Ars Poetica - To His Coy Mathematician - Only Connect - Whirlpool Cosmogony
I see her
staring out to sea
her coal black eyes
of glistening hair
ravens are no darker than
down smooth shoulders
shirt frayed at
slim hips drifting
like fine sand into the
clear hour of my glass
a clear, salted glass
of a Margarita
the stuff of
or so to
To His Coy Mathematician
Lured by a world of forms —
the circle of the breast
the straight line of the calf —
what would be the point
of discussing any tangent
that didn’t curve back
to a union of body and mind?
For the monk, alone in his cell
it's the erotic versus the spiritual
eros vs. agape
la via sinistra non è destra
not on Earth as it is in Heaven
give unto God that which is everything
because he's celibate, cellular
and those circuits in his head don't connect.
Whatever greater forces may or may not be at work
our experience is a function of neurons
connected to neurons
through massive junctions;
our being jumps from cell to cell
a million neurons deep
running in thick circuits,
fields, planes, waves
whatever they end up being
they only connect or they don't.
They only connect to everything you are
to everything you think
about God and the contour of a breast
and to everything you feel
about love and your tongue along her thigh
or they don't.
So when they talk about how bitter that apple was
you turn around and wonder if you missed something — or did they?
When all the abstract truths end up in doubt
you conclude that Keats may be right:
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," --
That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know,
and then you wonder
what the fuss was all about
In the beginning was a whirlpool.
Jets flung far across the bubbled deep,
fishes forgot their names,
and fished about in a swimming sleep.
A mestiza beauty stepped into the pool
currents swished around ankles
chlorine bleached skin to porcelain.
Bored, the goddess stretched her languid foot
into the currents of Time
the web of Maya,
the mirage of sense
swirling through invisible toes.