to notice that his feet are still of clay.
There is something shining, its petals twirling in the moonlight.
It is not shipped in from a far-off place, but all grown here,
From the soil of a capacious mind. That is mud, but — no matter.
Many hunt for flowers there, but they never see fit to grow any.
What grows there is more precious. All see it.
Something else shines in the sky, soothes the addled eye,
And leads shining shepherds in the starry night. It is no star, but
Mere dust. That is dust, dust to dust accreted, but — no matter.
In a void which has never seen water, it spreads rainbows across the sky.
In that immensity, it is hot gas.
Press it closer. Something riles in that galactic fluid.
Press it closest. Something new awakes, someone new.
There is only one watcher on the peak, and his chains sparkle in the dew.
He waits for the eagle. His face is stone, but — no matter.
When it comes and it rips his skin, the eagle cannot feast.
In the watcher’s tattered body there is nothing but will and sinews.
The chains are shining red, flaking with rust.
It breaks. He rises. The eagle cries its death-rattle.
The watcher learns something new that day:
Sweat does not follow passion, but passion follows sweat.
Tie yourself to the world, if you must. But it will not make you Antaeus.
There is no strength in the earth, no secret clarity.
No revelation in the cold dark mirror. It is just a mirror. It will show your face.
Beyond freedom and illusion, the world writes poetry.
It sits and listens, for though it shouts, it will never be listened to.
It sits in smoke, but is not clear: it stands unchained, but you shouldn’t think it free.
Hope that you never listen to this poet.
Don’t hide yourself. It is easy for you to break in that cold shell.
Chain yourself to the easy slavery of mundanity, so you can
Free yourself from that shade, freedom. Loose yourself from the binds that tell you
That the illusion that surrounds you is no illusion at all. The safest keep
Is the one the prisoner disbelieves.
Was it a sickness which looked at death? No, I was no skeleton.
It was just a sprinkle that ruins a picnic day.
My nose didn’t bleed or rot off. No legions, no buboes.
It was a mild illness, a small cold, no threat. But it could infect.
That’s the thing about mild illnesses, no-threats.
The one bee stings, and hurts a little bit. Two bees annoy, too.
But the math of ten thousand bees is not logarithmic, sorry to say.
Ten thousand bees is ten thousand times worse.
Ten thousand arrows will leave you a porcupine.
Ten thousand small illnesses can kill a man.
What happens when young dreams are left alone?
They do not talk to the old dreams, the young ones. They do not return to the dreamer.
Don’t talk of an Elysian Field, a Heaven to retire to for dreams such as these.
They have not lived full lives. They are but seeds, unplanted.
However, though the dreamer stiffens and grows white and cold,
The young dreams still take root. They are of a different kind.
On the branches of a sapling, or some tree, young yet, limbs lanky,
Or even a birch, smooth and silver, or an ancient oak, stately, stooping,
That seed drops itself, and roots.
The short new tree grows quick, thinks the sun shines upon it alone. Falls.
The one of small years is bent with the toil of the overgrown seed’s weight.
The birch is paled by such dreams, grows white.
The oak rejects it outright. It may be most wise.
When all is over, the only thing that is left is a small green growth.
That young dream has grown into mistletoe. Merry Christmas.
Who is this majestic king, anyways?
The only place I have seen him is on my coins.
I have never touched his crown. How do I know he has one of gold?
I have never pinched his robe. How do I know his is the thickest in all the land?
All I can say about this king is this.
He has never gone dancing with the moon.
He has never eaten the haddock of ennui.
He has always lacked a train of cows.
His orb and scepter? They are not made of copperwood.
Yes, all I can say are the important things.
Words are a net which trap nothing,
But the catch does not satisfy.
Somebody sees the blackest night. The old man bows, and is bowed,
Blinded by the lack of something.
The grumbler sighs, longs for the absence of a thing for which he has no philosophy.
The void is there. Stop the work, and a void filtrates,
Like oil from water, the cell’s membrane in a microtome.
The only thing which we miss is the answers to the question,
“What is not?” The infinitude of nonexistence, we cannot comprehend.
Nonexistence: lay your sights upon it, and it quickly vanishes
Into the pablum of existence. Stop saying such words. They cannot even be stupid.
To comprehend what is not done, is the work of a moment.
There is no such thing as “is”, but the call of “do” breaks in the dawn.
Work is possible. The shovel’s toil is there, the pickaxe beckons,
Sweat will pry out the silence from our lives.
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