it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The pain that we have just begun to know
Is carved within us by the passing years
We rest, we stretch despite how it may grow
Not noticing the sculpture - it appears.


The Great Filter

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
Kids, kids – it’s the new big thing
I want you to listen, just a for second
I promise I won’t try dance or sing
This is way bigger than anyone reckoned
They call it the Rift, and think it’s a door
But you and I, we know its so much more
It’s a perfect filter for everyone’s life
Hey — wait — I’m not done with my pitch
A minute, okay – please put away the knife
You know that insatiable, incurable itch
It’s big – we both know without a doubt
But this is Big too – so stand up and shout
Anything – everything you want –
Filter it out!
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
outside oculus in


The House of Pleasure

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
In the house of pleasure, none is denied
For all of its truths must be ratified
In letter, for those who cannot decide
But waver, wavering on what is implied
In pleasure itself, for there on its side
Are written things blasphemous, snide
And all the bodies there for it died
All in a jest, are you so serious, it cried
And he wonders, if it had really lied
For what was a slope fast became a slide
Have you heard of its way, so easy and wide
Down-going humility, the publican sighed
But there are so many bones, can you divide
The quick from the dead, with everything dried
Even its form has ceased where it tried
To be pleasure at all,  but a suicide
So out - and away from all reason we glide
Thought into nothing; desire into pride.


The Orator Calls Upon the Last

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
O Europa; in a final hour we see
The truth of what was, in truth
Of we who wore beauty in youth
Every diadem and grand trophy
Was ours, was it not ours, friends?
Tell me then why this story ends;
All things die that mortal are
Even death; but do ideas perish?
Is their immortal conceit but garish
And rude - what of that star
That rules our day, will it not fade
Is its destiny not to be unmade?
All things then, live on by dying
Ah, but such a thing as we were
And knew it not, of this I am sure
Whose were we, tell me without lying
To whom did we yet belong --
We who were weak, and yet strong?
Yes! We were someone else's conceit
And they but our fascination
We who looked out on ev'ry nation
Made the sea bow under our fleet
Which no man had seen before --!
And wanted to know ev'ry shore?
The pallor of death awaiting reflection
We look so bright, young Hamlet
As day is bright and still yet
In considering our new direction
We looked back, we looked back in
But did we look beneath the skin?
We wonder if we shall sleep or dream;
Having forgot that we were here to do
Deeds that no man had seen or knew
Until they were done, until... does it seem
Strange that I remind you, O great city?!
O Europa! In a final hour we see!



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The part is before the whole he said
Do you not see how a thing is made --?
That to infer beyond sense God forbade
I had never heard, tho' bright reason fled
Before a noisy crowd of idol chatter
To make the earth round, made it flatter
An interchangeable part, did it make
A man forget what sort of shape required
What mentation must first have implied
A form of forms - a whole mistake
A limb or piece might by guess impart --
But the whole is still before the part.


No Sleep

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The labors do not cease because we sleep
Uncountable gears spin even in the dark
Where no light is; and no sound or spark
But a tick when the escape wheel a leap
Might make in its interminable course
Pushed by a light but irresistible force
Soever in motion about its source
Image by image, the story is told
Written by authors unknown to us
Without grumbling and without fuss
Like automatons they grow not old
With boredom for their thankless task
We might therefore desire to ask
Who hides behind that hidden mask
And know perhaps some secret law
As thought it was not yet known to us
The we who are, the we who was
The we who heard, the we who saw
In learning do we but memory keep
Or into the great unknown we leap
The labors do not cease because we sleep.



it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
From the balcony's secluded roost we see
Though trees mask, black on black-almost
Among the shadows of an embroidered host
Not just one bright display, but three.