Tag: poet

Ein Sof

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Did you design this all
as some strange experiment
to observe an existence
you could not comprehend?
Eternity encircling itself
and then back again,
unable to arrest your momentum.
The beauty of the moment
was a word on the tip of your tongue.
Ever reaching, never grasping,
and always… that was you.
Always.
Eternity.
Ein Sof.
What did you lack?
Unbeholden to time, to injury,
or sickness,
what did you know of insufficiency?
Did you think
it would nobly accept its
finite and frail disposition,
content with the moment?
No. It turns upon itself in terror,
like the wolf that gnaws through its leg
to escape the trap.
We awoke from nonexistence
to the terrifying diagnosis:
terminal from the moment of conception.
What was it you were lacking?
We call it emptiness.
Pointlessness.
Vexation of spirit.
Do you understand now
or was this not enough for you
to end the experiment?
Is our suffering not enough?
Were you waiting for
the miasma of despair
– that stench of religion and addiction –
to soak into the millennia?
Were you waiting for the bodies
from holy wars and suicides
to fill the graveyards and hidden places?

Or did you turn away in horror,
long ago?

An Hour

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I knelt before a fragile flower
and said, “I fear you might wither tomorrow,
and I can only stay for an hour.
But I cannot pluck you from this meadow,
nor preserve your countenance in a picture.
For can you truly exist
outside of all of this?
What does all this become in your absence?
How does one capture the moment in its entirety,
and preserve it for eternity?
A picture might flatter your brilliant hues,
but can it contain the warmth of the sun,
or the capricious April breeze?
Can it convey their strange equilibrium,
perfected in this moment I cannot seize?”

She replied,
“Caress my petals,
breathe in my fragrance.
In an hour we die.”

“Are we both so fragile, you and I,
that in an hour’s time we are doomed to die?
Have I not the strength to spare us both,
and capture this joy I feel right now?
I am so busy, I do not have much time!
You see, I had to schedule this visit,
and would derive all that I can from it.”

“Yet you are not so full of joy, but fear.
And your fear of losing the moment
has stolen the moment from you!
Oh, you feel the joy of the present,
espy that creature, so rare, so magnificent,
then strive to preserve it for the future.
You kill the beast and mount it
so that you can gaze on it forever.”

“Oh how quickly the sand falls through the glass.” I cried.
“Hurry then, I beg you, tell me how the beast survives?

“In an hour you will die here with me,
and the man you do not know will leave.
Will he despair of the moment he could not grasp,
clutching instead some lifeless facsimile?
Or will he hold that blessed memory,
immaterial and immortal?
Will each breath have been taken
as though it were the last?
The moment, the thing itself, sufficient,
even as it dissolves in to the past?
The picture, the painting, the preserved bouquet,
each is lifeless in its own way.
The shutter, the brush, the delicate touch,
oh those tired hands, driven before a desperate mind!
It misses the very joy
it is striving to bind,
and counting down the clock,
dies unhappily with the moment.”

Troubleshooting

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My days are spent fixing broken machines.
Sometimes the owners misuse them,
sometimes a part simply wore out.
Poor engineering is possible too.
The problem isn’t always obvious
and some machines are quite complicated.
But if I know its designated purpose,
then give me enough time to observe it
attempting to fulfill this function
and I might have a diagnosis.
Give me time to peruse the manual.
Are there idiosyncracies
and proprietary parts?
Are they generic and universal,
is it analog or smart?
Give me enough time to open panels,
watch the brake in operation,
trace a wire, or listen to the gear box.
Just give me enough time.
Just give me enough time.
Just give me enough time,
this one is particularly difficult.
See, I still don’t understand its purpose
and I cannot find a manual.
Certainly I am intimately acquainted
with its idiosyncratic patterns
as it attempts to fulfill some function,
but all too often, falls short.
What that function is,
I do not know,
for it has never completed anything,
– no products to show –
and I have begun to suspect poor engineering.
Still! Is it not JUST a machine like all the others?
Given enough time
and careful observation,
surely I can determine
the cause of this malfunction.
Surely I can fix it
and see what it was meant to do.
But God, I’ve been troubleshooting
this machine
for almost fifteen years now…

Dying in the Present Moment

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We were dying in the present moment.
I was running from my memories,
you were trying to chase your dreams.
We thought we were the solution,
but didn’t know we were so broken,
we were running in circles,
colliding at the antipodes.
I gave up on the future 
when it became a rear view mirror. 
These problems were cyclical,
we were so predictable, 
but too addicted to each other 
to see what went wrong.
We sped towards our self destruction:
a collision course bound for
each other.
Indifferent to the collateral,
we were dying in the present moment.

The Silent Temple

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Eternity was eclipsed by doubt
and reason shone bright
in the darkened sky.
I saw for the first time
his dogmatic bones jut
from beneath a withering numinosity.
It was in that precipitous moment
of irreversible disillusionment
that I killed God.
A sourceless and awful cry
split the doctrinal foundation,
shook the cyclopean temple
of my adolescent subconsciousness.
I fell to my knees,
covered my ears
and closed my eyes.
When I dared to look again,
where his body had just been,
dropped an immeasurable chasm.
His corpse now suspended above it,
all flesh and bone disintegrated
like papyrus and parchment,
until only his heart hung in the air.
As if beckoning me, it hesitated,
then burst into flame,
and fell into the abyss below.
Away from the edge,
back into the temple I fled,
unaware of my atavism.
There, in reason’s cold and waning light,
shining through the shifted stones,
it was not the Devil that took God’s place.
What I heard ever after
was not the Devil’s laughter,
but ineffable silence.

Concerning a Dead Bee On the Sill of a Stained Glass Window

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How auspicious this apparent florescence
must have seemed at first:
an irresistible panoply of all you were ativistically designed to seek.
But it was an unintentional deception
– the stars reflected in the water.
In your desperate search through each and every hue,
your strength was bartered for regret.
Exhaustion weighed down your wings
as you crawled, still driven by duty,
toward this insufficient facsimile.
Now the sun sets.
Now the sun sets upon your fatal mistake,
filters through the opaque glass
and casts upon your lifeless body
a death shroud of many colors.

Your Story Isn’t Magdalene’s

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If only I could write your name
along side our sin,
condemning you into the shame
you abandoned me in.

But the worm of retribution
can swear no loyalty
and the toll of its infection
will eventually

be taken from the innocent.
Remorse is poisonous
– how I hope yours is sufficient
to blight his forgiveness.

My helpless rage has run its course,
leaving this bitter yield:
a dream of your suspended corpse
above the Potter’s Field.