Any inquiryLW410-MC-Escher-Print-Gallery-19561

into the nature of reality

Can never not shape boundaries

As to what, how and when

a poem is said to exist and

To not exist. Though I do hope

To outline a view from one point,

I admit it may or may not become

clear in this queer queue of queries.

Does not the very topic under question

betray its power by self-limitation?

Or does one’s limit consist of its own

Discrete and foolish wisdom, just

as how צמצום tzimtzim hospitably

Contracts into itself, infinitely, in order

to create space for what is other

than self and in doing so

reveals to be of such humble

Grandiosity that nothing greater

can be likened.



Yet we all understand the          necessary borders of definitions,

It must be this or the thing           cannot, one or the other must go,

This is true, so I query again:          must a poem rhyme like Seuss or chant in

hobbit tune or in antibállete         exchange of phrase and new meanings found

or should it extend itself in         vainly unending prose such

as the epics of ages past?         Better yet – must it consist of

one language or will many         tongues better amplify the

Grandeur within a rhetorical         flourish analogous to nature’s mother

Tongue in the breathtaking        planetary design of mathematics? This

bottomless magic dwelling        deep within the cells of cosmic flesh

Flowing in unending sequence         named poetically for the

numerical dance likening itself          to naught other than the feet of Fibonacci.

But if you disagree, whoever          You are, please have the audacity

to name yourself for the         existence of this poem has already called

Your judgement into question.        Not to mention that the subjectivity

of finitude is the – and I do          mean – the only criteria for what is of a

socially constructed value such       as the paradox of that which is made

and discovered always at the         same time.



Yet we mortals are blind to that which is holiest

in our midst, especially

when it is invisible even after lifted veils. And this begs

the question as to whether

the Real among us is tangible or intangible; if the most

rational must be completed

by that which is irrational, or is it that which may draw

us out of ourselves into the fictional

flame of myth fueled by the imaginary that is most Real?

Almost by definition, the imaginary

does not exist, but please, dear reader, do not say such a thing

to Girolamo Cardano who gifted us

nature’s unending eternal gift of imaginary numbers – numbers that

do not exist, yet do and are necessary

so that i2 = −1 functions only within the solidity of an

imaginary number in order that the real number

finds itself complex now and completing a + bi such that he –

or is it she? – has therapeutically lifted

the damp eyes of self-justifying materialists awake to the morning

dawn now known again for the first time

as the terror of life without myth is lifted. Thus even the poetics

of mathematics must venture into

Middle Earth and back again in order to prove itself. Does not the

“using of that which does not exist to

complete that which does exist” overwhelm your poetic sensibility –

your metaphorical jouissance?



Even amidst history – data and proofs

Arrive in buffet form, and somehow yet the


Quantum hums a different tune – concretizing

Levels of the true within a range of possibilities,


not only in the future, but even more so spanning the

unpredictability of that already behind us – past –


still yet existing in uncertainty even unknown to itself.

The intellect then draws back, leaps when one like Gödel


reminds all statisticians – all high apologists – of the

elementary structuring of numerical and linguistic incompleteness


never not grounding reality, reminding us once again the necessary

interconnectedness of all things in ones, zeroes and between


so that any given thing made may exhibit itself in the

fullness of beauty and its furthest extent of mundane


usefulness. Recognitions such as these provoke the ravenous

Adam buried deep within to rise, grasp at that which is


graspable in form and make haste to weld opposites

which can only be arranged in the dual hands of gratitude, lest


madness ensuing et là pas d’espérance until the recognition

of mortal exuberance in all flesh, still found bitter towards its lack.



Finally now, we can speak of the

name of a thing made, and as with

the birth of mortals, the naming

is both causal and irrelevant –

the usual result of socially

Bound organisms. But there are those

things native to us that are non-negotiable,

being what the Greek l’etranger terms – poiema;

that is, a thing made albeit from multiple singularities,

an exact particularity of form laced with resolve.

Do not now fence this boundary-less, un-tame-able

creature, and do not now chain the creators

of bent things – and please, for the

love of God – do not give us an account of

Girardian niceties – full of rivalrous exclusion

of numerals, oddities and metrics,

for if a thing created is real at all –

it will only ever be imaged in the image of

that which arises from the mind’s eye and

that which is constructed into nature’s form,

which is to say, let us finally agree

On the general rule to err on the side of inclusion –

allowing that which is en-Spirited to own itself in

the language known only by they who traverse

the imaginary – being overcome from within,

a ravishing fire fashioning its wings

from ashes and reviving the dust.