The chase ends
when you stop running
from yourself.

The second power of the Sphinx
is Will.

"Motion is by mind alone." ⊙
Intelligence, armed with Wisdom,
        fortified with Understanding,
        self-realizes.
                The will to power orchestrates
                desire, giving flesh to dream.

                       (ripples in the waters of מ)

        Who awakens, ceasing Motion,
        becomes the Mover:
        the omnipresent Point.

Will is the Artificer of Truth.
Truth embodied by Art
follows conception.
Existence produces mythos.

                "The Maze, the Maze that is the Secret,
                loves Itself.
                And in the love of Itself,
                amazing things Become." ⊾

To Will is to express:
to falsify the inestimable
and create by omission.

        "The world-dream is a lie." Ω

        "Lo, for these words that stain the lips of the Anointed,
        the Smeared Ones.
        Smeared in the ashes of My blood
        is the lie that is Our story." ⊾

The cause of Action is narrative.
The effect of Action is narrative.
I speak the Word.
I hear the Word.

The Story begins.

The first power of the Sphinx
is Knowledge.

Science, philosophy, and religion
are the Holy Trinity;
        once a singular discipline,
        broken today into Three
                over differences in
                epistemology:

the First is a narrow window
into empirical space;

        the Following a flexible framework
        in conceptual space;

                the Final, all-encompassing
                on the stage of the soul;

                        neither invalidating
                        nor undermining each other,
                        but Checking and Balancing.

Facts are interpretations;
theories are stories;
storytelling, myth;
myth, the key to Knowledge.

To Know is to conceive.
To conceive is to objectify,
but far from objective:

We understand
what we invent.

                        "All things are Known.
                        What shall we do
                        with what we Know?" ¬

When curiosity is not slain,
but permitted in the vacuum
of the eternal Question,

Then are the journey
and the journeyer
initiated.

Being Is;
Its nature is unity,
Light beyond light.
Being takes Form
in the Word: ॐ

        "There is a meaning in Light
        that makes Itself known
        through the Word." ∞

Word is a Symbol
that facilitates Idea.
Idea orders thought
into Belief -
which is to say,
possibilities.

Belief limits perception.
Desire potentiates perception.
Will sets perception in motion.

Thus,
the Universe,
and in reverse,
its destruction.

Rhythm the knife
  hacks eternity into Meter,
  sharpens Itself into Phrase.

Our Song of the Severed Soul.

One wide-open
   mouth sings the bewildering
   majesty of Silence.

Signal drowning in the noise.

A ****** of Shrewd
   crows peck out the eyes
   of an out-of-tune reality.

This Geometry of eclipsed lines.

Free from the bonds
   of Melody, liberated
   from the Staff, awakened.

My Song the Quiet of Forests

Interstices where no discord
   mars the naked Truth,
   nor dulls the timbres of Self.

Here shall I shout my ineffable Gladness.

Where the ear of no listener
   may its fairness tickle,
   nor its Word turn astray.

*The winds of my Flute
blow sweetest.

When mom was dying,
she felt like everything
she'd worked for
was gone.

She showed me Life
as Its steward
and Death
as Life's reward.

How to lean into
the unknowable
whether I want to
or not.

That our deeds,
carved meticulously into
the bedrock of Forever,
are immortal.

It becomes clearer
that our work
is not for us,
but for It.

This life
is service;
only what we give
is truly ours.

Taste of blood
lingering, flesh still
against the tongue.

Bound tight, the willing
neck in the noose
swallows.
All continuity
sprawls forth.

This Truth
we keep Secret
is the burden
of the throat.

Love too strong for
those who bear it
is a curse invoked
by a deficit of worth.

It is not enough to
seek validation through
a proxy designated
Heaven on Earth.

With no center of gravity,
no anchor in character,
obsession is the limit
of the capacity to love;

Projecting impossible
desires and untenable
expectations amounts
to blasphemy of.

True love may not be
forever or easy;
parting may never
be pleasant to bear;

Love is not merely
what's pleasing or comfortable;
love is a crucible;
love is not fair.

Those fleeting failures
and moments of error
are chances at triumph,
a challenge to change.

Breaking our boundaries,
ballooning outward:
love is inevitably
savage and strange.

Unbefitting to cling
to the bridge that enables
a star in its wand'ring
to cross the abyss;

To carry the ballast
of vast insecurity
over that chasm,
untenable risk;

Or swallow the poison
of foolish dependence
on whimsical paramours,
obesiance thereof,

To be hung from the neck
by detestable premises,
weak and debased
by untenable love.

The only place in the world
where I almost
stepped on a syringe
on the beach

My father said,
"I don't love you
unconditionally."

I heard,
"I'm not ready to love
unconditionally."

Success is
learning the things
he couldn't.

"I'm so complicated!"
he said, exasperated.
But really,
he was too young
to understand himself.

While the globe crawls as
S L O W
as my bill is thin,
I've got places to go,
sunsets to chase
and mighty, invisible wings
to feed, so

              bring on the sugar water!

Feathers flickering furiously;
sweet Jesus!
where are my feet?
I am BUZZING through today,
routes as long as my tongue
repeated in an
unbroken line
thousands of times,

              hey, *******, you goon!
              That's MY nectar!
              Scram!

Planning my daily rounds,
relying on the donations
of fans who eye my turf war
with childish glee

              and I hope
              beyond hope to see
              pitcher after sweet pitcher
              waiting for me

Because neglect is starvation,
an end to the thrum
of tiny hearts.

Closure invents a reason to let go;
that hoped-for last **** is
anything but

Life is cataclysmic.

Seizing an imagined moment
in a now that ends
before its beginning

signifies a slavery to transience
so complete and pervasive
that words heave and shudder
in its withering folly

Timeless puzzles are incompletable
by artifice; rather, resignation
to disparate pieces,

and identification with neither
the pieces that didn't fit,
nor those that did

The period does not
complete the sentence.

The sentence ends
when it is finished.

Youthful ignorance wishes
    that life meant something
    external

But nothing means anything
    to anyone until one gets
    involved

Meaning follows experience
    inexperience has no place
    demanding

Maturity destroys innocence
    self-indulgent egocentrism
    encourages

Failure to find deeper meaning
    is failure to build the bridges
    connecting

How convenient to blame life
    for meeting the low expectations
    we've sown

I start listening
when you stop talking

"we're all just blowing wind
until we stop"

He wore a crisp white suit,
exquisitely tailored; His hair,
platinum-blonde, styled elegantly,
fluttered lightly in the exhaust
of an unseen fan, casting
the shimmer of overhead lights
onto the mahogany table where we sat.

He was a beautiful man, but fearsome --
the lines and angles of His face were harsh,
nearly ugly, but regal and proud.
Contemplative and intense, legs crossed,
He smoked a black Djarum clove,
blowing plumes of curling perfume.

And He was unhappy with me.

With a voice like gravel and nails,
He asked about my whereabouts of late.
I had forsaken Him for love, and suddenly
felt the weight of my deserter's guilt.

He nodded in understanding,
His eyes squinting in deep thought,
then coming to rest on my torso;
Looking down, I saw it wrapped
in lavish dress, a suit as fine as His,
but black as the maw of death,
and remarked, "This is not my suit."

"It's Mine," He confirmed. "Keep it;
I think you're going to need it."
I understood that He spoke rightly.
Our eyes met. Finally, He smiled,
and clapping His hands, exclaimed,
"Let there be Light," and I awoke.

I had thinking to do.

Months passed in tense emotion;
Then dysfunction spilled over,
and on an unexpected night,
I prepared to dream alone, disrobing
for the quiet undertow of sleep.
Suddenly I heard His voice ring out.

He bade me lie in wait, so still
and so silent, feigning sleep.
Soon came footsteps in the courtyard,
keys jingling outside the door,
the door opening to allow entry,
a cigarette cherry in the dark,
restless pacing back and forth.

I knew something was wrong;
I awoke to betrayal,
and responding in kind,
Anger became Righteousness,
and revenge became Truth.
But it was not sufficient.

I had Work to do.

Opportunities materialized.
I prepared for action, clothing myself
in shadows, preparing the altar stone,
collecting candles, prayers, photographs,
the proper words for invocation,
plotting the course of the Moon.

The time came; the bell was struck;
the candles lit (twelve black, one white);
the perfumes hung thick in the air.
The words read themselves in monotone,
unperturbed by my hyperventilation.

Wind picked up, threatening the flames.
Danger welled up in the pit of my belly.
Innocence dissolved in passion,
extending into eternal shade.
I had become what I had invoked.

I poured it into the chalice and slept.
Upon awakening, I was myself again.

The fruit of my act was terrifying.

We sat in His parlor, drinking tea,
lazy rays of golden sunshine
illuminating a cozy, peaceful room.
With but a hint of fear, I noticed
that as He sipped in silence, He wore
a suit as black as the soul of a ghoul.
This time, it was I who wore white.

I knew that He was pleased.

Isn't Earth God's church?
Isn't Christ against money-lending?
Then, isn't it a sin to own a mortgage?
Guess you're all going to Hell!

The Wheel is not the axle,
nor the spot it touches road.
Reinvention is the brief kiss
of rubber on pavement
as the eternal Idea of Reality
remembers Itself in Time.

That whose nature is Nature
is That whose existence alone Is
unimaginably imaginal

Behavior is ******;
   Bodies are *** objects.
      Persons are more than bodies.
   Sexuality neither invites,
nor licenses, violation.

The savior's Hand clutches my heart.
The adversary's Hand clutches my soul.
It is the same Hand.

Yet when I think of It, It becomes Two;
from the wrist, I follow each to its terminus,
finding but one Body.

Love binds conceiver and conceived,
whose polarity conceals a Balance:
the war of the One.

Being is the Conclusion of Thought
that opens up the window of conception
which ends in Body.

Birth begins long before conception;
death shall inevitability follow birth;
between these, vespers.

Seeming parts of dreaming Self
drawing and quartering One Reality.
The Hand is my Own.

Who dare quash my quest for authenticity,
the truths I alone must speak or swallow?

What monstrous world shapes my identity,
lays out a path for me to fail or follow?

Why, entangled in this web of complexity,
shall I be entrained to accept its sorrow?

Where will I go when instilled dependency
crumbles in my lack of faith in dead tomorrows?

The box is open;
all its treasures have spilled out,
the sour milk that cures.

Then, a door slams shut,
and we can no longer move
where secrecy reigns.

On the other side,
one can find oneself anew,
wand'ring in the wastes.

Today, when I die,
I shall give my body up,
that I become free.

Pink blossoms falling,
warriors falling in kind;
Portland in springtime.

Hale, hearty hana
aloft on the vernal winds,
transient beauty.

Cut down in my prime,
someday, I, too, shall fall down,
fading into dirt.

Like my mother did,
and my father before me,
returning to dust.

Until then, I fight;
Until then, I carry on,
a blossom in Spring.

THE* objectifies ALL;
OR disavows ALL.
They beget OTHER, politicizer of ALL.
There is war.

AN marginalizes ALL.
THEM dismembers ALL.
The ANTHEM nationalizes ALL.
There is war.

MY manipulates ALL.
ONE misconstrues ALL.
They beget MONEY, commodifying ALL.
There is war.

From misunderstanding
arises *sorrow;
from ignorance,
conception.

Quiescence:
The world yet to be;
change is imminent.

Excrescence:
The world as holistic;
change is traumatic.

Juvenescence:
The world as wondrous;
change is fascinating.

Adolescence:
The world as oppressive;
change is institutional.

Tumescence:
The world as idealized;
change is self-discovery.

Hyalescence:
The world as conceived;
change is forgotten.

Obsolescence:
The world as impossible;
change is unimaginable.

Senescence:
The world as finite;
change is death.

Obmutescence:
The world beyond conception;
change is māyā.

Latescence:
The world as a memory;
change is time.

Putrescence:
The world as continuous;
change is nature.

Rejuvenescence:
The world in utero;
change is birth.

Tolerance is a form of intolerance:
public acceptance, private disdain,
the pretense that humanity is one's to allow.

Acceptable operating parameters
are not to be defined by support,
and certainly not by a token indifference.

To tolerate is to glorify one's limits.
Feigning acceptance of the beyond,
true character remains just out of reach.

Better to hate openly and honestly
than veil it in the robes of community;
...better yet, see tolerance for what it isn't.

?
You showed me the way
"out"; I showed you the way 'in':
when we came (!), we left.

All history is Black history,
wrapped in the shadows of time,
obscured by secret purpose and motive.
The Mother of mankind is as black as night itself,
the rich earth as dark as the space between stars.
History IS Black, and a month barely begins
to scratch its near-inscrutable surface.

We are trapped in a world that Is.
There are many things that Are Not,
and to see them is to see their entire lives.

I see beings.
I see their entire lives in an instant,
being devoured and loving and living
in a world that does not realize
it is already over.

Space is false.
Reality opens when your eyes close.

Space is a lie;
reality is the key that unlocks the lie,
and it spreads like a disease.

Awareness is pestilence.
It is the devourer that thinks "I"...

The walls give way to time. There is no way to imagine the reality of words.
As I scribe I am watched, and the words erase.
There is no meaning in paper.

The voice that comes when I call is never wrong.
It is the reality underneath the paper, underneath the meaning.
Everything we live is a colorful spectre,
a patient expression of a Self we have just forgotten.

And Self is an alien being
riding a heap of slowly rotting meat.

The reality of the universe is that even the shadows live and watch,
and time does not notice your closed eyes and hands clutching your face,
as waves of reality speak to the third.
Only then do the eyes see.

I am versed in the deeper Color, in the unreachable Shape.
There is a world that does not know what it is to cry.
Time comes through your closed fingers.

Meaning is awake and self-creating.
The waves that come are not accidents but spontaneous meaning.
Space unfolds in words, in the minds of those living on its pages.
The page is not real.

Many things coalesce in the dance of nothing,
the beauty of the perpetual unreal.
Eyes are not needed to See.
There is a meaning in Light that makes itself known through the Word.

Everything is a record that closes in on itself,
and eyes are closed meaning that leaves
the memory of Sight, and were my eyes gone
I could still see the waves of time exploding from my self-aware Sight,
for I am the bearer of Meaning greater than Shape can express.

The excess of Meaning must be wrought on the Page,
on worlds of our own imagining.
There is a truth in the telling.

The appeal of plunging from a great height
is the scenery on the way down:
a thrill with consequences that destroy a man,
whether or not he leaps.
The symbolism is blindingly lucid:
Life apprehends the void,
and fills it with itself.

The face is the soul's thumbprint,
the shape of character belying all lies;
subtle, compelling, and telling geometry:
face, the equation of I.