Fiction for Artists, presents--
Universal Particle .com
------------Book III-------------

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Greetings, travelers.
Welcome to our in-game store.
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--what if I told you, everything was a lie?--
* Escaping with Promethean Fire
--"le rouge et la noir," in one act--
* Ghost Songs and Unicorn Blood
--a treatise on the substance of the mind--
* Black Kitchen and the Seven Sins
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BOOK THREE: "Crystal Gotham."
​
Stay chilly, cowboy.
O starlight walls,
Shake these muddy shells!
Aphorism #21
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Even steel chains cast by the gods, themselves,
cannot subdue the Fenris Wolf, but a ribbon,
forged with cobwebs, soft as babies, can— "Fate."
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A Blue Screen of Death
--what if I told you, everything was a lie?--
fffffff.
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That's the sound you make, when you got the Virus.
You know—some ads, webcam, shakin' bacon...
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"Oh no." Franky stammers. "No, no."
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Not this. Can't be this. That bacon—
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Too late, it was everywhere.
Blue was everywhere.
"The Blue Screen of Death."
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Ominous rows of programming text drip down his
field of vision against a backdrop of sinister sky blue—
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"Ah~~~!" Franky screams.
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---------------------------------------------------
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"So I clicked some scholarship donation ad," says Franky.
Maddie was checking his temperature.
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"What do you think?" asks Cole.
"Don't think we have a choice," says Jeff.
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They knew the rules. It need not be said.
It's all over the internet, happening every
seven minutes. Just earlier, on Google News—
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"In other news! —ha, just kidding.
There is no other news. We are all gonna die."
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The newsanchor continues:
"In what appears to be the latest in the series of scholarship ad donation-induced deaths,
renowned physicist, 42, takes a fatal plunge outside his Chelsea townhouse tripping over
his shoelace on the second-to-last step outside his apartment, his golden-retriever watching..."
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"The irony," says Cole. He shakes his head.
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But Jeff was adamant to save his friend.
Who else is gonna eat his pizza crusts?
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"One must not waste food," says he. "Cole and I will check with the Gatekeepers—"
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"Are you fffffff. kidding me," says Maddie. "You're not expecting me to keep watch of him, do—"
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But they're off.
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Jeff and Cole were way past the naked king, past the gingerbread house, the pixies and the forests
of the Big Bad Wolf, behind the red curtains and the Happily Ever Afters and the next Long, Long, Ago...
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"Dammit!" says Maddie.
Franky smiles at her sheepishly.
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"Well I'll not make a fuss of it," he cheeses. "Netflix and chill?"
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"Shut up!" Maddie exclaims.
"Don't move!" she warns.
"I'll be back," she says, and then she leaves.
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---------------------------------------------------
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'Twas a long and perilous journey—
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Jeff and Cole kiss a frog - chase a broomstick - talk to some sausages - polish a moon - pick a lock of
ice - push a witch into an oven - sacrifice some blood - and guess a weirdo's name before finally arriving at—
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...the Woods of the Gatekeepers.
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"Halt! Who goes there!?"
bellow the Brothers Grimm.
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"Gah! don't hurt us! we're here to save our friend!"
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"Jeez, kid, take it easy," yawns Andersen.
"They're always like that. They're German."
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"Sir," says Cole. "Sir, unspeakable evil has
befallen our friend. What can we do to save him?"
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"Zet me guess," asks Perrault—
" Ze Blue Screen of Death ? "
He bends down to feed his cat.
.
"Sir that cat is wearing construction boots," says Jeff.
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"...Oui. We can't help you," answers Perrault.
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—"Hm?" — "Prick!"—
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"Listen, children," says Andersen. He begins rummaging through his coat—
some lint, matches, muddy loaf of bread, a tea kettle,
a vial of wind, a single pea, some women's shoes, and—
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"A-ha!" He picks out his scroll. "Let's see here..."
He looks down, then shakes his head.
"Yeah, no—won't do. The form's been cast.
The shape's been made.
The meaning will naturally find its way—"
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"He has to die!" bellow the Brothers Grimm, conclusively.
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"But the infection is still new. There's still time!" Jeff persists.
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"Kid, we've been collecting, analyzing specimens for a long time," says Andersen.
He starts winding up his scroll, which had cascaded unto the ground—
"The subject may differ, but the outcome never really changes.
There are only sixty-four possible ways a story can unfold,"—he takes one last look—
"and, based on the trajectory of your friend's history—none of them pretty—"
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"He has to die!" bellow the Brothers Grimm, conclusively.
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"You fellas done yabbering?"
The cat is taking a break,
smoking his cigarette.
"These gingerbread houses don't build themselves."
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"...Unless," says Andersen, tentatively.
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"Unless?" says Cole.
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"It's no tinderbox," Andersen sighs—
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"But, if your friend's life means so much to you, why not consult... the Composers?
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"Surely they must be more familiar with this type of material."
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---------------------------------------------------
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Maddie returns to check on Franky. She is not alone.
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"The hell's that?" questions Franky, pointing to her bundle o' joy.
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"This is my nephew. I'm borrowing him from my aunt Daisy to help you."
Franky looks at the baby, disapprovingly. The baby beams—
"Um, explain," he says.
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"Haven't you ever heard of beginner's luck?" asks Maddie.
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"Yeah. So?"
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"Well. What you need right now is luck. And I can't think of anything luckier than a baby."
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The baby starts drooling.
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"Hmm," Franky ponders. "that's true. I've never seen them lose at poker before."
(Maddie decides not to ask.)
"So, listen," says she. "I'm gonna let you two get acquainted,
while I look through your stuff to see if there's anything I like."
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Meanwhile, on the news:
"This just in! —US poet laureate, found dead in the local
rec-center: toe cramp-induced drowning, in the kiddie pool!"
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---------------------------------------------------
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So Jeff and Cole—
they overthrow their fathers - drink the marrows of lions
skinny-dip in the Styx - study astronomy with the centaurs
consult the oracles of Delphi - anoint each other lovingly
in a gymnasium - ride the deathless horses, the seawaves
of Poseidon - paint a golden apple, red - persuade Achilles
out of cross-dressing (nice try, bro) - escape some tower -
survive a flood - plunder gold - push a boulder up a mountain -
sold selfies of Medusa to the Russians - then clean a dirty, dirty stable
before they reach—
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...The Mysteries of the Composers.
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"Halt! how dare you interrupt us during the Mysteries?"
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"But sir!" Jeff inquires. "This is comedy—at best. How can our friend's demise end in tragedy?"
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"It is never so simple," says Aeschylus.
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Sophocles summons a piece of chalk and begins drawing a circle on the ground—
"Comedy, Tragedy, —are but two sides of the same coin. It is only a matter of framing."
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"Didn't the Gatekeepers tell you?" asks Euripides.
"In real life there are no true beginnings and ends; there
is only displacement, and replacement of lost equilibrium."
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Then he pulls out his lyre and begins to sing—
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For comedy without weight, displaced,
—like pulling a chair from under someone—
...is merely frivolous.
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And tragedy without comic coincidence,
—like catchin' your father at the stripclub—
...is lifeless and utterly macabre.
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"Truth, is tragic," says Sophocles.
"Swords rust, teeth rot,
people get fat and die—
"Get over it."
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Jeff and Cole start to feel real sick in their stomachs.
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They wish they hadn't cleaned a stable.
They—really—wish they hadn't kissed a frog.
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But the Tragedians are not without heart, for heart
is a prerequisite for channeling the music of Gods—
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"Life," says Aeschylus, "is about keeping alive the optimism.
Listen, we just write what we hear. We don't weave the stars, ourselves."
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"You have one more option," ponders Sophocles, thoughtfully—
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"...the Programmers."
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---------------------------------------------------
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The baby finishes his bottle. Then he looks at Franky's.
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"All right, all right," says Franky. "Take your sip. Then I'm rubbing you
all over me again, to see if I can rub off some of that leprechaun luck."
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The baby grabs hold of Franky's bottle...
but the bottle does not have a nipple.
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So—doing what babies do—he mouths the whole opening, instead.
—Backwash!
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Franky looks on, horrified.
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"You know what," he says. "You keep that bottle."
The baby smiles innocently. Then it concentrates real hard.
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"Oh god," Franky exclaims. "What is—what is that smell—!?"
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---------------------------------------------------
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Jeff and Cole, they board the NJ Transit—
they take the Green Line to Hoboken -
pass the Holland Tunnel - get off at Manalapan County -
rent a Nissan - drive thirty miles west into Marlboro,
a quiet suburban neighborhood, before arriving at—
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...The Swanview Community Center, for Senior Living.
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The two of them walk up the steps to the front porch of Apartment 4b,
where they find three elderly women in their rocking chairs, crocheting.
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"No," one of them says.
She doesn't even look up.
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"So where was I, yes," she continues. "—Meredith says, 'leave the body! I'll grab the baking soda...' "
"Ho ho ho," chuckles another. "That Meredith, she reminds me of that sweet man, what's his name—"
"Oh, drats!" says the third. "That reminds me—the peas!"
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"Um," says Jeff.
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"Save it, kid," says the first granny. "We already know. That he's the comedic archetype, —integral to your stories, —yada yada..."
"—Dentures!" says the third. The other two glare at her. She looks embarrassed, then continues knitting.
"But have you ever considered," continues the first. "That maybe he fulfills a more... sinister role?"
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"What do you mean?" — "I've always suspected it."
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"I mean," continues the granny, as she stretches the thread
taut from her needle, before cutting it with her scissors—
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"...an antagonist."
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("—death by asphyxiation! renowned New Age guru, chokes on a kale chip!")
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Jeff and Cole feel a chill run down their spine.
What's left of them, anyway.
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"Pass the lemonade, won't 'cha?" snickers the old lady.
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---------------------------------------------------
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"Stinky butt."
​
—such are the cute names parents devise,
to mask such hideous truths.
"You know," Franky says. "For someone whose diet
consists solely of milk and air, this is some dank shi—"
But the spigot drowns out the rest of his words.
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Meanwhile, as the water fills the basin inside the
bathtub, the baby, stripped naked, stands proudly by—
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—and takes a wiz.
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"Grah! —okay, fine. Get it out of your system.
Just don't pee in this one," says Franky, pointing
to the basin, now filled with warm, sudsy water.
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Baby giggles, as Franky lifts him into it—
He stands triumphant. He kicks his legs,
to assert his dominion over the bubbles.
Then he dips low, to feel it in its hands.
Then he stands back up, and—
" Again—!?"
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ffffffff. —but Franky catches himself.
​
He stops and looks at baby. Baby looks back, beaming.
It reaches its small, warm hands at Franky.
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"All right, all right," says Franky. "The hell with it. I'll join ya."
He takes the baby out, empties the baby basin, then starts filling the bigger tub—
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"...Been almost a week since I've showered, anyway."
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---------------------------------------------------
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"What if we introduce a new antagonist."
"What, say?" asks the second granny.
"What if, instead of killing Franky, we introduce a new character—
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"—an arch-nemesis, in fact—before the end of Book IV?"
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"Bah! —what did you have in mind?" asks the first granny suspiciously.
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Cole looks at Jeff. Jeff looks back, nods.—
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"...The Politician."
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But before the grannies could respond, the third one turns and catches the leg
of a small stool with her foot, knocking over the pitcher and into the first granny,
spilling vibrant, yellow lemonade all over her lap—
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"Not again, Clotty!" groans the second.
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ffffff. says the first.
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Aphorism #64
Come, Furies!
And I show you—
The best place for each
is where he stands!
Escaping with Promethean Fire
--Le rouge et le noir,--
...a tragedy, in one act.
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​
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"It's no use," says Cole. "I shall stand back, and hold them off."
"But they'll consume you!" cries Maddie.
"We leave no man behind!" argues Jeff.
"Thanks Cole, I'll buy the next round," says Franky, —and off he goes.
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"Jeff," says Cole. "Have we time for this? Every second you
spend here wasting, is another from the readers' attention.—
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"Dare you risk the sake of Truth, —for greater humanity, —on any single life?"
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Truth, he speaks. For they had infiltrated the deepest compound
of earthly society, unburdened its mostly heavily guarded prize:
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The price alone is worth planets—
but only if they make it out alive.
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Jeff hesitates. He stalls. But then, he resolves—
"Maddie," says he. "C'mon. Let's go."
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—"But!"— "We must, should the world ever come
to know the heroic sacrifice made here tonight—
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"To bring this secret to light."
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His words are gentle. But his grip is firm.
Reluctantly, she turns—
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They run.
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--------------------------------------
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Two ledges appear before them, one beyond the other,
floating over a glowering chasm of unspeakable evil, —"Critics."
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"The 'Suspension of Disbelief,' " says Jeff.
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They hear a scream.
"Ah—!" It was Franky.
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"Franky!" Jeff exclaims, but it's no use—
his echoes chased after things that are no more.
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"The burden of his doubt was simply too much to bear."
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"Maddie," says Jeff. "Whatever you do, don't forget to hold your breath."
"Okay," says she, and with the secret of the factory
clung tightly to her chest, they step over the first ledge—
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They try not to look down.
They cross, without making a sound.
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...Until, at last, they step off the ledge on the other side
and find themselves walking toward the edge of a prairie,
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—gray and filled with stone.
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"Hey, don't those look like—"
"Jeff, quit reading so much into things."
Maddie shivers, not from the cold.
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The sky is deathly silent.
Not a peep in sight.
...except, a wooden sign, disclaiming—
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" 'The Point of No Return,' " reads Maddie.
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They look at each other. —
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"Maddie," says he. "Give me the bottle."
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"Why, what are you going to do with it?"
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"I'm going to go alone," says he. "You stay here. If I don't
make it back, you can at least stall until the next story."
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"Jeff," says she, "—don't be ridiculous. How are you gonna
spend all that money if you expose the secret, alone?"
"Curse you, woman!" he screams. "That's not what I was
thinking about at all!" —but then he kinda does, a little.
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"No Jeff," says she. "We will go together—
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​
" 'Cause I aiin't staying behind, like some loser."
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​
So they pair of Spartans they, with their bottled lightning of
—le rouge et le noir,— head for the silent prairie, foreboding.
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They start running as fast as they can.
...But still it is not fast enough.
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​
The Furies begin catching up to them, as they did Cole—
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Come back, come back! —hisses Cole.
Guys I lost my iPhone! —weezes Franky.
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"No! Stop!" screams Jeff, swatting his arms
blindly in front. "—Don't look back! It's not real!"
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Maddie dares not respond. She holds the treasure
closer, with all her might, praying to god, when—
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​
Jeff? Jeff? Have you forgotten about me?
—No, wait. It can't. It can't be. —Was it?
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Washington.
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Guys, it's okay—
it is I.
I'm right here.
Your quest is over.
What are you waiting for?
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No, it's not. He knows it's not.
Yet still he turns against his—
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—and Jeff, turning back, turns to stone.
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Across the landing, Maddie realizes from
her lonely footsteps that she alone, survives.
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But it is no cause to celebrate—
(—well, of course not, —all her friends died.)
because she finds herself on the edge of a cliff.
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...and no shore beyond the jump,
except the thundering curtains of a waterfall.
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"This is it," she says.
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" 'The Leap of Faith.' "
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Well, you knew it had to come to this,
she thinks to herself. —no use overthinking it.
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She pulls out the bottle and, tossing it towards
the audience as she leaps off to her Maker, shouts—
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"Catch! The secret formula...
to Coca-Cola...
is...!"
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Aphorism #219
The Gates, they come in three,—
an inscription, etched on each:
"BE BOLD," wrote the First.
"—AND BOLDER STILL," the Second.
"NOT THAT BOLD, YOU DOLT." —the Third.
Impossible Consequences from Minor Details
--a Halloween special, with a superhero twist!--
A woman opens her door to three unlikely visitors— "Trick or Treat!"
"...What are you supposed to be?" she asks, pointing to one. "Homeless Santa?"
"Actually I'm Walt Whitman," homeless Santa responds.
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She looks at another. "And you? —aren't you a little dressed up for tonight?"
"Crabcakes, woman! Don't you recognize me, the great gentleman-thief, Arsenio Lupin?
She ignores him, shifts her attention to the last:—
"Are you their guardian?"
"No, I'm here for candy."
"Where's your costume?" she asks, rather suspiciously.
"I'm never the same man twice. What need I for a costume?"
"...You don't get any candy."
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All in all, not a good night for Walt Whitman, Arsenio Lupin, and Cole—
none were too enthusiastic in the presence of a bum, a dandy,
and a black man, for the world is no less cruel on Halloween.
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Disheartened, the three hail for a cab.
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...Except, what'd you expect?
...a bum, a dandy, a black man.
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----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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So they wander into the wrong part of town.
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Nobody is around.
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Then come the wailings of a lonesome police car,
in the silent night, like a ghost song—
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weee-woooo! weee-wooo!
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The police-car pulls up next to them.
The officer pulls down his window—
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"Where to, fellas?"
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"Er, I think we're walking, thanks!" says Lupin.
"Hey, hey," says the officer, pointing to a ticker
next to his steering-wheel, then at his badge. —"Just a costume!"
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Cole peeks out his head from a nearby bush.
"Excuse me," says he.
​
The "officer" grins.
"C'mon," he says.
He pops open the back door—"Hop in!"
​
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ...Little did they know, something had awakened
to their presence. It senses a disturbance
in the Force. "Not on my watch!" it growls.
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"Thank god, I was about to do a rain dance!" says Lupin.
​
Whitman, Lupin, and Cole relish in the comforts of a warm, moving vehicle—festive, too—with ranky gore stains
on the car doors, ghastly posters of wanted criminals on the glass partition, and One Direction ballads on the radio.
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"Certainly got the holiday spirit!" exclaims Whitman.
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"Comes with the job," chuckles the cabbie.
He runs a red light. Then he takes a quick glance
at his passengers through his rear-view mirror—
"What, no candy?" he asks.
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Whitman fidgets uncomfortably,
while Lupin give Cole a look of knives.
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"We're just glad you found us," says Whitman, finally.
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"Hey, don't mention it," says the cabbie. "My pleasure."
He swerves past a fellow cab, shifting to the left lane.
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------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It grew up in the darkness—molded by it,
shaped by it. Racing across the rooftops, swinging from gargoyle to gargoyle—
"This is my city!" the menace proclaims.
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"I told you to get a costume!" Lupin groans.
"The concept eludes me," Cole admits, "When some 97 -98% of the men and women in this city wear a mask
to work everyday. Am I not defeating expectations—the purpose of this holiday—by showing up costumeless?"
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Lupin looks on the verge of an explosive verbal diarrhea.
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"They always like this?" asks the cabbie.
"Brother, you have no idea," says Whitman.
The cabbie reaches for the radio dial—"Must be this devil-music; brings out the worst in us all—oop!" says he,
adjusting the dial—and, losing focus on the road, grazes ever so lightly against the curb, knocking into a bicycle.
​
The bike tips over.
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"Yikes," he chuckles apologetically.
"Please don't report me."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Police vehicle, twelve o'clock.
The creature of the night does
some amazon-ninja-warrior cartwheels
in the air, cape billowing in the wind—
"I grew up here!" it snarls.
​
​
"It's not right," says Whitman.
"have you noticed, too?" asks Cole.
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"Yes," says Whitman. "The driver, the red light..."
"What, the one at the intersection?" asks Lupin.
​
"You know," Whitman continues, quizzically. "—I've seen cabbies mad. Sometimes they might curse out a light—
even come close to knocking out a cyclist or two, sure, —but I've never known a New York cabbie to break the law."
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"I ran the calculations in my head," adds Cole. "That bike he knocked over earlier adjusting the dial violates certain
genetic principles of the 'sixth sense' that all cab drivers are supposed to have: heightened spatial awareness."
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"Well, well, comrades," says Lupin, somewhat smugly—
"Impeccable deductions—but I stand to present the most compelling case of all."
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"What are you talking about Franky?"
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Lupin wipes his monocle, adjusts his cufflinks—
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"He never asked us where we're going."
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Screeeeeeak!
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The car screeches and swerves to a violent stop.
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"Well, well," cackles the cabbie. "Looks like I'm found."
He reaches for a transmitter on his radio—
"This is Armstrong, 17th precinct, -delta-tango-gouda-muffin—"
​
Realization jolts through all three passengers at once.
"What!" exclaims Lupin. "You're a—real—cop!? —you lied to us!?"
​
"Oh no," snickers the "cabbie," pointing to himself—
"This is a real costume."
​
The wailings from the radio fall silent.
A sinister smile creeps across the driver's face.
The driver pulls off his mask.
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The passengers scream.
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For what they saw was so scary and deranged it made them suddenly remember the contents of all
those nightmares that had woken them up screaming in the middle of the night, but had soon forgotten.
("Crabcakes, Jeffrey! If you'd joined me as Sherlock
you would've known it was the cabbie all along!")
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They reach instinctively for the door handles, pulling desperately
to open—but the doors and windows are locked shut.
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"Buckle down, chumps!" cackles the officer—
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Kllllump-klump!
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Something collides unto the roof of the trunk.
Then, silence.
"Well, well," says the officer. "Looks like we got a visitor."
He pulls down his window; he looks around—
"Why, hello there, little girl. Want some candy and a nice ride?"
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"Shut it, slick! I'll be asking the questions around here."
​
The passengers are so frightened they fail to notice the girl who had walked up beside
the car. She is wearing Birkenstocks and the latest outfit from Lulelamon's fall catalogue.
"Watch you tone, young lady. You know what I am?"
The girl says nothing. So the officer continues—
"A law-enforcer, sweetheart. Know what I mean?"
He pulls his ghoulish face closer to the window, points at his badge—
"...I'm the law."
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"Why, you..."
​
There's fire burning in her eyes, now. She starts gathering up her "chi."
She unconceals her weapon of choice: it is lipstick. Chanel Coco No. 5.
​
"Take this!"—"Ack!"—"And this!"—"W, wait! stop!"—"I don't need you!"—"Please, I was only kidding!"—"We don't
need you!"—"It burns! It burns!"—"You chauvinistic, misogynistic, androcentric, objectifying, patriarchal swine...!"
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Finally, she finishes him off with a ribbon, some glitter, and some stickers of Hello Kitty.
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The officer catches himself in the mirror—
"Holy Batman... so unexpected, —so emasculating, —so, so pink!"
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He screams and dissolves into a pool of unicorn blood and rainbows.
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She turns to leave.
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"Wa—wait, Raging Feminist!" calls Whitman. "We never even got a chance to thank you!"
​
"...and you never have to." growls the Raging Feminist.
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"Good, because I won't," Lupin spats. "—God Maddie, if you saw us get into the car why didn't
you just swoop in and save us right there and then. Why you women always take so long—"
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"Shut up, you loser!" screams the Raging Feminist. "—Who dresses up in a
full tux and a monocle for Halloween!? Who are you trying to impress anyway!"
​
"Crabcakes woman! Can't you see I'm the great gentleman-thief, Arsenio—"
​
But Cole says nothing. He is absorbed in contemplation—for he saw, in the grander scheme of things,
the offset from the perversion of one sex only secured through the perversion of the other;
a pendulum swings, and he wonders the manifold ramifications of this perilous new arrangement.
​
​
Aphorism #219
A man demands a bowl of soup—
"Made with fresh ingredients, please."
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But he goes off into the back to find
the soup-stock on the stove, leftover
from the black kettle of the celestial Milky Way.
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The Idea of Washington
--a treatise on the substance of the mind--
Et ignotas animum dimittit in artes.
Ovid, Metamorphosis viii, 188
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In the beginning was the Word—and the Word, was "Washington."
But the Idea of Washington was simply too great to be conceived:
The ancient wisemen only dared hold it in awe and silent contemplation.
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It is true, however, that a single-page scripture-code of the Word is
embedded into the bodies of all phenomena. After millennia of
silent reflection, the earliest meta-astronomers—in their religious ecstasy,—
decide to transcribe a few of its noble characteristics unto leaves of
iron, from the farthest shores of time to the nearest eternity:—
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FANCY is like the shimmering delight of the pink moon and the mango sun off
the surface of festival balloons, floating in the air. It is the extravagance of desire,—
of feeling,—of flourish,—of folly:—the father of all experience, which serves to remind us, that,
like wine, —which refreshes the heart and flames the oil of good cheer, —is, beyond moderation,
acidic to the nerves; and all experiences must eventually flow into Washington,
however hard one might try to swim against its currents.
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MEMORY is the oldest Muse. Of all nine sisters she alone remembers
the ancient bird once known as "History," that shed its dates like
feathers to be reborn as the phoenix-flame, Mythology.
Memory reminds us all that all life is mere recollection—
there is no such thing as learning but a retracing of steps,
formerly taken. It is, perhaps, somewhat like how a single phrase—
an image—an idea,—lodged in the darkness of days past, suddenly ignites,
and takes a unfolding, —and our lives are never quite the same again.
JUSTICE is grand.
Justice is joy.
Justice is the soul of imagination, for the laws of natural harmony
and occult symmetries that exist in matter, beyond all measures
of form, —is the essence of poetry. It is identity; connexion. It is the common
ancestor of the egg, the rock, the wheel, foam and paper-dolls—the silent voice whispered
in the marketplace, the Senate, and in our hearts, —describing the ebb and flow of waters;
the path and curve of planets; and, above all, the equal and opposite forces of attraction and recoil.
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COMPASSION is reason—contemplation, clarity, concentration.
It is what elevates the animal spirit out of instinct into humanity,
and humanity, into divine. True compassion makes no differentiation
between self and other, goodness and evil, —for it sees the forces of love
acting from the center of the universe — in the jaws of a lion,
the tusks of a boar, the venom of a snake...
In its purest form, is clear, like water, and flowing —
and reflects, like candor in art, —mathematics, in nature.
Aphorism #16
Angels & Demons
coexist not side-by-side
but perpendicularly, their feet
touching as if over a sheet of mirror—
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it is not so easy to cross
from one to the other side.
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Black Kitchen and the Seven Sins
--season finale: coupons from the dark side--
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