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©2015 Valerie Lynn Stephens. All rights reserved.
ISBN #: 978-1-387-38102-9
It's not the weight of the World so much-
although it indeed be, 6 sextillion tons of dead weight.
It's more the weight of the Self, a black hole singularity-
an infinite mass of all too live weight. For even those mythical demi-gods eventually gave into the insurmountable weight of each their own lot.
Yet truly, we must ask: Which is a more reasonable and sound expectation? To self-preserve & remain upright or to thrive & to flounder? Or is it both depending upon which way the proverbial wind happens to be blowing, on any given day?
For nothing of this life bears inquiries altogether moot.
I suppose we all must just choose which cause to devote ourselves to or even to prostrate ourselves before, for the better or the worse.
After all, doesn't good old-fashioned heart and soul account for anything anymore in this world? Nihilo sanctum estne? Isn't it all in the intent as the Eastern Mystics would console?
And indeed, if it is said that the outer world is changed first from within the chrysalis of each and every individual self, then the only thing to deduce is often this:
We must be gods or at least made in imago divinus to be granted such ontological heft, to be presented with such insurmountable odds.
And one must die in order that one may live-in that one may be reborn. All beings Divine must first descend to each their own Hadetian depths in that they might come to know Heaven. Oftentimes, a human soul is most masterfully crafted within the kilns of Hell. But not that Hell borne of diversionary tactics rooted in self-deceit, but a genuine descent borne of one's own commitment to crucial self-examination & psycho-spiritual edification. Mortal human life is best approached as a 'descension unto Ascension'-a rising up from the dank, dark depths of depravity & fragility into the Light of Redemption & indomitability, in imago divinus.
To tread untrodden earth,
'Tis the price of rebirth,
A journey unmeasured but true,
To the victory being won in you.
Our greatest gifts spring forth from our deepest wounds. But we must be mindful of how we wield them-about how we share them with the world, for they are very powerful, indeed.
We are very powerful, and must revere this power within us. For all it takes is one slip of the proverbial step to have taken the side of Evil. And the longer one has walked the wide & well-trodden path of Unrighteousness & Depravity, the more arduous is the trek back to Righteousness & Redemption.
If we dwelt in constant pure Light, we could not see the Darkness creeping up on us. The Darkness of Evil provides a contrast for accurate discernment between the spirits moving within ourselves & within others.
The choicest wafer of his flesh, crumbles & dissolves beneath my hands & upon my tongue, as I revel in the salty, sweet salinity of such earthly divinity.
Such unabashedly sappy & sanguine sensations stirred by this tryst-very much nigh to Theophany I surmise.
Yet those quaintly probing questions still arises this a communion led by the Spirit or the flesh, or by Spirit and flesh?
I conclude that whatever it may seem to be, according to the dictates of all legalistic theological debate, the celestial body politic, if you will-the thing-in-itself still sustains, essence always preceding existence.
For what is a human soul without its corporeality anyway? We are all both psyche and soma. And this is the highest dwelling for us, here on low, being as it is our truest denomination.
So come, & take communion with thyself.
They say that angels gather on the shores at sunrise,
and that they hear music we cannot,
and that they dress in flowing robes of black or white,
and that only they know distinctly what's "wrong" and what's "right."
They say that the only thing angels cannot understand is how mortal-kind often seeks as much solace in hate as in love.
They say that angels can walk the earth but seldom "feel" it beneath their feet, cool, firm and inviting, feeling instead the "gravitas" of the world within their hearts.
They say that when angels are near, we rarely know it. And it has also been said that there are, as we speak, angels among us secretly wishing that they were us.
The ever-present feat of losing the Soul-
Of becoming beyond our control.
Oh we of little faith-in others' inept hands we have placed, far too much.
For when they run out of Love to give, and Truth to show,
we will wish we didn't now know what we know.
Will God be soon exiled from the dysphoric halls of this Devil-Mind?
Oh Lord, teach me how to live as One and one.
Slipping into madness again, or is it the womb of God? A soft, slow descent.
There is fear here. A blocked dam of potential.
Dear God will I flood out, strangulated by the elements of this mystical undertow in such states of humane extreme, as the mundane senses taunt and mock this cowardly compliance with promises of the supposed 'known', of words, tastes, scents, sounds and sights, over-recited theorems and overrated conceptions?
Oh, deviant, imbecilic tongue, how you taste of that sweet cherry juice, yet boomerang that mystery pit with such haste at the slight feel of a texture astray from what you have been lashed to disarray and paralysis to savor.
Oh, fallible self-serving ear, how your brother Arm, shuts that window with such irascible scorn to quiet that nagging droning of the wind as you fail to hear that it is the soft, sweet, whispering murmur of a praying child across the hall.
Oh, shape-seeking eye, how you wish that what you have seen could but only have preceded what you have read or watched countless mouths squander, foretell, reminisce or deride with such toxic conviction.
Oh, hedonistic nose and skin, if only the fragrance of a lilac could but be found repulsive and a shotgun blast to the knee levitate and not ground thee so harshly, would you begin anew, unmitigated by convention.
For then you would know where true madness multiplies, overpopulating the society of the soul with its overbearing antics of pseudo-nurture and rhetoric Rage.
For it is all too common in this day and age, to smell Fear while tasting of Redemption, to see all but those whims which merely seek to cultivate Perplexity.
Yes, it has become all too common in this day and age, to feel the flesh enraptured or ravaged as the true feeling and sensation is lost grasp of at a mere one degree, skin deep.
Dizzy with the wine of prideful vengeance,
I recount my own 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
in the flowing, white, satiny robes
of Discretion.
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.
Fame is fleeting,
adulation is deceptive but the one who pulls the chord
is to be feared, shall get all the praise.
We all truly worship the same God as we kneel
with bloodied, skinned knees before
the indestructible shrine of the ego,
where even when we think ourselves to be
in humble, reverent worship
to a being greater than ourselves,
we truly are scheming wicked, self-serving things
within our hearts, within our minds.
There is no room for humility
as long as we idolize ourselves
and other merely mortal creatures,
along with the enticing material gains
of fame, fortune, and power,
ever ready to devour us,
just waiting until our cups overfloweth
to then chew and grind us into one inedible package.
And if we are spared, if we are fortunate,
we shall be spat back up to our
only sustaining, gratifying source of nourishment.
Yet if we fail to recognize, if we fail to beware
the pharynx behind all of this perishable self-gluttony,
we just might be swallowed whole
to end up fecal matter,
trapped within our own bloated bodies
of obsession and greed,
never to be given release,
never to be relieved.
Bound in the massive chains of my penitence and remorse,
I shall allow this moment of mortality to run its course.
Yet though these chains may fetter & bind me,
Under their bridling weight is that which will set me free,
Under the gracious tutelage of His slow-turning lock & key...
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.
Just think what that must have 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 again revealing itself as an all-too crude prelude:
The laying down of train tracks yet foreshadowed.
The erecting of that wicked beast of the sea itself steering a wrongful course in sun or rain, the train, white man’s new faithful dog, bringin’ ‘em in, the train, now bearing those 'invisible' 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.
And thus perhaps was the white man’s hypocrisy
more heinous and egregious 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 ones 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 are we who we are in defense of ourselves in justifiable
response to another's transgression?
Or are we who we are in offense to a transgression
merely anticipated, thus often falsely reiterated?
But this shit could go on & on & on...
a perpetual motion machine that unfortunately does seem to exist.
But in the end the only thing to concern ourselves with is:
Is who we are on the outside congruent with who we are on the inside? Because it seems the outer world just blurs these distinctions-if it honours them at all.
And 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 who or what?
For there is much more bondage in freedom
than there is freedom in bondage, although 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...
'Tis true as Holy Writ has shown,
No one lives on mere bread alone,
Seek & ye shall find therein,
A soothing salve for many a yen,
But mostly a quiescence of mind akin,
To freedom from bondage to all sin.
Evoking the evocative silence
of red balloons billowing
across a blindingly black on white landscape,
Eternity wisps on a tangent
down the rough-strewn alley of Apathy,
boisterous and looking for a riot.
”Shhhh! Quiet! the lazy, creeping haze commands,
for Mona Lisa is nearby perched atop
a priest's velvet red box,
ready not for a confession,
but a Kodak moment.
Red light sun resurrects the Ultimate Psychiatrist
from a huge pile of spent cigar ashes.
He does a perfect 360 degrees,
vomiting Jungian dream theory and Nietzsche's anamnesis
all over his ill-fitted suit and three-thousand dollar Moroccan carpet,
which undulates like the North sea screaming envy at the moon.
I remain transfixed and utterly enthralled
by the keen lucidity of the so-called Absurd,
and at the countless souls who commit themselves instead
to that sanctified insanity, masquerading as “sanity”,
a diagnosis whose prognosis leads one only into
true Madness and systematically debasing de-sanctification.
It rains fire & brimstone, igniting within me
the revelation of Primordial Percipience, a searing heat which creeps deep into the desiccated scales of that creeping old lizard, the Amygdala, as I awaken to discover myself marrowing into the bones
of the exquisite Architecture of Katharis,
a Divine Order, both immaculately Implicate & Explicate.
So you think you can Faraday-cage
The Spirit within an edifice of metal & silicon?
Dear Technologian:
Where is the ill-logic to your science?
A bird cannot soar upon wings of mesh.
Perhaps if it is dark enough, they will not see us here.
They hide their deeds in plain sight, but it is we who are forced to cower here in the Dark.
We used to have the company of our shadows
which danced and lept about the house, instructed as they were by the cacophony and strange notation of that Longing which can only be born of sheer terror.
And silence only worsens the creeping anguish
insidiously entrenching us ever more deeply into the darkness, as we are kept dead alive for the day at last
when our bodies and our spirits have been broken beyond waging, this, the closest to a war’s end we will come.
And what a quixotically cruel & exacting term, “conciliation,” always uttered as it is by lips who merely conspire further to wreak chaos where peace dwells, in that they might craft for themselves, crumbling thrones built from the hubris of their own Insolence.
And so we are left only to ask:
Warum muss die hand die Wunden,
die hand die heilt sein?
Before I became human, I was a Poet.
I would swim the streets at night,
scavenging for treasure in those places
most low which some call home,
reaching enrichment only after
I had exchanged all that I had to give.
But however noble the role of Poet may seem,
it was no true vow of poverty,
but the feigned destitution of a creature
for whom all was rich beyond measure,
the thunder, the rains, lightning through the veins.
I was a poet, one of an elite classification of species,
whose sole utility was in speaking for those who remained, despite their stoic efforts, at a loss for words.
Thus in essence, is the Poet,
an interpreter of the wind,
a keeper of the elusive yet essential,
the soothing sayer
of an oral medium through which
the cryptic codes
of the mute and the metaphysical,
the ill-named "tautological",
can be evenly deciphered.
Although the Poet of course, remains, misunderstood,
for despite all attempts to declare
our citizenship with humanity wherever we went,
we still were, intractably, inalterably
alieni generis-self-sufficiently solitary animals,
native to an infinity of habitats & inner Mindscapes.
We are a breed highly adaptable to any climate,
subsisting on whatever flora, fauna, water, wind
and experience we can gather from the throngs
of every possible neck of the woods.
We are the one creature as endangered
as we are highly evolved.
But despite the romanticization of the Poet,
and our oft imagined exaltation above it all,
we remain equally, if not more so,
entrenched within this human condition
of existential dissonance & quandary.
The poet is all, as all becomes of the poet.
And thus, are we often caste as demigod, demon or lunatic, crowned as we are presumed to be,
within the glory and subtly forging omniscience
of skillfully assembled gestalts,
then formulated into the current lingua franca
of assorted adjective, superlative
and other assorted verbiage.
As a poet, I became All Things to so many,
even to myself in defense.
And as words meandered mellifluously from my tongue,
the thought that they would someday
greet their beatification upon entrance into the desecrated temples of countless and nameless
swooning, hungry hearts,
filled me with a kind of dreadful anticipation.
For the Wordsmith, our curse lay in the encumbrances
of those overzealous idolaters,
who teemed & seethed with such militant Idealism
and who, in the act of shouting out our legacy
from the rooftops of many college dormitories, conservatories, coffee shops
and other assorted institutes
of Enlightenment and Bohemia everywhere,
murdered the very essence
of the Poet's true & original intent.
Nevertheless, the Poet is christened from birth,
an unorthodox martyr of societies both secular & sacred,
and we must be willing to undergo all forms
of extremity both maudlin & morbid to fulfill our duties.
For we, especially, are attuned to the truth
that all beings divine must first make that Hadetian descent.
And perhaps it is also for this reason,
that the Poet must spend only the first quarter or so
of their life as a Poet.
For although the Poet may get to live two separate lives in one lifetime, that of poet, and that of human,
they cannot ever and in good conscience, be fully both.
For all throughout History, so many of the great poets,
wanting to maintain equal devotion & fervour
to & for the causes of both worlds,
only met their untimely & ignominious demise.
And although the poet is hired to best speak for humanity, they cannot ever truly and fully join in it.
Thus, it came to be that eventually my words
evanesced into the atmosphere,
& at my very last verbose breath,
I knew that the time had come.
The time had come to save myself from the imminent
and the inevitable loss of ecumenical sanctification,
and from any further ablation, isolation, and world weariness.
Yes, it was time.
It was time to become more & more,
fully human.
For those of our kind, are born Divine.
We are of this world, but not of it.
It was time to pass my poetic licensure and legacy
onto someone else who perhaps had better discovered,
the art of how not only to live & die as a Poet,
but how to thrive as one-
to pass it on to one who has learned better how to also be, more articulately human.
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 blood-lust 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-and 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 Hellhouse, and how things are always deemed only '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.
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.
To want is next to wanting not in purpose and urgency,
yet to have not is even more so.
Truly, is it a matter of what we are wanting or what wants us?
The latter depends upon the former.
Is the who 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.
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.
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 deceit which the mortal heart
is pressured 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 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 the Amygdala in super-luminous 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 nanosecond-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.
For 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 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,
caressed with far-too-much careless aggress,
in a dawning new age where we are still 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 of the Earthbound Spirit.
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.
And so 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 merely preserve.
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
that get 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.
Ah, 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 preened 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.
And thus do they find, in their wealth of despair,
the means to buy out the indigence
of careless ignorance,
finding true exultation.
For the nihilist, through his flagrant apostasy,
finds salvation, and through his humble agnosticism,
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.
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,
the illusives of past wanderings
in a mind, trembling with confusion,
longing 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,
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 intractable 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,
the crimes, those justified through eyes of warped perception,
made cataractic by the diseased soul,
the heart once crystalline and transparent,
now opaque and sooty, 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.
The inner essence of light is time and again obfuscated
by the denial of unifying depth introspection,
and the mortal organism becomes laden with infection,
from the promiscuities of life’s rough, bare intercourse,
the human experience becoming a little too experienced,
while Innocence steadfastly clings
to the cold, dry breast of Ignorance,
a virgin, oppressed, aroused-
yearning to be raped by the engorged phallus of Truth, uncensored.
And when the hymen of Innocence
is finally stretched & torn,
the blood coagulates inside,
as it drips the last stain upon
the pristine black sheets
of necessary corruption,
and Innocence then 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 panorama
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.
Venus aligns in inept exactitude with the earth
as we revolve around one another,
a small infinity passing,
your alien eyes now open,
probing me, the two mean mystical stars they are.
When I am pulled in by their glorious gravity
how I wonder what I am,
a lost lion cub traipsing the star guided lamb?
Down beneath my world so low are thy kinetic laws
of east, west, north, south elliptical glow,
thy meteor showers reign over my sky
thrice in a pink-red moon,
the sun passes over my meandering orb,
a strange illusive eclipse
of depraved doom, girlish gloom.
You say the next one might not come
for another seventy days,
as you close your eyes,
a blessing in disguise,
our come hither, go thither atoms
of mortal cosmic matter now splitting and separating,
spinning and whirling, boying and girling,
the ever altering alchemic maze,
always fooling us into believing that we have mastered
its maddening complexities,
eternally exited its boundless bounds
of space-time causation.
Yet how quickly it comes to pass again
that we implode and explode,
shatter flatter and flatter
into the weathered walls of our bond and need,
rocketed by love/lust’s creed,
its wily, sharp turns, intricate patterns forgetting us,
as we still keep thinking we are found,
to come full revolution time again and again and again,
losing our way, universally.
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.
My dreams are steeped in prophetic doom.
I rise from them, doused in pensive lucidity,
to beach the ghost shores of nameless indignation,
having long ago learnt to fear the inevitability of others' wrathful reciprocity.
I must change or perish.
My armour has become too conspicuous, too heavy to bear.
We are the slow death of ourselves,
forgetting all too easily and eagerly how to garner
our Courage instead from the tender hands of reverent Virtue, and our true Valiance from vulnerability, soft-heartedness.
Have I the strength to be kind in a world
so quick to turn cruel at the slightest gesture of self-defense?
For when everyone bears sword & shield,
the act of self-preservation begins to feel more like cowardice, the stoicism only, of fools.
It seems no longer to be, that the only way
to truly survive is by turning the other cheek.
What have I become?
Or am I becoming?
Where is my faith in the saving graces
of Logic & discretionary Humility?
To forget the self used to be the basic tenet
of the bodily religion of saving oneself,
but now seems the stuff of puerile frivolity
& irresponsibility, creating within the human will
an even more toxic core than before.
For in the Herculean grip of Loss & Alienation,
have I the resolve to kill this sickly beast?
Have I the strength to stand apart,
with purity of heart?
Just how far have I slipped?
Enough that this devil-mind will never again
bid adieu to irreconcilable Rage & Disgust,
however righteously wrought they might very well be?
Will I settle for that cathartic but ultimately
disastrous camaraderie of Fear & Lust?
Or shall I instead return, a prodigal orphan
of the Hell I have bore for my earthly incarnation,
to the arms of my true blood Father,
to be loved & reborn again into the simple child
I once was & yet ever am in His beloved, merciful eyes?
All I know is that there is only The Choice.
I hope I choose wisely.
Therefore must I die to the illusion
of my own self-sufficiency and say unto Thee:
Oh Heavenly Father, if You can possibly bear
any more kin, slay me,
for I wish to be born again.
Amen.
The one with the laughing eyes is the most serious of us all. For deep lamentation always curdles beneath the tip
of his conundrum-dumbed tongue.
In moments like these, we all laugh with a hearty delight unparalleled, for this human existence is revealed
in its inherent splendour, beauty & perfection.
For we can see now, everything as it really is.
For upon the day of Rapture, the Christ-God will sayeth,
"And now can you see me as I am."
For there is felt an acute sentience & subtle yet profound lucidity which seems to make it all shine with the indestructible beams of Hope, that nothing is as it callously simplistic or crude as it may seem-or as we may need to whittle it down to in moments of human vulnerability & terror.
For as long as a human heart searches for healing & rebirth, absolution & redemption will continue to be as equally as infinite & inexhaustible as their attendant causes.
And one triumphant day, will those who have fought for the Righteous Cause, know justice for all.
Laugh, then be still, my friends.
We are the world we yearn to manifest.
Sticks & stones skim skin & bones
but words are the balms which desert me.
I can't exert me.
I am stuck in my own throat.
There is nothing worse than this kind of constipation-
an inertia of Soul from within a moving body
is always cause for the worst kind of motion sickness.
And it goes on ad nauseam,
like a compass with no electro-magnetic center to start from.
Yet this feeling is far worse than merely
not knowing which way to turn next.
For inertia from within the Soul is,
more often than not, a comparative noun,
meaning that it has a choice to become instead, its antonym.
Yet with the finality of Death, this is not true,
thus perhaps even the Life one feels one does not fully live and in which one may currently toil & burn,
and endlessly ache & yearn,
is nevertheless worth so much more than that which it repeatedly fails to yield.
We can't escape from this world, we must escape into it.
In a world of such belligerently negligent Deception,
only the Truth hides us safely from view,
also emboldening a distinct form of redeeming contrast,
as the weary Soul is engulfed with alluring warmth, light & depth.
But when we dare to live the Truth,
and revel within the dynamism which we exert upon others, we come to see that it is only while dwelling within Truth, that we can see our irreducible need for others and theirs for us.
And during these periods in our human existence,
we vibrate & resonate with an indescribable Joy & Newness.
And all of the darkness & sufferings of past states of being are no longer seen or felt as mere nihilistically-forged anchors of futility, meaninglessness & despair,
as they are stored away just as quickly
as they first found us, setting us free to sail upon the pristine azure waters of new worlds, which reflect back to us as we gaze into them, a mesmeric imago of the face of all Humankind & that of its Creator & Sustainer,
beaming an incorruptible ray of Hope & Love.
The eloquence of life holds me in catatonic reverie
and I cannot begin to express my ambivalence in ways
reverent to its grandeur.
The earth revolves daily around my dizzying evolution
& I find my Soul thrust into panoramic, kaleidoscopic
mutations of internal climate.
And yet today is like any other glorious day.
Today forecasts with each turn,
a long hot summer,
where the sun hangs like a half colon
in a piercingly clear azure sky.
The sweet, burning scourge of Love-agape,
mirrored within the eye of another's kindness
& positive regard, illumines the path once more.
There is a gentle yet momentous shift within,
a parting of the Red Sea of Pain & Primal Rage
pitted against the tides of Truth & Justice.
Yet it is of a substance completely devoid of any color, weight or texture.
It is of a fabric organic yet wholly immaterial,
ensconcing one within a return to meaning without form.
What is this bliss which surpasseth all understanding
which expels demons so parasitically embedded
into shoulders for so long shrugged?
What is this force which turns one 'round again,
to alight upon the Right,
which lifts that unbearable load,
carrying one down another road?
The poem wants to be ended.
Yet... What still longs to speak?
A voice which still seeks a synthesis,
a sublime symbiosis between that simplicity & meekness
so expedient & the complexity foreseen.
A doctrine of double affect/effect,
& the endless abstractions,
& painfully exacting contractions-
Can vs. Can't, Will vs. Won't, Do vs. Don't.
The main paradox of the human experience:
To be but not to be, simultaneously.
With so many double-edged swords,
you'd think we would have made the cut by now.
The lines of fragmented ardour pierce
as crazy rays this way & that,
and I am left bereft of much to say
but anything that will bring
this geometrically inept mind
to incalculate understanding.
Yet it all keeps coming to 360 degrees,
a full circle of Transience, Mundanity & Redundancy-
quite moot in its points, configurations & convictions.
For the variables may alternate
but the solution remains the same-
one which never ceases to elude your figuring
as to how you got there.
So, you go to the "back of the book"-
any old book you can find-
and all they give you is the damn answer,
too clear-cut & dry,
leaving you hung low on high-
on yet another axis of 'why'-
such an elusive coordinate, this life and the living of it.
Hyper-vigilance daily premeditates
its vexatious slaughter
of visceral acuity-
Psyche & Soma to soon no longer pulsate
to the indefatigable rhythms
of Unsubstantiated Fate.
My dreams haunt me with their
cruel evasion during my somnolence-
Where is my Soul? Where has it gone?
Politics & practical persuasion probe
and invade my Mind, abducting Essence-
for I am out of their world,
an entity to be merely studied, examined
& iatrogenically "cured"-
as Insurance meets his quota.
The Mother Ship daily takes me on a round trip to Mundanity-
of such banal profanity are such fruitless searches-
Where is my soul!? Where has it gone!?
Or better yet:
What is my Soul? And where does it belong?
Internal conceptions collide catastrophically with external projections-
a Big Bang of Perplexity imploding concentrically
into a black hole of infinite density-the lost light of Reason.
I open my mouth once more to emit the sound frequencies of this mortal human pining:
Where is my Soul? Where has it gone?
And instead what resonates is this-
What is Reality?
Bringing me face to face with the insurmountable gravity
of Metaphysics, as the low-ground of common-sense splits wide open & I fall into a rapturous chasm of Agony, my Soul fleeing me, leaving me behind-Cruel to be kind?
Now, Who am I?
And although I know by now where & what my Soul is
and even where it belongs, I can't help but think to myself that I was better off, in question...
Our Virtue defines us more than our Vice,
Except in a World which counts, only Odd Dice.
I walk with the manic pace of modernity,
footsteps thumping the cool, firm earth in time
to the flickering yet hurried heat of the Hell-bent Heart.
A crowd of festivity seekers weaves this way & that-
a mercurial flow of first-person singular "I"-onized energy, all one nebulous amalgamation of Form & Matter, not yet made realized by the Master Sculptor's diligent hand, as they grapple with ever-present question:
Oh, how to live as one & One?
Doomsday sayers exalt themselves upon rusted trashcan barrels, providing ample opportunity of another kind of strict unity, handing out condemnation & so-called Salvation in one heaping helping in the guise
of the religious literature they pander,
granting the chance for all whom excluding themselves,
have sinned, to cast away their own stones of fire & brim.
The streets become littered with a fatal sea of Bible tracts,
smudged with tiny smudges of blood,
the paper cuts of over-coercion-to-rebellion:
Here is my blood, take of it & lick-
the formulaic laws of Mortalkind's encumbrance,
a cup runneth over, under, asunder.
A young Mother nearby strains to the cumbersome burden of Son & Self, defying her youth
as she twists and fidgets in her own skin.
The boy, sensing her anxiety through the telepathic tendencies of Mother & Child, reaches out a tiny hand,
which is lined with such willful dependence,
to seek out her warm, nourishing breast,
latching thus evermore onto the cycle
of arcane instinct, in a world pulsating & aching
from the perversions of Innocence,
transmogrifying into Corruption
all-too-soon thereafter the first wailing breath.
I am still & silent as I ponder those who ravage themselves
with the ill paradox of over-population, trial and tribulation, proclaiming it all in the name of pursuit of liberty & happiness.
I now continue in my course throughout the crowd,
seeking and finding sanctity & serenity amidst the clamour & chaos, for this is the only world I know,
the only world which unbridled hate
hath taught me to love.
Dreamtime is when the conscience screams-
asserts its right and need to be heard-
our dreams, our ally, keeping us straight,
never sparing our Soul their Introspective Rod,
bringing us up in the admonition
of inner Truth,
and outer Justice.
I rise, kiss and embrace
the newfound Consciousness
of this day,
Will I stray?
When again, down I lay,
Dreamtime will tell,
as I attend the nightly Mass
of Sweet Somnolence,
confessing it all to my Subliminal Priest,
who keeps vigil deep down within
the Mind's abysmal well,
where the waters are so cold and bittersweet
that Lucidity grips me time and again,
and I revelate upon the absurdity inherent
in concepts such as unconsciousness,
and find that only in slumber,
am I ever, truly awake.
Me, myself & I-an unholy trinity,
echoing on into vacuous Existential Infinity,
Unless both the "I" and the "We",
Can coexist,
In the unparalleled bliss,
Of discrete Unity.
Early 20th century poets-
strange but poignantly familiar voices
preen my weary heart out of its anachronistic agony
to a time where people resided within the earthen,
unadorned Church of Tradition & Integrity,
into a time where we walked and we talked
with such purity of insight,
inspired only by a reverent acknowledgment
that the only things worth knowing,
were the only things truly worth saying.
Still, choking upon the bittersweet juices
of this Mortal Life's fruit.
But what is to be fully savoured,
Of the delectably flavoured,
Must first, through all frost and drought take root.
Still, are the Soul's hands bled & sore
from the thorny stamens of Love's ever-receding rose.
Yet in plenitude, its anointing, mollifying memory
still grows.
Still, in the Garden Of Omniscience
lies the Seraph, mauled & jaded.
Yet in nearest proximity too, lies the Beast,
irreconcilably invaded.
And He formed you from the dust of my earth,
where you roamed my fecund loam for days,
searching for an endless Sky where only staunch,
solid ground lay, reticent & rumbling
beneath your well-trodden feet,
for your nubile, nescient mind had grown
a thickened membrane,
where the shock of something you had named
'Longing' in some quixotic tongue,
whetted the parched matter of your flesh
at the sight of me, drinking you in,
split-shifting your sense into the revelation that truly,
nothing did fill the space between Sky & Substrata,
breaking you thus, into One.
Personality is the offspring of the parthenogenesis of the Soul. Parthenogenesis is the production of offspring from unfertilized eggs. Hence, when the human Soul is unfertilized or barren, meaning that it is unfulfilled or longing, individuated "personality" becomes
a product of this Soul separation
from the Whole.
For we oftentimes feel the need to fill the void
of our lack of deeper, truer connection
with other human Souls as they really are-
coming from the same Source of one universally experienced Spiritual force or Entity.
Therefore, this parthenogenesis sui generis,
of an Existential/Philosophical sort occurs,
and thus is born from this barren egg,
The Separate "Self"-the miracle yet bastard progeny
of the Disunified Essence.
The stunning mosaic of Fear easled as Higher Art
within the banquet halls of the esurient Heart-
the going price?
A damning diminution,
of Transcendence, Absolution.
The massive cloak of Apathy modeled as finest wear-
though it be shockingly bare,
there beneath the Saturnine Soul,
holstering both Sword & Sheath.
The harmonically dissonant Opus Of Rage
rocks & rattles the glass cage,
backed by the shattering soprano scream,
of a Mind all-too-in-tune
to the cruelly evasive Cathartic Dream-
a cacophonous refrain, ending none-too-soon.
The bigger the leaf lost the higher the tree's grief cost-
Now drudging?
How begrudging?
Is thine Fate being to thee?
Move still,
Rest nil-
Turn your season of all-or-none pain,
Into Laughter's reason to thrall or shun bane.
The more the Mind thinks the less the Heart hears,
for as your blind Soul blinks-
Unrest, with glee, will impart Fears.
How obnoxious?
Now toxious?
Are thine thoughts being to thee?
Be in riot,
Of quiet,
Turn the voice of violent illusions demented fruition,
Into the choice of silent fusion's cemented Intuition.
The sky lets out a warning, shivering in apocalyptic suspense.
The faint form of a man appears just beyond the vertical horizon of mountain splitting sea.
Rock & Rain, the things of which Man
is so fearfully & wonderfully made,
a constant dueling of infinite dualities,
kept stoked by the incendiary two-fold commands
of Existential Liberation & Blissful Veneration
vs. that of all forms of micromacrocosmic management.
Like water to stone, the things of which man is made-
Psyche to Soma,
Soma to Psyche,
Spirit to Flesh,
Flesh to Spirit,
an endless baptism of impurification,
a cycle dynamically & concentrically charged & dynamic,
like that of an endless barrage of stones skipped
upon the surface tension
of an infinite continuum of perfectly still waters.
The diaphanous image of the man on the vertical horizon
of mountain splitting sea upon which we glanced
but a moment ago has dispersed,
and left in its place is just the air up there.
We watch all of this from the leper's ledge,
which is quite homey for supposedly being the loneliest place on earth.
For the leper only sees reflected here in his surroundings
his true image, beatific, majestic & noble,
and so we leave him be, and do not burden him with what we see.
Beaches & once barren,
desolate Earth but if in the Womb Of God,
surrogate Father of a Humankind plagued
by bias & the insidious Bigotry of Subjectivity,
Relativity so transparently veiled in corrosive Cynicism.
Yes, do not get me wrong,
there are just as many occasions for song as there are for weeping, but if we never dream while awake, we are always, sleeping.
Staggeringly swaggering before the Shrine
Of the mortal Subjective Mind,
The gods come to know remorse, crippling guilt.
For if only these mortals could have been fashioned
with no sight of mind,
Perhaps would they then,
Just begin trusting in,
The obsolescence of Sin,
Take gaily for granted, proof of The Divine.
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