The business of is-ness

Istigkeit—wasn’t that the word Meister Eckhart liked to use? “Is-ness.” The Being of Platonic philosophy—except that Plato seems to have made the enormous, the grotesque mistake of separating Being from becoming and identifying it with the mathematical abstraction of the Idea. He could never, poor fellow, have seen a bunch of flowers shining with their own inner light and all but quivering under the pressure of the significance with which they were charged; could never have perceived that what rose and iris and carnation so intensely signified was nothing more, and nothing less, than what they were—a transience that was yet eternal life, a perpetual perishing that was at the same time pure Being, a bundle of minute, unique particulars in which, by some unspeakable and yet self-evident paradox, was to be seen the divine source of all existence.

— Aldous Huxley, “The Doors of Perception”

4/2: Mind in Hot Tea

somewhere between the auricle and quark
sounds the kettle:
sneering or cervical mercy

a simmering airstream
in the other unit reveals
antique morphology
triangled and sliced
to more-than-fantods

Plato dead and
God in the ether
my jaw a found object
two dozen mansions in my sex’s sky
unclasping the myth of extra-virgin

Mr. Shamra

Wheels of Ugarit poetry drum in my mind, and I slush in them, feeling massaged by cuneiform constancies, dreaming myself assigned to the task of sorting my son’s remains from the belly of the bird, or my own remains, and the gods’ remains up in the belly of some higher Zoroastrian bird, my eyes, full of the same nuts as Ugarit, dilated with wine, dunked off Byblos, enchanted by elements.

Diyarbakır Black (9/26/14)

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Light cut in basalt
I would die of your dome
for vegetables at breakfast —
smartest caravanserai
this side of the conflict zone.

Zebra arches bound into a colonnade —
Kurmanji eyes at nine o’clock,
entoptic kilim splayed.

Where the flinty steppe geometry
runs dry, but unicorn and ayran
stanch the urge of lines
to bloom to boteh:

The lamp hangs determined
and stark above my smugglers’ tea.

Heart too ready to be drowned
in volcanic rock
and Aryan eyes.

Withering minarets
and midnight Armenian steeples
are your neck
in Song of Songs.

Martyrs glint out from
moustache on the gallery.
For coffee and a thousand suns,
mihrab.

Street alive with sumac and the veneration of
a little dark girl,
millions gone missing in the Syrian register,
blood runs warm to me in the mountains.