Truth was once a silent neutrality
in the war between my soul and my intellect.
Both parties raged so eloquently that it seemed
I could not speak a word against either.
The foundations of the modern world seemed to rip the two apart,
the soul being undermined by the intellect’s theories,
while the intellect was hushed by the soul’s conviction.
But in my time of weakness, wisdom spoke for me.
Wisdom looked upon both and chided their war,
scolded the childish thinking that clouded my path towards truth.
It is a fool that thinks one could win over the other, that
intellect or heart could cancel the other out,
and nevertheless end up in the house of truth.
The Creator of the scientific world and the Creator of the passionate man
are one and the same.
Therefore, I, in the Creator’s image, house both reason and heart.
I could not speak against either because I am truly not at war with reason or heart.
Within my blessed room in the house of truth,
my intelligence and my soul are not at odds;
they form a natural alliance, a spiritual coup,
attaining wisdom from the God who created both.
It seemed I could not speak against either, for the reason of my faith.
My faith and my wisdom come not from opposites sides of this vessel,
but from acceptance of the unity of their Creator.
violently rocking in the ocean,
alone and helpless in this abandoned ship.
a whale circling me,
taunting my shaken heart with its size, but
it’s not the whale I fear.
the large beast
submerged under me, threatening, even
with its momentary absences,
to capsize my body,
shred me to tiny pieces of a hated picture,
rip me apart like spaces in a paragraph,
my words and thoughts disconnected and
sent desperately into the seas.
That’s not what I fear, not this whale that swims under me.
I fear the ocean that my thoughts are sent into when the whale tosses me overboard,
the whale’s home, my guest-house that is becoming more and more familiar.
the whale can cease to torment me
when it tires, and it will.
but the waves of that eternal ocean cannot and will not ever cease.
The storms are white and rapid,
crashing against the sides of my ship,
weathered and torn from the storm,
over and over,
stealing my prayers with its currents,
so that my cries may never reach the heavens,
and replacing them with more and more fear.
I don’t fear the whale,
the living and breathing tool that the ocean uses
for evocation of its horror.
no, my shaken and broken breath belongs to the bed of water I am sailing upon.
racing heart, beating sails, I belong to it.
and after my body has taken the beating,
after the horror film has played its end,
the water will calm its waves down so that I may feel nothing,
not even the pain that its whale kept me alive with.
I will become a trapped, circling animal in its enclosure,
slapping myself across ships and quaking hearts.
It is not the whale that I fear.
That large beast bellows empty threats,
submerged directly under me,
but it is not what I fear.
Instead, I fear the whale’s home.
The whale is mortal, but the sea is not.
That beast’s tortures may cease, but the sea’s
waves are eternally present, eternally threatening.
The storms are white and rapid; they hit the sides of my
small and sea-worn ship over and over.
It steals the prayers I cry out with its currents,
washing aboard no answers, but fear.
It is not the whale, the evocation of the ocean’s horror,
that truly causes me harm.
The water retains my anxious and broken lungs,
until it spits me out onto a sweet saving shoreline,
promising to return again if ever it wanted me.
body vibrates more than usual and everything inside is too much for skin to hold. blood bursts out of veins at 100 miles per hour. eyes bulge out of sockets because they just keep growing and looking around and moving moving moving. heart beats so fast and so suddenly that it might run out of steam at any moment. orchestras and concerts and operas and raves all take place inside, ear pleading for bad weather to call the events off. when it all gets too much, every organ flees the chaos of the vibrations inside and, suddenly, an empty vessel.
still ceramic piece, body does not vibrate at all. a rock, knowing that a river is gliding over, but not really feeling the water at all. the hyperactive dragonfly has turned into the stone it dances around. no heartbeat, not like heart that was once going so fast that it was going to jump right out like a frog onto the next lily pad.
I come with a camera for eyes,
taking snapshots of the body’s lips, hair, legs, torso
saying that my pictures are what is real about this whole ordeal.
I look at the body, touch it, listen to the mouth, making words that I have decided the body can make.
I laugh at moods, I dissect words, I make up my mind about the nature of you and I,
when the true nature hides behind the trees I have foolishly been thinking I planted.
The body is a master of trickery, winking and smiling and dancing
and crying and pretending to be all the things I want it to be – real,
but when the soul leaves the body alone it does not wink or smile or dance.
When the soul leaves, the body is nothing but atoms theorizing their form.
The body does not love you or me, it does not love at all.
Without the soul, the body knows not what it is, what it’s meant for.
I sit in a room, purposefully lined with art and furniture and bookshelves,
and I use my eyes, I use them all up, looking across and up and down,
but I cannot feel anything.
My soul has left my body all alone, to fend for itself in the wild.
I find myself wishing I was blindfolded, so that my body would be as far
away from my reach as feeling.
She awoke like a freshly born rose and had no knowledge that she had ever been asleep. Laying down on the fresh grass, the woman made out a light blue backdrop above her, decorated with floating white clouds peacefully sailing across their ocean. She moved her head slightly to see a vibrant red bird, flying across this blue painting. She slowly rose, bending her legs, on this ground that held her down. She looked at her hands, carefully moving each finger. The scene all around her was completely new, but felt like home. She implicitly understood all the rules of this world that she put into, her mind was already home to wisdom before she awoke into life. She looked over the landscape and felt the beauty from each corner. A rabbit hopped innocently over to her and rested beside her feet. Its fur felt familiar to the woman and she reached down and picked the rabbit up with care. The rabbit had no fear of the woman, for the humans did no harm to the animals. The rabbit nestled into the woman’s hands and the woman kept it tight in her arms, as she made eye contact with a fox hiding in the tall grass, not very far from where the woman and the rabbit stood. She shook her head softly and the fox understood, turning away from the woman and rabbit, returning to its home, showing grace towards the woman that held grace inherently.
As the woman stood alone at the edge of paradise and overlooked the gathering group of animals before her, the birds sang their sorrowful goodbye. The woman looked across the garden that she was born into, the family of animals that she had grown with, all that she belonged to. The tiger looked into her eyes with confusion. She stared back into his irises until he understood, and then the tiger sat down and heaved a sigh. The sigh sent the family of bunnies that had gathered to say farewell away into the grass. She watched the tiger as his eyes changed. Those eyes no longer trusted her, no longer loved her. They now turned black at the sight of her, as she had turned black with that one fateful step into darkness. She felt the pang of regret once again, as she saw the tiger turn away and hide from this human that he no longer felt akin to. Now she knew that he was beast, and now he knew that she saw him as such. She could never again see him as he was made, but as he is now. The woman painfully turned away, wiped the tears from her eyes, and walked into the storm that was ready to envelope her.
The Black Hole
Suddenly she was falling. The thunder sent its crescendo, bouncing off the walls surrounding this black hole she had fallen into. The storm’s final bolt of lightning blinded her eyes, turning her world to black. She continued falling, feeling more and more pain as she descended farther into the hole, and away from her beloved paradise. Her limbs felt weak and her insides tossed and turned with the rotating of her body in this whirlpool of darkness. She was kept directly in the center, so her body never touched the deathly sides of this hole. She had been holding a rose when she entered this cylinder storm, but now she could not feel nor see the flower. All was black around her, beneath her, and above her. The first touch of darkness had been felt inside of her, and now she was seeing it take form in her world.
to be continued…
My neck is bleeding from battle, you are the army nurse.
Pull out the bullets from my skin and rip the guilt out of my lungs.
Claw your cleansing fingertips into my chest,
until you reach scars from the war that I have too often lost to,
the war my friends have too often lost to.
Carry my scavenged navel home, recover my stolen body.
I have been lost to the darkness for so long,
that I need you to rip me at the seams
and let the narrow space between our bodies
become home for the healing light from your touch.
I seem to live in my dreams
They’re my alternate realities;
A windmill turning out velvet ropes
to string my lungs to a willow trope.
I ask the dark to never leave,
and only now can I breathe.
This terror feels so welcoming;
the death of consciousness takes wing.
My mind awaits all day
for this empty cabaret,
the sweet leather kiss of my captor,
he puts me to sleep without laughter.
My newborn cocoon.