To Be Mortal

Josh Harmon
Faculty Instructor: Anna Sicari

Take heart ye wanderer, ye wretch of the mire
Be wary of the path of wrath and fruitful lies
Rebuke the siren’s beseechings and follow the muse’s lyre

Sight, the fog cripples, mind, the shades inspire
They call the gall sweetness. They revere the poison, prize.
Take heart ye wanderer, ye wretch of the mire

The gut is thy only lantern; cunning’s thy only fire
Harken not to the belly’s aching, nor thy loincloth’s plies
Rebuke the siren’s beseechings and follow the muse’s lyre

Hope doth snare and yields to mind’s retire.
Cohorts lag, companions tarry, solitude needeth no revise.
Take Heart ye wanderer, ye wretch of the mire.

Lest your will doth waver, lest ye lose thy moxie prior,
Spurn thyself and beseech the skies for mettle of their comprise.
Rebuke the siren’s beseeching and follow the muse’s lyre

Yea the journey be endless, press on till thy final pyre
For fools chase strength and glory, clairvoyants, that of the wise.
Take heart ye wanderer, ye wretch of the mire,
Rebuke the siren’s beseechings and follow the muse’s lyre.

Your great nation is the city upon a hill, the pinnacle of civilization, the land of milk and honey. However, who sees the mountain? Our little hill is but a mere lump upon an even greater slope.

You are damned to tread here and wade through the viscosity of too much milk and too much honey, running against your all­too­meager allotment of will. So you sit here upon your bed and watch yourself drown in the abundance. You have everything and surmount nothing.

On the nightstand, your wallet lies filled with leaders of cotton, guiding you like a beast of burden. Contrarily, the master is the beastly burden.

Today it (or they) allows you to vegetate, here, in an existential coma. Like the new age philosopher, everything above your gradually swelling midsection is used for mindless consumption and mindful digestion. By the grace of the muscle that remains tethered to your skull, you turn your head unto the portal to the outer world, shed an unscheduled tear, and hoist your mass out of its cocoon, a bumbling moth.

Often the heart pangs for more than it can bear. To wander out of the cave, to romp on all grounds, to feel all, know all, and still it chooses ignorance. You want to hate, love, read, write, and think, all on your own accord, yet, you cannot. You live in a standard issue, biological prison and from behind that fleshy barrier you are chained, though by spider silk, to an even greater industrial prison. You stand here and now, conscious of the fetters prohibiting you from changing the fact that you cannot change. What lies ahead for you is not certain and you can only conceptualize that reality that the $4.27 crammed in your pocket? That holds no personal value to you. That omnipotent cotton wad will remain devoid of worth as long as it, the illusory master, flows from your mind to your hand, from your hand to your fellow captive, and from your fellow captive back into the skeleton of the prison. You walk the streets of your mild, damp city or town with no purpose. You are.

“Why did I get up?” you inquire of yourself, trying to find a reason to follow, continue on the trail of the slave. Trying to find a reason not to follow the florescent demands that plaster the front wall, where sorrows dwell and bathe in bitter brown gulps. Every sip unfolds as a lily in the morn. He wanted not to want.

The stumbling return home is…much less enlightening.

Incessant Ticking
The spring winds forward and back
A harmonious measure of time and space

The intangible multitude of
Radiant light in congruence with ambrosia
Densely and heavily gravitating towards the core
Of a single fiber within the current.
Time (and time again) ambles.