We sometimes like to think

That our arguments are new.

We like to think that our era is perfect

And that our arguments and ideas have not

Lived on since the beginning of man.

 

When you read old works—

If you can understand them—

You start to notice that astrophysics was known in the 16th century.

You begin to understand

That men understood all that we can understand today.

 

The difference between then and now

Is that today we cannot know Word.

We had all of our knowledge then,

But then we had the conscience of Word.

Today we cannot perceive it

And so make Milton’s villain the hero.

Though, in the sixth Chapter he explicitly forbade that reading.

 

It makes me think nobody reads the books

And yet still their scholarship is published.

 

Satan used reason to murder and commit theft.

Philosophy, as Milton understood it,

Was Satan’s justification for making war with God.

Yet, Raphael dismissed man’s faulty reason

Their pitiful explanations of the cosmos,

And told man what Voltaire told us.

 

“Till thy garden.”

There’s nothing more to write.

There’s nothing more to say.

Sailing off to the other-world

At the end of life

Is the only sweetness I can lend.

 

How reason has proven false

All that I loved.

And with that, blood flows through the valleys

Of the wine press.

Lay burden to bear

There were two things I desired.

I will find them when the ship sets sail.

For— You might call it pretentious

But I like writing complex poems.

It speaks what this mind conjures

In full breadth of its image.

 

Perhaps like music

It is loved for the repetitions.

That we can predict the next sequence of notes.

 

In my eye, I see great things

Landscapes and valleys.

I wish to choose language that speaks what is in me.

But, whatever I love, it is insufficient.

What I hate, it is regarded as priceless.

So, blood spills down the valleys

Because we mistake what is stone

With what is flesh.

 

I would love to fly away like a bird

Or hide away in the forests I love.

But, rather, I see the whole world wishes itself to change.

And if change it must,

Then men are the artifacts they worship.

For no knowledge can prove the foundations of love.

Yet, there it is for me to see and touch.

Rather, it takes much imagination to reason it away.

When I set sail, I would have already known.

Before the fault was found

Horae drew her bow

Raised it to his beating lungs

And let fire her flaming salvo.

 

His offense was that he breathed the air

Of the goddess.

For he spake his love in great excesses

His image,

His molten work;

He spoke to her often

About the banner over her

The ensign,

The fleeting glimpse he gave her ivory neck

As it bore nude cream to the sumptuous shoulders.

 

So, she drew forth her iron bow

And shot the crease of his ribs

And penetrated his collapsing lung.

“History flows in its direction—

Those who stand in its way

Are artifacts.” — A Postmodernist

 

How many men does history leave behind?

A good and prosperous nation

Which it did its best to break;

Praises the Cur Kairos

Who is allied with the serfs

Who, after having been made free,

Wish to place themselves back in shackles.

In the hell built for the rich

The idle rich, and the angry rich

Do their dance in the river styx.

 

How I can see it,

But the translator cannot.

In fact, nobody has ever found it before.

 

Probably because a poet knows their poetry.

And we know why it’s written.

 

While Plato lambasted us for not being credible

I found poetry is not our catalog of factoids

But rather the history of our moral knowledge.

I have an IQ of 157.

It’s humbling to see

How I don’t even come close

To the top crust of geniuses.

 

The lowest on a list I found was 170.

 

I love poetry…

 

My claim to fame might be

A high reading comprehension and retention.

 

Lol.

 

I can devour Chaucer like it’s

James Paterson.

 

A difficult text to me is

Ezra Pound’s Cantos,

 

But that’s only because I think it

Intentionally tried to talk in gibberish.

I’m still trying to crack that nut,

But I think it’s a Postmodern Work

Meant to draw out the subconscious’ story.

My words are war

Though my heart is peace.

I speak war,

So I may bring peace.

 

I see violence on the battlefields,

I see red fields of sward.

Anger rests in my bosom

As men sweetly reminisce on war

And violence.

 

For me, I speak words of warfare

Speak my foul breath.

Yet, there would be brother against brother.

I will die for him

Rather than this country.

Should I die of starvation

In solitary confinement in the Gulag,

Sent there for shaking hands,

Then I will allow myself to die.

 

I have nothing to fight for in this world.

I have nothing to live for

But to die, there is my gain.

I am the Last Blackbird.

I am a Mockingbird.

I am a Bluebird.

Word supplies the axioms

Which mathematics cannot provide.

Not by logic, but by idealizations.

And in an age where we value mathematics

Over poetry, we severely limit our own possibilities.