And So Too Can I…

 And So Too Can I…
 
I have ears to hear,
And so I can listen.
My brain may not comprehend,
But my intuition
            Can distinguish
            Disposition.
 
I have eyes to look,
And so too can I see.
I can notice and focus,
Tell forest from the tree.
            Can understand…
            Can truly see.
 
I have hands to touch,
And so too can I feel.
Go deeper—below the skin,
I can give or can steal.
            Touch your body,
            To hurt or heal.
 
And, I have my tongue,
And with that I can taste
The food that I must consume ,
Or your lips, that lay waste…
            To all my plans:
            Profane and chaste.
 
And I have a mind,
To think about all this.
I can rearrange it all--
Reinterpret all this.
            But to what end?
            To what new Dis?
 
 

Ignoring The Storm

 Ignoring The Storm
 
That ambitious feeling,
In the calm before the storm,
Of planning the future:
Unknown substance set to form.
 
Over the horizon
Is a chaos that’s ignored,
Though the clouds and colors
Hint that things will be unmoored.
 
Still, we go on as if
What will come is like what was.
As if the chaos is
The same as what always was.
 
But the conception of
Things being orderly--
The is and the what was--
Is just a simple story.
 
It is the one we tell
Over and over again,
And we make it work out
At least nine times out of ten.
 
We shun or lose those parts
That we can’t manage to fit
Into the narrative:
The ‘firm’ ground on which we sit.
 
Setting substance to form
Is what we as humans do.
We take the abyss, the blob,
And we find ways to make do.
 
We ignore the looming storm,
Overlook what won’t conform,
Because that’s the only way
To make it through every day.

Fear of the Unknown

Fear of the Unknown
 
The fear of the unknown:
Is it a love of routine?
Or is it avoidance
Of the everyday unseen?
 
Things we cannot avoid,
That our language does not name:
Outside cause and effect,
Forces that we cannot blame.
 
These things have always been,
But they aren’t really a thing.
For things, words are needed:
Reality’s what words bring.
 
The fear of the unknown
Is desire to survive.
It may be misleading,
Or it may cause us to thrive.

Meta

Meta
This glowing void.
This phone shaped hole,
That promises to fill,
But just steals, your soul.
 
Always at hand
With something new.
Posturing as the whole.
There to complete you.
 
Gate to the world.
Transformative:
Says, “You can have it all.”
“Your dreams you will live.”
 
But emptiness,
And restlessness,
Are all you really feel.
And those are what’s real.
 
The Meta is what’s next.
Its better than the real.
The next evolution.
The perfect we all want to feel.

Dreaming and the Box (Director’s Cut)

Dreaming and the Box (Director’s Cut)
 
The box is what’s real;
It’s what we agree on.
It shapes all out words:
What our facts are based on.
 
Outside of the box,
Is the irrational.
The pure world’s chaos,
Purely relational.
 
It is relation
Without any center.
It is free floating,
Always in a wild stir.
 
It has no grounding,
And it has no language.
It can’t present facts
Or reasoned lineage.
 
It’s real, in a way.
It has physical force,
And it can move us
And influence our course.
 
But that influence,
We cannot comprehend,
Cannot understand…
We can only pretend:
 
Pretend to see it;
Pretend to understand;           
Pretend to name it;
Pretend we can command.
 
For that is our age,
To control and command:
Infallible sage,
Nonconformants be damned.
 
It’s simply dreaming:
Outside the box thinking.
To make it something,           
Takes much work and planning.
 
To give it logic--
To forge* the words for it--
That’s the only way,
We can comprehend it.
 
The box is what’s real
Just because we agree
On the facts and words
To confine what we see.
 
 
* James Joyce from Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: “… to forge in the smithy of my soul…”

Dreaming and the Box (Raw Footage)

Dreaming and the Box (Raw Footage)
 
In order to think
            Outside the box…
You have to know quite well,
            What is in the box.
 
If you don’t…
            You are merely daydreaming.
 
Wisdom of the ages
            Is ridiculed
                        Without a proper reading.
It’s not even misunderstood,
            When you are daydreaming.
 
To take on wisdom
            Is not a fools task,
            Or a waste of time.
It is what makes you
            And your dreams
                        More real,
And solid.
 
It gives them reason and rhyme.
Makes them understood…
 
And provides a plan
            To rebuild the box.

Yes, I Love You

 

Yes, I Love You
 
I can’t expect
Anything from you.
I just enjoy,
Anything you do.
 
You can’t make me
Jealous or upset.
Because I know,
It’s a losing bet.
 
All that I want,
All that I can want,
Is to know you,
So you can haunt…
 
My thoughts and hopes.
Not thoughts for myself…
Or my life’s hopes…
Or for my shelf.
 
Yes, I love you,
But not to have you…
But for how you,
Brighten the world’s hue.

From Conviction to Fall

 From Conviction to Fall
In the absence of meaning,
We cling to conviction.
We assert certainty,
Crucify dereliction.
 
Can’t stand ambiguity
Which meaning might embrace--
Because meaning has depth
Conviction often can’t face.
 
Conviction is just a skin--
A surface that protects
The real substance below
From what corrodes and infects.
 
Below is what is complex:
What is hard to define—
Mined from reality;
What we can’t simply refine.
 
But simplistic convictions,
Lead to quick eviction
Of true contradictions
That defy the non-fiction.
 
Nothing rises from the core.
Nothing beats us, makes us sore.
It is the quaint and the simple,
That we worship and adore.
 
And when meaning is simple,
It isn’t meaning at all;
It is a childish fable,
Setting us up for a fall.

Perfection, Progress/ Values, Meaning, Feeling

 

Perfection, Progress/ Values, Meaning, Feeling

We push for perfection,
And so we miss the point.
We pass the inspection,
But still we disappoint.
 
It is out fixation with
The boxes we check-off,
That leaves us all empty.
Faced with substance, we scoff.
 
Beauty isn’t even
In the beholder’s eye.
It’s only in the plans,
We faithfully apply.
 
So beautiful because
They give us what we want.
Beauty of creation?
Or progress we can flaunt.
 
But how to define them:
Progress and perfection?
By the new and shiny?
By a passed inspection?
 
What of substance?
What of meaning?
What of values?
What of feeling?
 
When the ends and the means
Don’t consider meaning,
Take for granted values,
And are always fleeting…
 
How do we fill ourselves:
Our souls and our lives?
And not just our stomachs.
With checkmarks and archives?
 
We are not boxes;
We are not machines;
We are not problems;
We are human beings.

The Mad and Madman

The Mad and Madman

"... And everybody goes 'awww!'"*

It's the mad ones,

The ones that burn:

A "starry dinamo"**

And never learn. 

Souls all a flame,

Heads on fire.

They make a spectacle

To admire.

Then they are gone

And left aside,

Or it's best that they are,

So flames subside.

A luxury,

To be so mad--

One we can't all afford.

A mindless fad,

A lesson in discord.

"There has never been a greater deed..."***

The madman shouts

What we need,

(Or what we should all) know.

But do we heed? 

The obvious:

Just beyond us...

Just outside the fog that 

envelopes us.

He tries to lead,

To walk us though

That fog and beyond it:

To something new.

A luxury?

For us to have

Something like a prophet,

To plant the seed

From which we all profit. 

*Jack Kerouac from On The Road 

**Allen Ginsberg from Howl

***Nietzsche from The Madman 

Prophecy, Rhyme and Truth

 Prophecy, Rhyme and Truth

Prophets speak the truth,
And they speak in rhyme.
People find that truth,
When they feel that rhyme.

The epistemology,
Of our postmodernity?
Shouting into the dark void,
Brings solace to the annoyed.

And what do we do...
The enlightened few...
When shouting masses
Drown out what is true?

If what they find doesn't rhyme?
How much should we give in time...
Until we force compliance...
And stifle their defiance?

Ah, but who are the prophets?
And what does it mean to rhyme?
And to be in our own time?
And about prophets’ regrets?

Too much to say...
Too much in the way...
Too many ways to rhyme...
And way too little time...

The Inconvenient

The Inconvenient

 

Ah, what is the real,

But the inconvenient?

That which we must change;

That we must reimagine.

 

Over and over

We repeat the process.

When we make it work,

We call it progress.

 

That’s the narrative

We shoehorn it into.

It’s how we make sense;

How we forge what is true.

 

But what does that mean:

When we say ‘to forge’?

It’s to smithy it;

Not to counterfeit it.

 

To shape it out of

The raw materials

That are what is real:

Inconvenient details.

If We Can Do It

If We Can Do It 

I can’t change
The path of the future,
But I can
Temper its passion and pace.
 
I can’t beat
Or avoid providence.
I must just
Meet it, and look in its face.
 
To confront,
But not control our fate.
To survive,
Not exaggerate our place.
 
The Power
That we have over it:
Over it all…
Over matter, time and space…
 
We are not God.
We are not gods.
Even if God,
Does not exist.
 
We cannot control,
Can only resist…
And define our role,
So we can survive.
 
That is all we can do,
If we can do it.
And if we can do it,
We hail it as true.

Poetry: Emotion and Description

 Poetry: Emotion and Description

 

Poetry without rhyme--

Like reason without logic--

Might work for a time.

 

It works with emotion--

Or vivid description--

To sustain its motion.

 

The movement of the soul--

Poking and prodding the mind--

Are good poetry’s goal.

 

All the better for it,

If it can do what is needed

And not have to rhyme it.

 

But how far can it go--

Emotion and description--

Before mind and soul slow?

 

Get worn out.

Get found out.

Without…

 

That old prescription

That singles it out…

From prose...

The Sun Comes Out

 The Sun Comes Out

The sun came out again:

All the smiles on the streets.

So did the scowls and frowns

Of depression and defeats.

 

The clouds haven’t lifted;

It’s the masks that have gone.

What joy: all the faces           

And emotions to look upon.

Have you READ A’s Ethics?

 Have you READ A’s Ethics?

 

One of the patriarchs

Of the patriarchy

Was all for cultural

Relativity.

 

But in the way back then--

Struggling to survive--

They judged. Because some died,

While others would thrive.

 

Though it was relative,

It still had to answer

To a goal and values.

To fail: a cancer.

 

To have equity…

Or equality,

Was a luxury.

 

And our decadence?

Idealistic.

With such arrogance!

Oh, so hubristic!

Sadness in My Eyes

Sadness in My Eyes

 
It is not sadness in my eyes.
It is a numbness,
An emptiness.
 
There is a rapacious seeking,
That is ambitious
And capricious.
 
That runs me ragged and tired…
In the name of what?
In search of what?
 
I cannot answer to those ‘what’s.
I just know the sum
Of it all:
               Numb and dumb…
                            With a sadness in my eyes.

Counterparts

  

Counterparts

Is the world coming to its senses?     

Or is it just coming apart?

Do the two have to be opposed?

Or can one be the other’s counterpart?

 

Opposite does not mean enemy.

When they rely on each other,

And need one another to work:

A bond with a competitive brother.

 

It’s a tension that works towards a goal,

That both of them are striving for.

Not one side beating the other;

The sum, not difference of the final score. 

Traveling Death

 

Traveling Death

            I told him, “I feel dead.” But, that wasn’t true, it was just small talk. I don’t feel dead, and I am not sure you can feel dead. Numb: yes, I have been there. Detached, removed: that too, and too often. Not dead. Not like I want to be dead either. That would be easy enough to make good on.

            It is like everything around me is dead; that was the feeling. I felt like everything was dead. That, however, is the biggest lie of them all. At this point, even the dead are not dead. It is the lie they got us all to start believing. Or, it wasn’t that everything was dead, it was that everything was dying. Or, that it was broken and on its way to death. Those, though, were just on ramps to the ‘everything is dying’ lie.

            As I sit here, waiting to get on the airplane, I am not dead. Nothing around me is dead: not even the leather of my shoes is dead; not the jet fuel being pumped into the planes outside. The cow isn’t dead; the dinosaurs are not dead; the people who died in the last months since I was last on a plane—or planning to get on a plane—are not dead. None of these are dead. They are all still acting in our lives. All of these things, and more, are thrown in front of us constantly: or thrown at us when we don’t heed the fear they are supposed to inspire. Constantly as dead, but that in itself keeps them alive. In a perverse way as well: still alive. We are beaten into thinking of them as dead. It helps makes us feel as if we are dead as well, or that we are on the verge of dying. We are at least broken, and because of that dying, in this dead and dying world.

            We are numb. Overloaded with death, with fear of death. We are tricked into identifying with the dead. If we are not numb, we are filled with anxiety. A near constant panic, a paranoia, grips us. We are shown that it is all not OK. We are shown that we need to fear. That it is not OK and we need to fear the absence of OK because it is akin to death. Because so much is dead, or dying, we could be dying too and not even know it. We could kill others out of our ignorance and carelessness. Our unawareness of our own situation; our own dying. If it isn’t fear and panic (if we deny the deadness and dying all around us), it is anxiety manifested as detachment. (And detachment can become that worst sin of carelessness.) We are not dead, but we are detached from everything, and so it feels dead to us. Even if it is chaos and panic, it feels dead. And, if we accept that it is all dead, then we must be dead too. Or we should want to be dead. Empathy. It is the highest of the virtues.

            Yet, we cannot want to be dead. Not consciously. We cannot admit that. And we cannot allow for others to die. When they die, we do too because it could have been us instead. No reason, logic or tracing. Everything is dead or dying, that we must accept. But we cannot accept death; we must defy it. We must defy ourselves to defy death, even the chance of it. Why? How? To not die, not ever. To defy death even though it scares us to death to do so. Or so it should.

            Of course, none of the people around me here at the gate are dead. And we are not dying. We have all been tested. Still, in the back of our minds it is kept alive that like that cat in the box: we could be both alive and dead.

We are dead serious, at least. No one looks excited or happy to be traveling. We don’t want to travel, or we can’t admit that we want to. It is necessary; we have to travel. It is a burden, a chore, a responsibility. It must be such; no one would put so many lives in danger if it wasn’t a necessity. The taxi driver, the check-in clerk, the security screeners, the pilots and crew… None of them chose to be exposed to this deadly pathogen that is always all around us. No, not just in our minds. No, they have to be here so you had better not take this lightly. You had better have to be here too. Otherwise: it isn’t responsible, reasonable, moral, just.

So we travel with this sense of responsibility: a moral duty and sense of justice to prevent death. We travel in jeopardy: not our own, but in an environment of jeopardy created by us. A responsibility to justice to avoid death. Death is all around us… or so they want us to believe. We must believe that we bring death with us—like we are trafficking drugs or weapons. We might suddenly inject anyone around us with a fatal hit. We might let the pin out of a grenade at any moment, and not know to throw, run, hide or fall on it.

We are all masked, but executioners were masked too. How can we be sure that none of the eyes around us are not looking to kill someone? And their faces are covered only so they can do so without getting caught.

I try to brush off the paranoia. I try to ditch the fear, or at least check it all at the gate. I try to put the death out of mind because even those that have died are not really endlessly dead. Not as long as we remember them. As long as we remember them and move on with purpose, with meaning. They may be dead, but they are would want us to live. That keep them alive somehow, as long as we keep living.

I get on the plane, finally. I get on to go to something that I should have attended to months ago, but I couldn’t because the planes stopped. That didn’t stop though, and it needs to be done in person. Or it needed to. Now, those plans and possibilities could be dead. Still, I won’t know until I go there, in person. Alive and in person.

I am not dead; none of us are dead. Though fear and guilt may make us numb: numb is not dead. Anxiety is not insanity, unless we give in to it. And even insanity is not death.

What Is Written

 What Is Written

It must fit the narrative.

It must skirt the taboo.

New and not derivative,

And not too tough to chew.

 

Isn’t this always the case?

It must not be too much;

It cannot be something base;

It must be safe to touch.

 

Who is doing the chewing?

That is a key question.

By whose jaws are we gaging,

What’s abstruse expression?

 

And what is original?

When is something stolen,

Or origin mystical?

Is creation beholden?

 

Yes, some things should not be said.

But the what or the why…

Which should control what is read?

Shouldn’t it be the why?

 

And what story herds the facts?

What tells us how it fits?

What is the spine in our backs?

What makes a whole of the bits?

 

It must fit us.

It must limit us.

It must shape us.

It must nourish us.

Birth Through Tragedy

Birth Through Tragedy

 

When we say, “It’s a tragedy.”

What is the point we are making?

There are some raw emotions, certainly,

But it’s more than a heart that’s aching.

 

Is it just emotional pain?

Just sadness or anger that’s felt?

Or, an inability to explain,

That makes the world all around us melt?

 

When what we see doesn’t make sense,

And our senses want to embrace,

What our logic tells us is an offence,

And we confront chaos face to face…

 

This is what tragedy should mean:

A shock that puts into question

Everything that is though, felt, heard and seen--

Demanding our own reinvention.

 

It is like seeing water burn,

Or having fire quench your thirst:

A situation that calls us to spurn

What we hold as deepest, dearest, first…

 

A tragedy should be a push

To abandon, think, search. And find?

To admit what we find behind the bush*

Was hidden and found by our own mind.

 

It rends what is, was, ought and ought not.

If our response is mere sadness--

Or anger and rage that leaves us red hot--

Tragedy only creates madness.

 

A true tragedy is a push:

A forced eviction from a womb;

A birth into a cruel world, an ambush,

But into a world, not a tomb.

 

And in that world, we must create

What is our new reality and state,

Which will, in time, become a brand-new womb.

Only for us to be born again…

Through a new tragedy,

With all its cruelty and beauty.

 

 

 

 

 

* "When someone hides something behind a bush and looks for it again in the same place and finds it there as well, there is not much to praise in such seeking and finding. Yet this is how matters stand regarding seeking and finding 'truth' within the realm of reason." --Frederich Nietzsche from On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense

Driving and Forgetting

Driving and Forgetting

What side of the street

Do the cars go on?

When someone else drives,

The fact isn't easily drawn.

You know it, no doubt.

But, to recall it,

Takes a split of time:

If you don't usually use it. 

When behind the wheel,

It is an instinct.

Not driving for years,

Makes the fact hazy, indistinct. 

Are there 'facts' like this,

Ubiquitous and numerous--

Like cracks and potholes--

But invisible like our souls?

Can knowledge we have

Start to sink when we neglect it? 

Know-how that we have,

Atrophies if we don't use it.

To know something, is not to use it.

To use it, is not to know it.

Disbelief, Suspended

 

Disbelief, Suspended

 

In a real way,

It is the suspension

Of disbelief,

And not perception…

 

Not pure logic

Or old superstition,

That serve as our

Ultimate foundation.

 

It is the way

We limit our purview.

How we sort things;

Give what matters its due.

 

This is a pen.

I am I; you are you.

Black and white…

Cause and effect are true.

 

These constructions,

Of which we are so proud,

They only hint

At what is behind the shroud.

 

It all has God,

Sitting high in his cloud—

If he is real—

Slyly laughing out loud.

 

But we shake on that deal

Countless times every day,

When we believe what’s real

In the words we say.

 

We choose to believe:

Not to be a skeptic.

Not to be a cynic.

Not to disbelieve.

 

Create, Select and Wield

 

Create, Select and Wield

 

As humans…

            Technology s what we do,

            But there’s a lot it can undo.

 

Following…

            A single start we created,

            Makes it seem it was all fated.

 

But our fate…

            Is in our own hands, even now,

            Because we never have to bow.

 

It’s our choice…

            To submit or to resist it.

            If we should swing, and what to hit.

 

It is truth…

            That is always in our own hands.

            Because its on values, truth stands.

 

Technology is just a tool.

And in truth, so is every truth.

But don’t be ignorant, a fool.

The consequences, they abound.

The values we use as our ground,

Should set the boundaries of the field,

In which we create, select and wield.

Reading Meaning

 

Nietzsche said, “God is dead.”

And now, Nietzsche is dead too.

Dead, not just in body,

But in efficacy too.

 

Parables don’t relate

If we don’t ruminate.

What we purport was said,

Depends on how it’s read.

 

Intentionality

Is not reality.

It’s how the words relate,

That determines their fate.

 

When word is put to page,

It’s removed from its age.

It’s divorced from the “sage;”

Their wisdom, truth or rage.

 

Nothing means anything,

Until, to it, we bring

Perspective and bias.

That’s where the power lies.

And from where truth will rise.

 

These Boots, The Ones I Am Thinking Of

 

These Boots, The Ones I Am Thinking Of

I sit here thinking, and seriously, over such a trivial matter as boots. These old looking and beat up boots. One pair in a line of the same make, model and style. They have been replaced, with a new pair that looks—and soon will feel—just the same. They cost more, but inflation is inevitable. The specifications are the same, on paper. And, to be honest, in practical reality they are the same as well. That is why I have bought the same ones this time, and other times. Not year after year, and not quite a decade in between each either, but the same each time, when the time rolls around.

These are worse for wear than others in the line of succession. The first pair saw my first major hikes: my first ascents to mountain peaks, and first portages. Those are long gone, and went without this sort of deliberation. Maybe because I was younger and less sentimental. Maybe because they were less expensive. Well, maybe not if you calculate for inflation. But I am neither an economist, nor am I skilled in math, so inflation is more of an abstraction than anything.

These broke open with holes; the others didn’t. But they also scaled more peaks and pulled kids on sleds through the snow more. They even put out a budding forest fire we happened to come across. Without extra water, or sand and a decent shovel, they stomped and kicked and did the trick. And that is when the holes started, most likely. The pants and shirt showed holes right away and are gone already. The boots opened up slower, and still managed to reach the ceiling of the land I call home before they really broke open. But boots take time to break (and break in) that pants and shirts don’t.

These are not the boots of a peasant woman. No German can claim that and take them from me. No obtuse or begrudging academic can return them to me either, or would even bother on the off chance that someone tried to take them from me. They are mine. They are not a peasant’s, nor are they an artwork. No one cares about them. No one but me. They have never been painted, nor are they the focus of even a single, simple photo. Not the focus of a shot, but they are in the frame—or just outside the frame— of pictures that I have. The pictures and the fame— of the cameras and lenses— are even more artificial now when images are too easy and ubiquitous. Not painted, but snapped.

These boots were often on my feet as I took some great pictures. They are not a darling of the artificial frame of the camera. And my pictures are not shared or well known. I am only thinking of pictures that are personal, not anything of general interest. Famous? As far away from that as can be imagined: in kilometers hiked on rough, or nonexistent, trails in places people never go or even hear about. Pictures taken (or memories made) in places poor shepherds see and sometimes tread, but probably don’t even remember.

Yet, here I sit. Here and now (with the next generation almost broken in and mostly comfortable on my feet) wondering about these boots. They are mass produced and worn out. Do I reserve them for a later day, in a peripheral place not yet made, where they might still be useful? Hold them to be stored in the front closet of a cabin not yet made? Or a in place made but rarely visited? Held there as a standing reserve, just in case. (Or just kept as an impulse of archive fever?)

Or do I give them away? Can I donate them? Or is that an insult? A slap in the face. They are still useful, in reality… especially if push comes to shove. But in the shape they are in, they look bad. They look unreliable, but they are not useless. But looks these days… Given the way they look, will they be used? I know they could be. But I won’t rely on them. So, to give them away and expect them to be used: is that an insult? A looking down on someone? Or should I just burn them? Like an offering, or an old-time funeral rite. But they are just objects. Not matter what went into making them, they are just things. And a rite, and honor, for a thing? The smoke will rise like an offering… but to what and for what?

I don’t need the heat from that fire. And the smoke will do I don’t know what to people or nature. Still, maybe burning them keeps them forever mine, and forever gone from everywhere but my mind. Gone up to the sky in part, and also gone back to the earth in part. Back to the earth they helped me tread upon. Not left sitting useless, or used by someone else.

Too many questions. Too many angles. Too much (personal) history. Too many (personal) thoughts. They are just boots after all. But that was just a painting too, of boots. But that painting was done by a master. Was it a master work though? Still, through some writing, it became so much more than just anyone painting in the catalog of a master, at least to some. Yet, why? More importantly: what came of it? And what came of my boots, and the use I put them to?

So these are not just boots, but more. And that was not just a painting, or an essay. All of them are more. But why? They are more than just objects, or nothing, for people that feel something about them and make them more. For people thinking on them. Or thinking in them, or about them. Or when making them. Them: the painting, the picture, the boots, the memories, the thoughts. All of that. The painting became so much more. The pictures too, and even the boots… Not all boots, but some. Some pictures and paintings too. But why? No, more importantly: what came of it?

So, these are not just boots, but more. And the same can be said of the pictures and paintings. More because of the thinking. My boots are more because of my thinking about them. When something comes of that? Even though nothing more may come from the boots… And for who will it come? Just me? Still, that is what makes things things and more than nothing.

It is the human thought that makes things more. Use uses them up, and that too is not nothing. But thought makes things last more than their use, their physical purpose. Use can be so mindless and fleeting. It is the thought, and often not much more that makes them something. Often it is nothing more than thought that makes them more than nothing. It is nothing less than that that makes them less than nothing. But what, physically, could be less than human thought? The physical nothingness of human thought that none-the-less makes anything, or everything, more than nothing. These boots are a place where thought meets, confronts and even makes, the physical something more than just a mere physical thing.

When Beauty Is Broken

When Beauty Is Broken

When beauty is broken,

We have no instinctive filter.

 

(Love is to beauty too dear;

Without one, the other can’t be spoken.)

 

Unless we fall back on fight, hate or fear.

 

Fight can help protect, or sustain,

            But it should not found.

            It cannot be primary.

            You should not ground on fight;

            That is base will-to-power.

 

Will-to-fear is the fountain of fear;

            Fear itself is submission.

            ‘They’ will you to do something

            And make you fear, if you won’t.

            That is not an all bad condition,

            As long as what is willed

                        Is not bad.

 

Will-to-hate is to strike out

            And should come from fear.

            Fear of danger for what you love

                        Danger to what is beautiful.

            But if we don’t love,

            We hate just in order to motivate.

                        It makes action easy to take

                                    And fulfill.

 

Hate and fear, make action easier.

            They make it easy to direct the will.

 

Fight makes it clear,

            Who has the power to will.

 

Will-to-beauty is art

            It is a will to order,

                        To place value

                                    Based on love or care

                        Not on fear

                                    Hate

                                                Or power

            Beauty is power

                        But power of persuasion

                                    To believe in what is good

                                                And to realize, what is good.