Cowards colors run up a pole, buoyed upon ugly wind. Raising a death’s head upon a mucocele. Stinks of a complex mixture of oxides, silicates, phosphines and fluorides.
When your heated wailing broaches its boiling point and its vaporous poltergeist rises in baleful condensation, gathered into very fine, solid particulates, it is then you speak. A hive of noisome meanderings, pregnant with woe, withheld, shackled and regorged upon.
Low vibrations mutter of gray matters, pickled in a brine sea of quietus, ad nauseum, sighing as you slough under.
Vainly beaten breast, bleached coral white. Mewling a puerile ode to pleurisy
My father’s house holds many mansions, and yet, in each of these convenient cages of self, stacked against tides of organic manifesting, you dare not enter and find others there, waiting, and exactly the equal of yourself.
You stand upon the shoulders of all that has been daily provided by the concerted efforts and revelatory brilliance of others, reading your list of gripes and miming your grievances in reenactments of momentary sufferings, upon your empty soap box, proclaiming your singularity. Castellan of a bloviating ossuary. Your words, your knowings, are dead.
We are cellulose. Polysaccharide links in a chain of glucose monomers.
You are a deaf gray moon, whose craters mourn ancient collisions. Mouthing screams in the gelid silence of the cosmic background temperature.
An egg, who’s calciferous housing remains intact, inert, uncracked by internal gestation, leached of stilled momentum.
Ear tags of facile definitions are not now, are not the knowingness of the living witness, they are dead.
Oblivion is the word, my mind whispers.
Sovereign perpetual night.
The Law of Heart(s)
If you are willing, able, perhaps we will arrive together in a climactic moment of empathetic resonance.
My gaze dances around your eyes as a moth to flame, enticed by some inner urge toward self-immolation.
Old wounds stain me like photographs and scream cannon fire, which deafens us.
My fingers are wind in your tangled labyrinth of locks and pierce your anterior veil of quietude, drawn over desire.
The air about us brims within an inch of rainfall.
Lacking words, we speak in multiple dimensions. Collisions, vibrations, echo out and rebound against each other.
Your breaths are burning candelabra that map my form with sonic topographical touches.
My ache is a questing thirst. Your mound, a yawning chalice.
Bones lean upon the arch of our empty stomachs, which devour each other.
We hammer a rhythm upon stretched skins, inches from your mouth, which scouts the periphery of my breastbone, tickling the tips of hairs.
There are many mansions in my father’s house and upon the façade of each lie many doors, each of which stands open or responds to the slightest press inward.
Grasp the mantle by its horns and climb heavenward. Your eyes search past this corona of molt and molecular matter, mold and twist into a question mark.
We, together, are a sea of mercury.
Look no further than this stone I have rolled to your feet and, through all my struggling, ragged steps that brought me here, to you, scratched in epitaph upon its obdurate surface, “Here lies the animal you seek.”
My eyes, your gaze, dance, cross paths, push, pull, sway.
Naming the object of Eros as loved, when this love is grasping, conditional, hinged upon possession. Draw this sultry asp to your breast and when possession is lost, its venom taints everything.
Desire spits a flitting arrow to each next target, each time quenched, thirsts for unknown flavor.
I seize your body in my arms, which becomes an accordion of moaning music, and my thrusting is akin to murder.
I am a fountain of dust. You are an hourglass into which I spill.
Catch a bird in your hands and, before long in such confines, within the gravity of their crushing want, it will be dead.
Consequence is the word, my heart whispers.
The tidal juggernaut, falling like tumblers in its dire march.
The Law of Spirit(s)
I would ask nothing of you that I would or could not offer. You and I are one.
My heart houses four chambers, but more, mansions. There are many mansions in my father’s house and within the bosom of each, lie many arms, which cradle birth and destruction in their palms, each proffered at the appropriate moment, in appropriate measure and each its own form of kindness.
And if there were nothing else in the gulf that lies between us to heed your prayers, you could whisper to me, and I would carry them.
Your voice, mine, and those of our many selves, when gathered together, harmonize.
Listen. Know this truth.
Good and evil, order and chaos, beginnings and endings, gates and transitions, time and space, doors and passages, are two faces. One looks to the future, one to the past, and between these, the observer, timeless, unmoved, at the extremity of Heaven, at the limits of Earth.
Janus, Diana, Demeter, Figlius and Cicero, and many other names for the rose which blooms and withers in a day, leaving only dust, stirred by breath, and a ghost of fragrance.
Life flows to you, to me, withers, and blooms, again, and there is no time. There is only this cycle. This perfect circle, falling and rising, upon the roiling sea.
Breath is moving in a vasting void, steadily, between 4 and 2675 hz, still your mouth, move your hips, in a catechism of kaleidoscopic colors, all arrayed in this blazing, resplendent cosmos, to catch your eye, dear lover, to catch a fleeting glimpse.
To think, to feel, to find beyond these, distilled, knowingness, which is there, waiting, to be witnessed, to be discovered.
Echoing in radial motion, without sound of its passage. A note sounds upon the singing bowl, which radiates outward.
A supermassive black heart lies as the center of a quasar, surrounded by a corona of gaseous luminosity, its internal monster, an evocation of paradoxical coexistence.
A closed eye rests in the bosom of my brow, now open.
Now, I am silent witness to the kindness of elements.
Silent earthen womb, to germinate, climbing heavenward.
By winds, jagged edges shorn, refined.
What was course, smoothed by waters of lachrymose, my dearest other and self, we are worked by a loving sculptor, into this masterpiece of engineering, emotion, intuition and awareness.
Enwombed in this furnace. In flame of searing immolation, the moth finds its fullest alchemical transformation.
The life cycle moves forward, forges its own path, through, onward, away, back to you, back to me.
We are one, and as we sleep, we dream, as many leaves upon a single tree.
Eternity is the word, my spirit whispers.
Sovereign perpetual light.
The Law of Many Leaves (Upon a Single Tree)
The Fire Elemental
An asymptotic giant branch semi-regular variable red giant star in the constellation Sculptor.
It has a reaching spiral arm that is suspected to contain a hidden star companion.
It is also dying.
"In short, enjoy the blessing of strength while you have it and do not bewail it when it is gone, unless, forsooth, you believe that youth must lament the loss of infancy, or early manhood the passing of youth. Life's race-course is fixed; Nature has only a single path and that path is run but once, and to each stage of existence has been allotted its own appropriate quality; so that the weakness of childhood, the impetuosity of youth, the seriousness of middle life, the maturity of old age, each bears some of Nature's fruit, which must be garnered in its own season."
Marcus Tullius Cicero, On Old Age (44 BC)