PRIMA MATERIA ICARO

You sit on the moist dirt of your past, eyes closed to the darkness falling.

A fragile circle forms around a wise fire. Your spirit takes notice.

The plaintive call of the night bird invites you to drink-in 

the stars and their release from all dodging and vigilance.

You start where there is no beginning at a changing place 

awaiting the mercurial serpent of your fanciful awareness

in a time frozen on your ardent but imprecise judgments,

fully intending from within a vision of a grave illusion.

In flurries of fear you realize your mind is not purely personal,

it gathers intuitions from autonomous alien agents

and unconscious energies of divine reflexes

and invisible revelations from aching somatic voids.

The untouchable stone of the mystic is brought forth 

out of filth by fractaling birds and fishes to reveal 

the charging surrender of eternal medicine

swirling the night deeper within you.

A sympathetic inside and autonomic outside

form a force de jure from the collapsing soul center.

A moment before it sustained the languishing suspense of being alive.

Now it taunts and tempts with torments from your ego-inspired heaven.

Raise your silent voice to the suffering Earth.

Proclaim yourself the chthonic child of the fornicating Sun and Moon. 

Release all defenses and allow the snake being swallowed

safe passage through you into the golden eye of unconscious promise.

There is no escape from knowing yourself as only the reaction to pain

or feeling yourself the instrument of self-dissolving insight.

True Love is the purge of everything we are and we want

for everything we need in place, to go beyond ourselves.

We cry out – if our dreams don’t exist, then what is the purpose of Love?

Stare into the flame of dancing shadows.

Let your cleansing convulsions be a merciless call to fleeing angels.

Night is the eternity exhaled with each raucous breath.

Light is the memory made absurd in frolics of alien laughter.

You are the alien of yourself as in waves of agony

you realize your deepest meaning is no meaning at all,

the hoped for healing is only the acceptance 

of your sudden estrangement from your golden imago.

Enlightenment awakes to see you as nothing,

holding onto nothing. All the while, the stubborn thing that asserts

it’s something endures the pain of endlessly trying.

You must chose what to endure – the nothing of enlightenment

or the pointless pain of your own meaning.  

In the depths at the lowest point lies a despairing peace of nowhere else to go.

It’s there where the ego crushes into the Soul and both are wounded.

It’s there where we purge and find – it’s never been a life to hold onto.

It’s only been a show, a sacrificial surrender in a passion play of empty dreams.

What you think you are is nothing, 

but you must empty yourself anyway.

The purified Soul is the kenosis of the Void.

Empty the golden illusion from the false vision.

Empty the nothing.

Breathe.