little luminosities

“. . . .Gleaming islands, and indeed whole continents, [that] can still add themselves to our modern consciousness—a phenomenon that has become itself the daily experience of the psychotherapist. Therefore we would do well to think of ego consciousness as surrounded by a multitude of little luminousities.” — Carl Jung

nothing left to fix you,

no leak to be plugged.

we sold our cures to the sky

for fear of what is above

but there's nothing left to fix you.

"...your initials on the bottom."

stay in the clouds.

the ether is your ether.

either

or

bury yourself from nine to five.

find the right cure or rely on

antidotes that lie in the alchemic stagnation of water at your bedside:

mud and water,

fluoride and chlorine.

"take two in the morning..."

For your little luminosities, carl—they only seem to illuminate like the streetlamps in this abyssal town;

what little they cast their light over need not be revealed for fear of casting out.

symbols—satyrs, saints, patrons—wane

salvation lies

in strings that connect us all, pull us to the sun

I've seen your islands go up in smoke,

(smoldering Galápagos),

yet i know there's still hope in your words.

if you are a split cistern, sister,

caulk your cracks

if your bottle is broken, brother,

collect the glass

i know you'd say that, carl, over a beer or a glass of wine.

you and

i know not what shines beyond this and that horizon,

across oceans of red-orange sparks,

but whatever lyricism we contain

falls victim to banality—mundane

in its fleeting rapture:

a lyric is a lyric,

a color is a color.

for this i am no builder, no architect;

i harbor no art.

the sum of my parts.

quell

close the door, let's make it last

we've had enough time to waste

you're calling my name down the hall

like you did when i was a baby

if we fall in love too fast,

we're sleeping just to wake

we are just fallen sons

who shame our fathers names

and judge love in quantities. but

enough to quell your taste,

to feel your rage

and though my hatred is still sated by

satyrs, saints, patrons, and passing life

an indignation that i must face alone to fight

a fever condemned to all of me

our bodies will tremble like paper planes

in the wind, frail

when we raise glasses

to toast the sky.

judging love in quantities, but just

enough to quell your taste,

to soothe your rage

and though my hatred is still fated by

fathers, farces, crosses, and liar's vows

i face this fate, i'm fated alone to fight

a benediction to my own right

alfred, what would you have said that day?

enough to keep me sane,

but i'm still worrying.

all these theories have come too late.

have i come too late?

and now were too late.

count your mistakes,

count your blessings.

for we have courage,

for we have color.

count your mistakes;

we're not running.

i'll always struggle to keep up.