What an Ithaca Means
What an Ithaca Means

"My soul, your voyages have been your native land."
                        Nikos Kazantzakis

I am proud of what I am
though I am oft damaged,
at once, counterfeit lamb,
the dog in dogdernit
and wind the ever-present dew
that walks love and loss and joy, 
one breeze, grasping.

The ship, heart-mind-
loins, of my wandering
blown there to here
by Force, a savage genius
home, jailed, lost, cushioned
and comforted. 

She is my Signal Horn, 
where no wife is waiting.
Where there is no direction
lies movement like incense,
a fresh flower, atomic abstract goo. 

What do you see: limping in potent
abandon?, reckless dealers of dis-
harmony?: This is not a young land,
and no carnivale of information
leads a crisis of meaning.

My Soul, you rend me to Siren
and Muse, Fate and Fury;
it is you that separates,
marries. Brutal alchemy of my intestines
leaves these putrid hieroglyphs slit in sand. 

The I will burn a flag on every reason,
the one cross of your flaming 
daemon-body. We share an infinitesimal
dot in blank and unsounded
A tied-tongue trickster, we roam
as the wind and the things in it.

Simply as you are,
you care not whether
I am a lover of wisdom.
Indifferent of race or nation. 
We share the earth, 
a cosmos.
White light, unshelled.
Beautiful beyond... well, almost anything.  Humbling, even.

Have to admit, my first thought was "37" but that's kind of an in-joke.... goes with "Number Four."
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
I took care that the only one-word line is circumference. 

Usually when I talk of shells in some 'mystical' sense, I'm referring to qlippoth, and/or humpty-dumpty logic.

Continuing this line: Humpty Dumpty falls, and, maybe, from his strict manner, the Fall delivers him, from the sheltered Garden. See, HD, not Hilda Doolittle, or D. H. Lawrence in mirror-reflection, is sitting on the Wall that surrounds the Garden. He is both confident in his authority and playful with his reality, at least in letter. He seems genuinely perplexed and certain. 

And all the king's men are allowed to shove their own lances into their own graals, for time is but a death sentence
placed on a cloud,
the winner and the loser have the same bar to attend,
and Nat Wood is as beautiful now as she was when alive. 

I, that's me, am Bright Simplicity. And in this poem, I'm not referring to humpty-dumpty logic.

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