PART OF ME
Part of me is dead, part of me is sore,
and part of me doesn’t want the wound of being healed anymore.
I’ve been to the putrid hidden places,
I’ve plumbed the unholy shadow crevasses of my soul,
I’ve seen the other side of an expanding nothing
where ghosts of grief and regret are self-condemned to go.
I know they don’t want to hide there, I know they feel too exposed,
I know they’d rather flee deeper, where ego projections of a higher self never show.
There’s been so many exotic medicines and incantations in other tongues,
intoxicating protection smoke and wales of releasing sadness moving up
the bending ladder of memory’s fiery rungs. All through the night
the moody face of an indifferent blue moon failed to offer
as much as a comforting blink, it hung there useless, an inscrutable rune.
Never in the swirl of magic potions and heady voodoo aphorisms
did an answer ever appear within the squirming knots
of searing thought too unspeakable to think.
Some say the source of the once oppressive heat was all-consuming emotion,
dogged passions too inflamed for their purifying container,
they erupted with the energy of a thousand stars exploding on high,
but it’s a stark rebuke from life to finally find that kind of passion
is but a symptom of numb places yet to be where dreams go to die.
Those embers are cool now, the essence of all meaning ashen.
There comes a time in every journey when time and circumstance wins the destined battle,
when what is done is done in ways too indelible to explain or nameste away.
There’s only uneasy silence as solace after such a struggle ends,
only a lingering nausea and the scent of one’s lofty ideals’ decay,
only a dull ache at fracture points, evidence for where one just couldn’t bend.
More moments will appear in rote succession until just as suddenly they don’t,
One would think by its nature hope would rise again but not this time, no – it won’t.
The passage of time will be different now although one never dares to know how,
no sense mid-fall trying to force something elsewhere when that’s so against the Tao.
Acceptance becomes a coward’s acquiescence to the normalized view out-of-bounds,
and reality is merely a construct we use when we foolishly assume there’s common ground.
But I’ve been freed of all those illusions and incumbent delusions, and sappy false ideals,
I’ve felt the final justice of the actualized circus court that grants no compassionate appeals.
And now part of me is dead, and part of me is sore,
and part of me doesn’t want the wound of being joined to me anymore.
If only those parts were all of me I’d be so very free,
the rest of life would be so simple, the rest I would summarily ignore,
the rest I could write off and let play out as crass comeuppance,
the rest would be a prank, the rest mere shivaree
mocking the tragic union of my body and my soul.
and part of me doesn’t want the wound of being healed anymore.
I’ve been to the putrid hidden places,
I’ve plumbed the unholy shadow crevasses of my soul,
I’ve seen the other side of an expanding nothing
where ghosts of grief and regret are self-condemned to go.
I know they don’t want to hide there, I know they feel too exposed,
I know they’d rather flee deeper, where ego projections of a higher self never show.
There’s been so many exotic medicines and incantations in other tongues,
intoxicating protection smoke and wales of releasing sadness moving up
the bending ladder of memory’s fiery rungs. All through the night
the moody face of an indifferent blue moon failed to offer
as much as a comforting blink, it hung there useless, an inscrutable rune.
Never in the swirl of magic potions and heady voodoo aphorisms
did an answer ever appear within the squirming knots
of searing thought too unspeakable to think.
Some say the source of the once oppressive heat was all-consuming emotion,
dogged passions too inflamed for their purifying container,
they erupted with the energy of a thousand stars exploding on high,
but it’s a stark rebuke from life to finally find that kind of passion
is but a symptom of numb places yet to be where dreams go to die.
Those embers are cool now, the essence of all meaning ashen.
There comes a time in every journey when time and circumstance wins the destined battle,
when what is done is done in ways too indelible to explain or nameste away.
There’s only uneasy silence as solace after such a struggle ends,
only a lingering nausea and the scent of one’s lofty ideals’ decay,
only a dull ache at fracture points, evidence for where one just couldn’t bend.
More moments will appear in rote succession until just as suddenly they don’t,
One would think by its nature hope would rise again but not this time, no – it won’t.
The passage of time will be different now although one never dares to know how,
no sense mid-fall trying to force something elsewhere when that’s so against the Tao.
Acceptance becomes a coward’s acquiescence to the normalized view out-of-bounds,
and reality is merely a construct we use when we foolishly assume there’s common ground.
But I’ve been freed of all those illusions and incumbent delusions, and sappy false ideals,
I’ve felt the final justice of the actualized circus court that grants no compassionate appeals.
And now part of me is dead, and part of me is sore,
and part of me doesn’t want the wound of being joined to me anymore.
If only those parts were all of me I’d be so very free,
the rest of life would be so simple, the rest I would summarily ignore,
the rest I could write off and let play out as crass comeuppance,
the rest would be a prank, the rest mere shivaree
mocking the tragic union of my body and my soul.
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