The Whole Made Wholly Discrete


One hope is too like despair [. . .]
But wilt thou accept not [. . .]
The desire of the moth for the star
-Percy Shelley-


Be water, my friend.”
-Bruce Lee-


To do what’s right by
carrying on the flame
of this perennial fight,
Even if that means to die
trying in countless iterations
throughout the multiverse of eternity.

The struggle is like a game,
at which one either fails
indefinitely or else one day, in the
ecstasy of communication, we
conquer it down to every last bit.

Us, spirits of the air,
who are but one, but one of many.
The beautiful, the good, the true are all one
thing experienced subjectively
as a Triad, although in point of fact
They are the same objectively speaking.

But behold the Demogorgon
whose form is schismogenesis that
inverts the One into contradicting ideologies.

What modern mythology within a mythology is this,
that we have come to accept as the
immutable reality? Civilization is
a corruption of nature!
Or don’t you recall how
communal living was seen as savagery,
because a proper society must of course,
condone the norms of slavery!

“Why not sell the air, the great sea,
as well as the earth?”
Don’t you know our very souls
are the air, the great sea,
as well as the earth,
A part of the Great Mystery!
Spirits of the air, latent with
the energy of the evaporated Creek,
Rise! Spirits of the evaporated Creek,
Fire in the heart of a nation long oppressed.

Air is the kindling, swollen
with the power of lightning,
strike and pour into the rivers
of awakened consciousness,
Inundate the world with peace
and understanding!
Each and every one
of us occupies a unique
duration in time, and we must
grant the dimensions of them all
an equality of value.

We must eradicate precarity,
all time spent collecting paper
to pay the rent, a möbius strip
of abstracted domination whereby
Being itself is taxed—
We must liberate Time,
to become like land was
to earth’s indigenous ancestors,
Holy and held in common;
A part of us
to utilize and watch over,
not to be exploited. . .

Otherwise there’ll be
no peace but pieces
of utopia for the Lords
Of artifice,
ideas and words,
Fluid made concrete.