A Posteriori: An Experiment In Poetic Metaphysics: Experiment I

A POSTERIORI:
An Experiment In Poetic Metaphysics:
Experiment II

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means (including electronic, photocopying, mechanical, manual or otherwise) without the prior express & written consent of the owner of the copyright of this book.
©2013 Valerie Lynn Stephens
ISBN #: 9798307305737

KRONOS & KAIROS

Sometimes Eternity is weighed in most measurably upon the wings of a singular moment, finding its most poignant expression in the wake of all Ecclesiastical realization:

That we are never so alone as when we are stricken deaf, dumb & mute in our most common coherence.

That we are never so rejuvenated as when tended by the metaphysicians of Disease & Despair.
Yes, sometimes the ever immanent sense of one's own nihility, in a world of negligence & broken dreams is the one thing, in the end, which spurs a Soul ever onward towards Epektasis-towards that of its truest & fullest actualization, wholeness & perfection.

How then can an entity as enriched as a Soul feel thus so vacuous, so futile, so impoverished?

Perhaps this feeling then, is what we have come to call “Time”.

For most things seem to equate more to a “feeling” or an ephemeral glimpse of experience, both external & internal, rather than to concrete, “actual” objects & subjects that we can have hold- even fleetingly.

Perhaps all which truly exists is best classified into the taxonomy of thought alone?

Perhaps all we are-perhaps all that is, is an infinite & glorious manifestation of the mind of God, dreaming in perpetuity?

For what is declared & sanctified as “real” by the clean-shaven bards of Positivism, in all of its actual cynical negativism, housed as they are within the flaccid skin of the Body Politic, is ultimately what begs all of these question concerning the “immaterial”.

Ah! So then, have we always known all along, that there is no such thing as “meaninglessness”- and even Despair?

That there is no Rosetta Stone that will not be bled with an ever-flowing spring of Truth & Life Eternal, so long as it is struck nearest its most fracturable fissures?
BROTHER OF SLEEP

Someone’s alarm screams out a warning, but it is too late.

I am reluctantly stolen from my slumber, body heavy from the weight of sleep’s absence, mind brooding, groggy and sullen, as I am hurled back onto the barren, unmerciful landscape of a world that insidiously creeps and seeps into the thickened skin and its many hidden crevices, an all too deluminating light of encumbrant necessity and 'sense'-ability.

And who is the keeper of this house?
Neither Mother, Lover, Father, Sister, Brother or Friend, nor any of our kin, but the Brother of Sleep, so avariciously omnipresent as we weigh the costs of survival, while Life itself extorts without us.

The work is neglected, and we see that there is no way to stop the accounting without soon running out of red ink, to remind us of our debts.

Yet the overseer has still kept us intact, and we are at least assured that as long as there is blood running hot and fast beneath our skin, the books will remain in balance, and we will remain ever fatally noble and upright in our figurings, until the costs of survival reach their final recompense in Death. Until that celestial overseer of all decides he can live in indigence with us no longer, and he sends the Brother of Sleep to keep us, the mortal enemy and forbidden lover of the Life we had so carelessly spent, trying to preserve.

AWAKENINGS

Some of us revel not in the sweet-throated harmonies of the nightingale, yet wait with eager ebon ears for the dissonant cry of the crow’s undaunted projections.

The wind whispers my name.

Sometimes I hear it on the shabby outskirts of recollection.

My dreams scream the voice of an unknown girl, and I am jolted from this disorienting somnolence to autonomically consume the dense, stale air of unknowing, the intangibles of memory recall, a variant ensemble of images and question marks, gyrating with cunning allure to the mesmeric doubt-beat of Reality vs. Fabrication.

And so the illusives of past wanderings in a mind, trembling with confusion, long for the saving grace of Logic, while Reason remains, a room with a thousand lights, their filaments always on the verge of eternal sleep.

Most would prefer to die of natural causes, yet we all live irredeemably encumbered by unnatural clauses.

Severed from the umbilical cord of the mother, the child flourishes, while all that nourishes is nonetheless prophesied, to be cut off from the self, by the self time and time again.

Accountability is shifted, as Mother and Child are further and further drifted, to reach the weathering shores of individuation, where they will learn of Nature, and come to discover their utter nakedness, as they try to come to grips with the solipsism of their existences.
And they will then frantically try to dress one another with their separately endowed eyes, for they will no longer recognize one another, the breach of a newfound stranger’s autonomy, a mutual shaming.

So the tides of Mother and Child come and go, ebb and flow, their moons to wax and wane to the formulaic law and pull of dissimilar poles, denying their dichotomy, thus failing the bringing to fruition of the cycle of birth+weaning+severance=Rebirth +weaning+severance=Life & Death ad infinitum, to its keen figuration, to its final order and equilibrium.
Yet the greatest tragedy is that those who most yearn for peaceful passing, instead allow themselves to be repeatedly stabbed in the back, as they plead to let it bleed, until all strain is grotesquely drained, and they have both become scapegoats of Fate, apprentices to mortal life’s overruled objections.

And crimes, justified through eyes of warped perception & the diseased soul, as the heart once crystalline and transparent, now grimes opaque and sooty.

Thus commences the shadowing of the dark essence, wholeness to never come full circle, the libido of Virtue to remain somnolent, impotent, shunning lucidity, embracing obscurity, hence, to never ravage impurity.

And as the inner essence of light is time and again obfuscated by the denial of unifying depth introspection, the mortal organism becomes laden with infection from the promiscuities of life’s rough, bare intercourse.

And as the human experience becomes a little too experienced, Innocence steadfastly clings to the cold, dry breast of Ignorance, a virgin, oppressed, aroused and pining away-its imago reflected within the fragmented shards of dementia, as it yearns to be raped by the engorged phallus of Truth, uncensored.

And alas when the hymen of Innocence is finally stretched, the blood coagulates thereupon the inside, to drips its last stain upon the pristine black sheets of necessary corruption.

Meanwhile Innocence begs for more-“Another! Another!” until Truth is spent and abandons her like a forlorn lover.

Yet still, she gives a come-hither wink and nod to Deception, waiting his turn in the wings to possess her.

But he, too, flees the scene, when she tells him she didn’t mean, to become impregnated by Reason’s essence and immortal seed, a child of integration to be bore, existent forevermore, ever evolving, revolving within the realm of the Homo sapiens generation, a new life form to breathe while we heave, our faithful child-mother Logic, who will need resuscitation from life, only after we have bore Death, unnaturally.

IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO

Maintaining my jeopardy.
To enjoy hating as much as loving to love.
The human heart will never be pure in the toxic mire of such contradictions.

The only mercy offered is that pseudo-absolution found within the viscerally possessive enthrall of Apathy.

For here, it is bearable, almost to the point where mind, body and soul become whole, feel at home at last.

This is the main concern: the darkness frees.
We see not. We are not seen.
Or perhaps, we are seen all the more, hence is our preferential dwelling explained.

The light blinds with questions all too answer-ready.
What should we be?
Where we have been?
Or where we are?
For here, we are intractably seen as all but what we are.

The road less traveled is not even a road but a rail, with much less margin for error-but not injury.

Yet the path often followed is both our mediocre triumph & our failing-and thus lies at the heart of our terror.

For life is so much harder when you believe in Heaven and Hell, and immaterial actualities such as salvation and damnation.

For we did not ask to be born a creature of such fire and sadism.

We did not ask to be born the only creature given a choice, who still will not go unscathed by rebuke and disowning at the hands of our Creator, like watching a beautiful thing, dying in mortifying perpetuity.

Daddy beat her senseless because he so loved her and wanted to bestow upon her, the privilege of being taught, the upright way to limp, which he was so denied by the blindly obedient petty militarisms of generations past.

Mommy expects nothing less than the utmost best from him, for she must redeem herself from the chains of her own private shame.

We are not our elders’ pride but their scapegoats.

And thus we can only hope that God judges us in a different way, for if not then it will really hit home just how much better we could have been without cause for dissent, as we could know all along just how futile these struggles.

Yet this is another paradox: the one of survival vs. thrivance-and how sometimes jeopardy must be maintained, to salvage the last scraps of dignity from the garbage can.

The way in, is no way out.
The way out?
Is way in.

Believe me, there is no such thing as mortal transcendence-such big words for such scant potential of ever possessing anything more than benign connotation.

But, the sooner ye confesseth these words with your mouth, the more ye can potentially be saved. Freedom is negation.

To be free, is to be willingly, bound.

ENTERPRISE

Everything drops like a leaden weight to the epicenter of all Perplexity, as any potentially exonerative expurgation of sublimation is once more rendered naught.

Even my own dreams are foreign to me. I awaken in some solemn stratosphere where Reason becomes the Loathsome Lie, the Figurehead of the Raging's vast enterprise.

For such sapience & existential impartiality have required of the human heart, far more than they have to compensate with.

The human Essentia, which can neither survive nor fully thrive without the safeguarding of such Damnable & Damning Dialectics.

How will Humankind keep its Spirit alive?

Or will the Spirit, too, be subject to the gross rigors of Artificial Sustenance & Respiration?

Will we also, or have we already, sacrificed the Sanctified & the Sublime at the Altars of Secular Science & its ever-multiplicating Gods?

Artificial intelligence.

Artificial life support, indeed.

And this is just it!
The sanctified hypocrisy which the mortal heart is forced daily to commit!

And what a tall order indeed-to be all & anything other than what one unalterably & inescapably is.

This, the most profound & omnipresent multi-lemma the human entity must decipher-must reduce to just one or the other, right or wrong, black or white, at the pricey cost of the righteous actualization of all other possibilities teeming throughout the Infinite Void, for a fully enriched & truly potentiated existence.

Thus, we reason, if only we could find a feasible way to reconcile & synthesize the Primitive Hunger with the more Neoteric Thirst, would we no longer continue to mistake one for the other & so finally breach that True Sublimity which will lead us to our noblest and most authentic raison d'être.
And perhaps would this lead us further and further away from that whispering apprehension we all cohabit with daily, as it tickles at the soft, pink underbelly of the animalian heart, rousing those icy-hot huffs of ragged respiration, enlivening that dually-instinctual, pulsating organic engine of merely human animation and circumnambulation, relaying to that creeping old lizard, the Amygdala in superluminous circuitry, that old familiar feeling-that dark, hovering cloud which we so often commonly allude to, always brewing up its toxic rain & persistent hum-drumming thunder.

But first! Yes! First! That fine flash of electric light so indescribably pure & white, illuminating all neuronal pathways if but even for a femtosecond-yet more than enough for the ever-eidetically nuanced soul to be branded with the imprinting of yet another enticingly facile, painfully dys-cryptic codex, those things easiest to access seemingly the hardest to cease & desist.

Thus at some point along the way we were forced to ask:

What price, progress?

Or will we just continue to digress in infinite regress?

Have to continually confess in excess, for those issues we painstakingly fail to efficiently address?

Or for how we too often than not exist & depend on much less than a mere guess, born of what faux-noblesse, which we daily acquiesce before the shrine of egoistic obsess & a false sense of success, which we caress with far too much careless aggress, in a dawning new age where we are more & more taught how to overdress beneath the tedium of specious politesse?

And what of the blatant disregard for all other forms of communal largess?

How much longer will we escape the dire consequences of our sins?

We must let the ailing present pass, before we are to ever become ready to be born again to renewed health & vigour.

For this mortal incarnation is not a test of the Reasoning Intellect, but one of the Earthbound Spirit.

GOAT'S MILK

We long for congruency, finding most often, asymmetry, our own part always seemingly falling short-or so we are told by the other.

And we proclaim in our distress of isolation that we would eagerly cast off our well-weathered Scapegoat's hide, were it not for the fear of such beastly countenance truly becoming of us in this very act of subjugative assertion.

To play the fool of yourself, or for others?

There is no question, that the answer always lies within the former.

A POSTERIORI, I

They say we associate with our own kind,
Either by nature or by design,
For denial at the hands of one’s peers,
Tames most of all the primal human fears,
Oft even the fear of God Himself,
Or the various vexations of wealth,
Although wealth itself we should not evade,
But the love of it, in overzealous crusade,
And so it has been said in many a ways,
Why wait idly by 'til the end of our days?
Honest living teaches the error ways,
And giving of ourselves with partial devotion,
To those truths whispered upon waves of ocean, Merely gives way to perpetual sinning,
A perplexion of mind and heart & no winning,
Which make us sound & sight numb & dumb,
To the keenest Lesson of them all:
The Fight has already been won.

A TRAGICOMEDY IN INFINITE ACTS

The leagues of the mind and heart converge, arriving upon disembodied truths, so indecipherable to the conundrum-dumbed tongue as sound & sight pass from their crowned glory into the annals of the Absurd.

Perhaps this body and its means are truly seasoned for the Arts & Techné of Comedy-Tragedy being a genre we invent to lend ourselves more credibility than we can live up to.
For it seems we are only taken as serious as we manage to be credibly comical.

So then, we say it all comes down to need, although this is perhaps the one act where Tragedy plays out relevantly, as we always seem to need to want, more than we want to need.

So then we think: If only the most pertinent information could exist!

Ah! But then we know all-too-well that we would merely begin inventing Tragedy on grander, even more deleterious scales, until nothing is sacred anymore, save the banal & the profane, a future imperfect thus predicated upon a past & present prelude.

IT'S ALWAYS RAINING ON VENUS

Being afraid of the rain, such a cheap yet costly distraction.

It's always raining on Venus, sulfuric acid concentrate at 870 degrees Fahrenheit.

But the atmosphere is so hot, it never reaches the surface, but as an evaporant ghost of itself, remaining a virga.

I still bow but I can’t quite stoop as low enough to climb as high as I'm supposed to.

My mind has bad knees and a bad back to boot.
It runs in the family.

It is night.
The next full moon won’t come again for another 29.5 days, and I am left again without alibi.

When alone, I am saved, though not only I, alone, am sacrificed in my sanctified solipsism.

Sanity seeps toxically into my dreams, dousing everything in the color of prophetic doom as the cold, metallic allure of bloodlust beckons.

When awake I am unknown to slumber, though Mother to the Brother of it.

When I am sleeping I am always, wide awake-in this alone lies both my exile & my transcendence.

I always stand tall, outwardly enthralling though always falling ever so long in a life cut so short.

The unification of West and East are still clear, still so near, but when up is down and down is up in any mind not your own, things get searched for in all of the places but where they are most likely to be found-we come unwound.

Lately what is most unjust is that I am just… for it seems that I always get ahead of myself merely to fall behind, dwelling as I must, within a world where the lambs of Mediocrity lie unendangered & overrun.

Thus, I realize to my chagrin, that I must quickly learn the ignoble art of Duplicity in order to win.

Or would it be merely to win my losses?
Hence does my rage find righteousness only in deviant lunacy, while in the blink of an eye, the “others” get by.

But the ignorance that is their bliss is the hell within which I cannot dwell.

For I remain a creature always in question a maintenance of exclusive, solipsistically sealed self-comprehension serving the necessary evil of an unanswerable in a militantly reductionist, profanely oversimplified society, which revels in the sins of a science so exact & exacting that it is painful to follow.
It is raining.

The people in the streets scatter like dice thrown with zealous measure by their own hands, forgetting so easily how the odds always favour the House, and things are always only deemed 'as they seem'.

Yet those like us know all too well, that the more we reveal the more we can conceal.

And that the more we run the less we get anywhere.

Yes, we know why it always rains on Venus, and willfully dance in it.

INTROSCEPTRE

Dizzy with the wine of prideful vengeance,
I recount my flaws and rage at righteous reticence for depriving me once again,
of any violently cathartic redemption,
courtesy of their loyal devotion
of matriarchal abuse,
as they shine the dim-witted light
of Reason just shy
of the primordial blood hungry eye,
to always miss the point of no return,
binding me ever so ungraciously
within the flowing, white, satiny robes
of Discretion.

IN HOSPICE

A recovering Soul's awakening must be well-paced, 'Though no measure of convalescence,
its full burden can erase.

LETTER TO HERACLITUS, II

It all began in the mind, and it has snowballed from there.

The poison is in the wound, you see?

And because it dwells within a world of endless affliction, endless infliction-the wound cannot heal, and therefore has it killed again.

Dear God, what have we caused? Everything is effected/affected.

So we think, if only the others knew what I know, could we all possibly be redeemed, coming home each, one by one, in equitable, absolving prostration, the prodigal Sons & Daughters of all world Chaos being reborn again into the true manifestation of Love & Harmony.

And we think that perhaps together with wills combined, could we make the Earth surrender its Herculean grasp upon Heaven & Hell, as they converge to meet upon the last battleground of this writhing, solemn Earth in its fitful rage, as the God-Being finally removes His masque of Righteous Wrath & Abdicated Reign, revealing Himself as He truly is, the Source, the Cause of that which has brought us here.

And we hope that then will we finally come to understand Eternity, as we lament & repent of all earth-time squandered by trying to murder the essence of the very salient human features which could redeem us, all of time spent fighting a battle which had all along, already been won for us.

LIE OF OMISSION

I hide like a child, always revealed, a woman, cloaked in the silent fury-of what I have been denied and may never get back, and within the webs I have woven with my casual lies, often a necessity in the face of raw and uncensored Truth.

What lies of omission this heart has told, writhing in ecstatic fervor, naked and languid beneath the sheets of Apathy, for he has come to know me well.

And so has my faith been forfeited in the name of Fear’s searing Lust.

Fear, a serial rapist with no bounds, indiscriminately omniscient, promisingly and pervasively promiscuous.

But it wants you all to know, that it does not do what it does for gratification, but for the very essence and meaning of its very existence.

Thus, the only way out is in turning it against its very own entity, so that it may become for itself what it is to its victims.
Yes, this is the only way to put Faith back in the game for good.

But that’s just it.

For Faith, by its very nature can commit no sin, and so again, the wicked shall rise in numbers, and the noble be overruled and few.

I think this is why man covets his heroes and idols, because of what slaying the enemy would truly cause, turning him into a transmutative vessel for the same foe he has just sacrificed its sustaining opposite to.
It is for this reason the good die young, and the vile are immortalized.

For this is Fear’s world, home to only those who serve it first.

And as for the ones who resist?

Well, they must remain completely cut off from it, as surely as they must also find a way to serve The unbearded bards of Virtue and Integrity, which require of them the same dire detachment from the basest instincts of self-preservation.

Both coddle a dangerous devotion.

For in choosing to either honor the life The Divine has granted, or to serve the Dark Master of mere “survival” it is in a precarious position indeed.

And a guaranteed Earthly reign for Fear is a given.

One cannot serve two masters, but one must still answer to them both.

This is the current state of affairs.

LIVES NOT ON BREAD ALONE

Like water to lightning, an unparalleled jolt and seismic frisson rattles and French kisses the sentience of cognition, both fragmented and whole within the scatter-sighted eye of lust’s suspension of burgeoning.

What is its mystery?
Does it covet only beauty?
Not all the eye sees, does it want, and not all the eye longs to take in does it see.
Along with food, sheltering and hydration lies Longing, an essential of costly omission, though to have not is even more so in less want.

Truly, is it a matter of what we are wanting or what wants us?
The latter depends upon the former.

Is the who or whom desired any differently than the it?

With lust, the lusted is always an object of the subjectification of our need for need.

Without want, we become wanted not, especially by those who wanted us only at the very peak of our wanting, which is when the have not is had yet want persists.

But our final decline begins the moment we must ask ourselves what we want, and can no longer provide the answer, for ourselves.

NIHILISM, THE UNORTHODOX MESSIAH

What is it about the darkness that makes me feel so at home?

Or perhaps, what is it about me?

Why are we so crippled by the contradictory commands of our day?

Or perhaps they are crippling due to our aching need and hope for the absence of such trilemma and the ruthless dictatorships forged in their place.

For whatever nature of orders we are given, we respond with thrice more, thinking that any authority not granted to us, is that means by which we need even more follow our own dictates.

Obeisance requires its own massive stores of energy.

Yet in the scheme of human affairs, we are left with nothing, making revolt disappointingly chronic albeit soon quite dull and arbitrary.

So, how to give it up without giving up?

Life and its success or failure is directly commensurate with a trick of constant measure, whose scale’s units read like some dyslexic, cryptic codex, more being less, less being more and still, the space in between, determining fortune or catastrophe.

For in Truth, equitability is an abomination, a perversity of those fallible yet malleable phenomena of human vitiation and imaginings.

And what terrible webs our minds do weave, when first we practice to believe, for belief is but the portent of assured repudiation.

Thus perhaps only the nihilists of any culture are christened for true greatness, as they leave room for that endless epiphanous redemption which cannot be preaned from the snares of all definitive “knowing.”

For they are of quite another kind of mind, as they know all too wisely to coddle objective indifference & to search fruitlessly for neither question nor answer.

Thus do they find, in their aimlessness, direction and resolve, in their wealth of despair, can they buy out the indigence of careless ignorance, finding true exultation.

For the nihilist, through his devout apostasy, finds salvation, and through his religious agnosticism, often comes closest to God.

And yet he finds with such abundance, because he does not seek.

For Truth is already here, there and everywhere.

And when man seeks for that which he has never lost, loss of Truth finds him, blinding him with cataclysmic and paralytic grief for the rest of his days.

And the more he tries to remember, the more he slowly & painfully forgets.

And it is past this point that he, the zealous believer, has become his much dreaded world-without-meaning.

Implosion occurs in nauseatingly infinite syncopation & with stunning reverberation, and neither the deepest sea of longing nor the highest lofts of asomatous aspiration can offer any reprieve.

And one day, the only thing left to save him from complete annihilation, will prove to be the crafty but wise counsel of the nihilist.

PLATO’S BALLAD

You, the Demiurge of my world, faithful & eternal, in a time of irrelevant matter, fertile ideas, a Master Sculptor, working diligently, never failing to bring this defective mass to perfection time and again, never sparing each shift of alteration crafted by my own will.

Then I, longing to create, yet intend to destroy that which I feel, has become too real, too bindingly tangible, the masterpiece thus refusing once more to surrender its form to you, the Master Creator, the one who knows that the surest way to perfection is only through complex dissection.

REVELATION I

Staggeringly swaggering before the shrine,
Of the mortal subjective mind,
The gods come to know remorse, crippling guilt,
If only we had been fashioned
with no sight of mind,
Then perhaps we would then just begin trusting in,
The ignorance of sin,
Take gaily for granted, proof of the Divine.

THE ANATOMY OF FEAR

Standing here kissing Fear upon the lips, the tongue of Rage enters, my eager orifice shudders with agonizing ecstasy, a primal scream instead escapes, the morose choir of a legion of demonic quartets, shattering the fine membrane of the essence.

Standing here kissing Fear upon the neck, shards of essence hurled, piercing the jugular, taking heed for Fear bleeds, filling the void to overflowing a thorough purification, dirtying the means.

Standing here, kissing Fear upon the collarbone a trembling child, with the body of a woman, the bone and marrow jutting forth, jagged and weary, cutting the lower lip of indifference, a gradual drip of bear-hugged release, loosening the grip as the jaw falls silent, gracious, to rest upon the charged air.

Standing here kissing Fear upon the breast, the ultimate symbiosis with immortal earthly Mother, coaxing all to gluttony upon her fecund loam of rancid milk and love of money, the oozing mind splattering sooty and black, upon the heaving bosoms of all one-nation-under-God-indivisible figureheads on standby.

Standing here kissing Fear upon the navel, the build up of fire-hazardous lint clinging to the hot, coffee-stained incisor, the livid tongue remaining flaccid and imbecilic the violent vocal instinct having its say nonetheless.

Standing here kissing Fear upon the knee exalted through denigration, as the masochists of intangible archives are filed maniacally for past, present and future use en coda upon the temporal lobe, all limbic systems a go, a mercurial blood rush to the capillaries, pupils restricted, vessels dilated then broken, as the kneeling rewards those who feign submission while living in hypodermic anarchy, as they peel away the tender, bruised flesh, a fat feast of substantial portions.

Standing here kissing Fear upon the foot, the unapposable hallux, hairy with arrogance, gives me one last whiff of this chemical warfare, a solemn truce of passive resistance is made, the callused heel is raised and I am kicked straight forth, into transcendent absolution.

THE BONDAGE WHICH FREES,
IS THE FREEDOM WHICH BINDS

Just think what that must’ve done to the human soul.

The forced labor of taking part in the crafting of one’s own dehumanization & demise, or the sowing of one’s own noose, or the digging of the pits which would entomb one's own funeral pyre, and the genocidal lynching of one’s own kin.

A labour camp?
Straight from the mouth of Satan himself.
They were “death camps”, plain & simple.
They had no intention of any survivors.
But good thrives both despite & because of Evil.
As above, so below.
There is only one sovereign, Holy God.

Now rewind:

The past being an all-too crude prelude:

The laying down of train tracks yet foreshadowed.

The erecting of that wicked beast of the sea itself-steers a wrongful course in sun or rain, the train, white man’s new faithful dog, bringin’ ‘em in, the train, bearing those shackles and chains, the train, the white man’s milk and honey, an abundant flow, the Black man’s continual subtraction from nothing.

Imagine hands forced to carve from nature all of those things primed for one’s own systematic and unnaturally cruel torment and destruction-let alone that of one's very own: grandparents, mothers, fathers, cousins, friends, sisters, brothers and children, with no end seemingly in sight to such blight.

A damnable and damning coercion, a constant gnarling of that which pleads to just for once, remain straight, unentangled by nefarious projections-just for once to be left the way that it was and is in its glory of pure being.

White man’s hypocrisy perhaps more heinous and unbridled than the crimes which it wrought.

Yet the true casualties come from man’s own war with himself, as it seems to always become so endlessly displaced upon that which reflects to the most mindless masses, a feeble-minded gestalt of that darkness of night which some akin, to those possessed of lighter skin, 'though certainly not a light from within-in their vicious cycle of fear & shame, burden upon everyone but the one guilty of the greater sin.

But is this semiotic analysis concerning color and its extensions of association an oversimplification?

White= purity and righteousness Black= impurity and the abominable.
Of course it is.

But which comes first, the chicken or the egg?

Am I who I am in defense of myself in justifiable response to another's transgression?

Or am I who I am in offense to a transgression merely anticipated, thus often falsely reiterated?

But this shit could go on & on & on... a perpetual motion machine that does exist at last!
But not the one that we need or want.

But in the end the only thing to concern ourselves with is:
Is who we are in our actions congruent with the intentions on the inside?

The outer world just blurs these distinctions-if it honours them at all.

For has not the rich brown earth and the albino moon always been the things to which we supplicate in wonderment & awe?
And upon which and beneath which we mollify our lovers and our gods?

And isn’t it the far-sightedness of night which we let wash us clean with redemptive ambiguity?
And isn’t it only in the darkness that any light is found?
Where the most abiding, enriching sustenance is sought?

Isn’t it only with each and every rarity, that true sacredness & blessedness dwells?

Isn't the contrast of all opposites the very force & magnificence of the universe itself?

All things considered, & in the end, there is only one immanent battle which must be fought:
that of the individual vs. himself & the forces of evil, both exogenous and endogenous.

For there is only one human race, which must face the following in each our own way:

Should we decide otherwise to try and rise and become what God sees us as, that which we truly are, by default we risk becoming an accomplice to both our own liberation and ensured enslavement.

But again, we must ask:

Freedom from what or whom?
And enslavement by whom or what?
For there is much more bondage in freedom than there is freedom in bondage.

Yet we bear crosses, shackles & chains hereupon this earthen expanse today, so that may bear eternal exaltation & victory tomorrow.

But “freedom” by nature is not meant to be a destination, but rather, a goal toward which we all must strive until we have earned that salvation eternal-the only abiding and actual freedom which ever existed to begin with.

MOSAIC

The fog has lifted and today,
I feel clearly, the love I hold so dearly,
that selfish pride, has kept at bay,
when just yesterday,
the mind gritted and gnashed its teeth,
and the heart’s muffled screams went unnoticed, drowned out by the black noise of mosaic Fear, easeled as Higher Art,
depriving the masterfully crafted
beauty concealed there beneath.
It is Joy! Spawned by Love’s baptismal meditations, cleansing the defenses of the self,
put up in wasteful haste,
leaving the mind, leaving the heart
with no more illusory need
for compulsive assertion or rebuke,
towards all those who have taught us how,
to hold onto the one branch sure
to bow, bend and break from
the weight and force of our petty-wetted laments.

Today the fog has lifted. I can feel clearly now.

Today, I will choose just like any other day.
But today I will choose to step outside of the comfort/discomfort zone I have crafted with broken pieces of cruel deliberation.

Today I will drag myself by the hair if I have to, away from the insanity and chaos, of overbearing indifference.

Today, I will believe in my Courage.

I will believe in Transcendence.

Today, I will choose, to Love-& hence, to truly live.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DTBV75H5