Monday, September 22, 2008


"Symptoms are deaths solemn ambassadors, deserving honor for their place, and life mirrored in its symptoms sees there its death and remembers soul.” ~ James Hillman

Soul does not come in this body
like a stick of gum wrapped in foil,
neither immortal nor full.

Soul becomes,
like clouds gathering
or metal shavings around a magnet,
little bits around an irksome center.

This decaying vessel
is the core for soul-making;
helpless, wailing toward a eulogy.

Each symptom shifts the gaze,
interrupts my well crafted haunt,
to the end
where it belongs.

A palpitation, the lingering cough,
a darkening mole on my arm –
could this be my last malady?

I stroll the lawn, granite stories,
a life lived in ecstasy and fears,
1891 - 1985...
soul, merely the hyphen between the years,

A little life sown, grown down, breaking
rooting, budding, wilting, breathless…

What is left? Only The Invisibles, undying
guardians chiseling soul on those
sleepless nights, as bothersome thoughts.

What proceeds? The smoothed clay
more supple than the adolescent breast,
softer than the full wet kiss; then psyche soars.

Pay attention. The gods wield the mallet
at the crucifixion of the worm, 
absent at the dissolution,
invisibly forming the nascent wings...

the end/Michael

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