poetry = nonsense
nonsense = meaninglessness
meaninglessness = void
void = nothingness
nothingness = spirit

Zero sum
I collected all the words I ever said (including those in this falderal verse, the ones spoken to myself in the bath, those uttered to birds, ants and feline friends, all epiphanies articulated to sleeping lovers, the mantras used in meditation, my endless pontifications to others, and my prayers to God) and placed them on a scale It turns out they balance perfectly with the silence in my life (which I counted to include the fractions of a second uttered in-between words, the years spent sleeping, the times I was left speechless by an astounding act of stupidity (or by the magnificence of my experience), the times I was hushed making a point, and the month I took to observe a vow of silence when my mother died)  [Kybalion, Chapter X - All things are balanced] The weight of our bowing heads becomes so great late in life that it bends our backs; but the burden of our illusions heaves with equal force reaffirming the equipoise obvious to aesopian minds [a mid-life sophism: Σ (α - Ω) = Ø] All the effort we exert toiling at science reading scripture and tea leaves marketing the loosening of knots -- seeking to shift the world on it axis as Archimedes promised we could, is perfectly compensated for by the élan in the breast of the clan, the inertia of our ancestors, the animus of God [translation: life is a zero-sum game] But to weep like Alexander, is to appreciate the epistemology of an emmet to miss the eletheurian apocalypse of this philosophical emesis These runes, that carry no weight I ink not as engramic footprint but as nurturing of the wilted deva within a counterbalance to the fashionable kenosis that turns universal equilibrium into nihilism shifts humanity's taxis towards servilism [deus ex machina] The prescribed recipe, I'm told as catharsis for weary souls ailing of lycanthropy is to collect one's injuries in a vial with the whiskers of feline friend mix these and in dry parchment runes to ink I counted mine (there weren't many): broken teeth and ribs mother's view of me as heartless the cinders of my ego (what remains after the wyrmling's touch) memories of the yellow people the guilt of having parted the torment of an alien nation a lifelong deathwish [22-IX-2011]
Copyright © 2011 Erick Calder
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