Complexity

Life ain’t no duality, baby.
Its a plurality multiplied;
Stultified minds may try to petrify
That fluidity these thoughts engender.

Shit, you can call me the bender,
Because I dance around these Partials like I was a vendor,
Of sound wisdom, I found wisdom,
Lurking behind the curtains of basic mindsets.

With my mind set on the spoils within His tight palms,
I pledged alms, or pledged allegiance
To the cadence of His knuckles,
Because boy did he beat me.

Boy did he meet me in a place of necessary action,
His satisfaction was watching me bleed.
But every drop shed was exactly what I would need;

I was freed from the limits of the dyad,
I had, found something like a Sacred Triad,
Me, my perception, and the universe.

If that isn’t plural then I don’t know what is.
If that ain’t the mural, then this tapestry just is,
A patchwork of hack work and I ain’t interested in it kid.

The Witch

…she was a friend of my girlfriends. A wonderfully constructed woman; voluptuous physically, voluminous mentally, she channeled her skills through the medium of a professional medium.

She came to our house one sunny afternoon to perform tasks on our selves and our household. The staunch scientist in me morphed into one of our field’s other forms: intensely curious. I had never witnessed a witch perform her craft before.

I peppered her with questions attempting to organize her beliefs and talents into some traversable terrain that I could contemplate in my downtime. My first inquiries painted me a curious child, but with time, my intensity and asperity surfaced and my intent was undeniable.

She was still being persecuted. A modern day witch hunt and I was chief inquisitor…

Eventually I called off my sieving of her gnosis; it was eating time. Her boyfriend and I were sent to the local superstore for additional ingredients. We jumped in my European coupe skating on clouds as the recently burned marijuana settled into our veins.

The first stop light brought on a terrible feeling. My gut was wrenching and a terrible sorrow washed over my body. In my mind’s eye, I saw The Witch curiously as a chimera. She was both full woman and diminutive child pacing nervously about before leaning on a wall hugging herself. She constantly peered over her shoulder scared and agitated, unable to grasp why her world was constructed in this manner.

The Witch was no witch. She was a child with tremendous talent for understanding others. She was a survivor of unspeakable horrors and manipulations and she had spent the better part of her life trying to escape her incessant demons.

Sitting at the light, I was ashamed of my interrogation. She meant no harm. I did.

bryceslabyrinth

To know

Are you still searching?
Because I am dear, friend…
Ostensibly I’ll be searching,
Until the bitter end.

See Life, she can be a cruel mistress,
But she hides jewels tucked away.
And when the wise man comes a’callin’,
She often chooses to assault his cay;

If nothing else,
to test his mettle;
To see if he’ll settle
For anything less than Her vast treasure.

But to him that seiges her vaults
And finds her secrets ducked behind Gestaults,
Finds a fortune beyond compare.

And when he lays his hands upon deep knowing
Content with ever growing;
Finds a life that shall never grow bare.