I

With my friend
I was debating
the concepts of form and essence.
Can there be
Matter without mass,
Or mass
without matter?
Which is the object
and which the shadow?
our argument narrowed.
He claimed, boisterous,
                “Modern science reinforces
                Platonism and all
                Classical thought!
                Essence projects from
                the ideal forms
                of Natural Law!”

I retorted,
                “Classical thought
                is crumbling and fallacious,
                a haven for utopists
                and masturbators!”

The sky surreal hot white
my friend points and yells,
                “Utopia? Why not
                see the fruits of
                Ancient Greece? Climb
                that tree upon
                which Plato built
                his Republic!”

I looked to the tree
at which he pointed.
It was stiff and tall
with bark a rich
ruddy brown, rising
beyond the clouds,
farther than my eyes
could scope. My mind
was made,
                “Yes, I think
                I will! Take
                it to the source
                and argue to the
                face of philosophy’s
                father.”

With that I began my
climb, leaving my poor,
weak friend behind.


II

Hugging bark I
ascended, face pressed
fearfully against
that solid pillar
of Western philosophy.
The forest fragrance
of a deep moist
wood pulp, sinewy,
engulfed my sense,
rising to the
sky.  From this
vantage point
all I could see
was the rough bark
scraping under my nose,
and upwards, the tree
erected stiff
beyond all human
penetration.

Looking backwards,
the landscape:
fields, rolling hills,
between which flowed streams of
sweet smelling honey and
motor oil.  Across this
idyll cuts the endless
shadow of the tree,
rudimentary reflection
on a cave wall.


III

Farther still I crawled,
and soon I noticed
minor progress.
As the cloud mist
closed around me
I discovered measurements
carved into the tree.

The handiwork of
Aristotle I am sure.

Marks of every
shape and content,
every inclination
charted.
Depth, smell, pattern,
colour, texture, composition,
the myriad qualities
and interactions of
tree and bark alike.
Continuous, his measurements
climbed along with me,
compounding in their
layers and complexity,
till Aristotle’s marks
covered the tree’s
own hardy flesh.

Now complicated to
the point of obscurity,
the measurements formed
a texture all their
own.  An absurd
arbitrary pattern,
self-appreciating and
bureaucratically self-sustained.
losing my grip
I grabbed and scratched
Aristotle’s tapestry,
terrified at the
possibility of
plummeting.

Finally my hold restored
rough bark
beneath my fingers
once again.  But alarmed,
I felt a crawling,
a tickling,
a fear
of alien motion, scraping
up and down my arms.
Peering heavenward,
I twisted nauseous
at what I saw.

Everywhere the etchings
had turned to insects
that scratched and bit and gnawed
at tree and flesh alike.
In terror I clawed
further faster, the
shells of spider,
scorpion, beetle, tick,
bureaus all,
crunching exoskeleton,
a sound like
rustling leaves.


IV

Eyes open
lungs full I
fought upwards,
at last clearing
Aristotle’s summit.

Free from his
insectoid web,
I realized the
clouds now
embraced me
on all sides
ethereal, wet white.
Subjective like
a shuteye sky
dreaming cold and cavernous.
Alone, the
blood of kings
flows,
in arteries cold and cavernous.

Climbing I sought
Republic, in any
form it took,
yet I still feared
the inhuman weight
of black Leviathan,
ugly brutish and short.

The moon and then the sun
each disappeared
as the mist surrounded,
choking clear view
and my sense of time.
Thus, I know not how
high I climbed.
Bright white
blank and milky,
I could see only
the bark beneath my nose,
and still
I rose.

Hands calloused,
heart pulsing,
head empty and riotous,
I heard or felt
the tree in a
new way.
It seemed to
writhe, alive
under my palms.
Then a voice,
electricity, crumbling leaves,
pollen and slow-rising sap,
touched tongue, ears, fingertips,
whispering,
                “There’s no going back”

I turned and stared
into deep, cloudy mist,
and no Republic formed before me,
only a blind white black.
I turned, teary-eyed
and tore violently at the tree
screaming,
                “We are what we
                Imagine ourselves to be!”

Angry, and alone
in my futility.
The bark opened
wide as a womb
spilling syrup, semen
And olive oil
In a new birth.

There, buried deep
in hemorrhaged pulp,
stared dead
Plato,
King of all philosophers.
And on blue lips, a whisper,
frozen like his icy corpse,
                “Those who see with
                Their eyes are blind.”

Oh Plato!  How much, then,
must you see, with eyes
shiny black as scarab shells!


V

The tree pulses,
through he, through me.
From dirty breath
and sour ink, it rises,
hot blood swelling,

Pouring new birth
Down to an old earth.


                                  I, sweaty, bleed with the tree.