FRAGMENTARY

What we have here
is the story of…*

The Legendary Sage
Hermes Mercurius Trismegistus
Known to the Egyptians as Tat, Taut
Or Thoth; this all-knowing hero
Was named Hermes by the Greeks
Linked to Mercury by the Romans
And given the panegyric Trismegistus
Sometime before the Fall of Rome.

In the first few centuries after Christ
He became a useful figurehead
Under which to combine a potpourri
Of Neo-Platonic philosophy
Hellenistic Judaism and the Kabbalah
Challenging the rise of Christianity.

The fragmentary texts attributed to
This syncretic fusion – spouting the mystical
Insights of Egypt, Greece and Rome -
Were then translated in the Renaissance
As a compendium of Cosmogony
Anthropogony and Eschatology
Forming The Corpus Hermeticum:
Ancient wisdoms that were founded
In the long pre-history of the Aegean
And Mesopotamian Bronze Ages.

There is poetry yet in his confabulations.
Quizzing his interlocutor, Poimandres:

… Said I, Who art Thou?
I am, quoth he, Poimandres
The mind of the Great Lord.
…As for Man, although being immortal
And having authority over all
He suffers mortal things subject to destiny.
Then, although above the harmony
Of the cosmos, he is a slave within it.

Now Hermes questions
In what terrible way do the ignorant go wrong
That they have been deprived of immortality?
Poimandres answers
Why are those who are in death
Worthy of death?
Hermes responds confidently
Because the grim darkness is the first origin
Of one’s own body, from which darkness
Arose the watery nature..from which
Darkness the body is formed
In the sensory world of which death drinks.

Under Poimandres’ Guidance
Hermes, the eager student, is initiated
Into the mysteries of the seven spheres.
Shedding all worldly sins of the body
He rises to the Eighth Plain, where
He sings praises to God with a sweet voice.
Then, in due order, he ascends to the Father
Surrenders himself to the powers, and
becoming the powers is merged in God.

Poimandres then berates Hermes
Well then, why do you delay?
Should you not become the guide to those who
Are worthy, so that the human race may be
Saved by God through you?**

It is in such luscious renderings of
The ultimate mysteries of Life and Death -
Our fate in this world and the next -
That we might find both our place in History
And an understanding of the pre-rational
Cloacal antecedents to Modernity.

*From Anne Carson
Plainwater, Essays And Poetry, 1995
** Text taken from
The Way of Hermes, A New Translation
Of The Corpus Hermeticum
Inner Traditions International, 2000

EARLY CHRISTMAS STORY

Hermes Trismegistus is a fabled Realist.
Drawing from Greek and Egyptian
Treatises he established an occult
Philosophy deeply entwined with science.

Many today remain beholden to the
Spiritual revolutions of the Axial Age
Which feature origin stories that
Are almost universally human-centric.

But how much credence can we
Give an ‘Origin’ that starts near the end
Rather than the beginning of Life on Earth
With the advent of oxygen 2.5 Billion BC?

In conversation with Asclepius
Hermes Trismegistus presents God
As the prime mover of the Universe -
The ultimate cause of its Reality.

‘He’ has left no space for the unreal.
All that is, has come from the real
And not from the unreal.
The unreal cannot come into existence.

Although the ‘Prime Mover’ is referred to
As ‘He’ it is bodiless, unaffected and
Impalpable, containing and preserving all
Things, but himself none of these things.

He is not Breath, but the cause of
Breath’s existence. He is not light 
But the cause of light’s existence. 
He is the cause of all existence. 

A case can be made that
‘He’ is the cause of oxygen
Making ‘The Great Oxidation Event’*
The Realist’s Nativity.

 *The event that fueled major
biological innovations, as told
in Marcia Bjornerud’s Timefulness, 2000.

Information on Hermes Trismegistus
Drawn from The Way Of Hermes, 2004.

HER GHOSTLY EYE

I have spent many hours
Over the last few weeks
Reading the ravings
Of a mad woman, or perhaps:
The revelations of a Saint.*

Time will tell. In the event
Of my Death, her ranting
Will either be vindicated
By my reunion with the Divine
Or, I will have merely expired. 

She is Julian of Norwich, a Medieval
Mystic, who experienced ‘Shewings’
Of Jesus Christ, who vouchsafes
His relationship to Humanity
In vivid, eschatological detail. 

Survivor of the Black Death
She takes refuge in God’s
Mercy and his grace and, at midlife
Becomes an anchoress attached 
To Norwich Cathedral in Norfolk. 

In a presentiment of her death
The good lord opens her ghostly eye
And reveals her soul within her heart
As if it were an endless citadel
With Jesus Christ at its center.

She contemplates Him in stillness
Whilst making no requests
Of her God, who dwells forever
In her soul, secure in His promise
That she shall not be overcome…

By embodied evil, imagined
As a foul smelling, vengeful devil -
But will be comforted by the Lord’s
Bromide that…all shall be well
And all manner of things shall be well.

Insane or Sainted, She’s a seminal figure
Her Revelations of Divine Love -
Lost for five centuries is
The first work by an Englishwoman
Written In the brute tongue of the street.

* As reported By Veronica Mary Rolf in
Julian’s Gospel - Illuminating the Life
and Revelations of Julian Of Norwich -
2013

EXISTENTIAL ANGST

The slightly warm water that came out
Of my bathroom sink faucet this morning
May have dated back to the Ice Age
Gripping North America 300,000 years ago.

It would have melted sometime in the next
Interglacial and formed a part of what we
Now call the Koenigstein Aquifer; it was then
Refreshed by subsequent cycles of glaciation…

Until the last great melting 11,000 years ago
And, to some small extent, by seasonal rainfall.
We enjoy the water, but fresh from the tap
It is currently a little tepid.

Stored in a steel tank that remains warm
To the touch after autumnal heat waves
it originates interstitially in a lithic substrate of
Limestone and shale and collects in a well.

Driven by a submerged pump to off-site
Plastic storage tanks it returns by gravity into
Our 2,500-gallon tank – a mile-long journey
Up and downhill after its passage through time.

It serves the usual prosaic requirements
Of bathing, cooking, flushing - and filling
The pool during the long hot summer
Where we ponder the triviality of our brief lives.

THIS MORNING

Rushing toward the Autumn Equinox
The sun slants across a corner
Of Sulphur Mountain - a Doppler
Radome gleaming in this
First light of a late summer morning.

Slabs of muted monochrome
Surround this one illuminated
Live-oak high meadow, sentinel
As the ridge plunges
Toward Rancho Cañada Larga.

The light continues to bleed
Across the hills - the 
Magic Hour decimated:
The banality of the day
Fast becoming inevitable.

I survey the view to 
The North - recto verso
Foothills arrayed in sfumato:
Shades of grey, ever lighter 
The Topatopas still intransigent.

Their mystery intact for a few 
Moments more - stoic faces 
Unblemished by the sun:
A little while yet to enjoy
The rapture of the pre-dawn.

ALL MANNER OF WORLDS

I learnt to read when I was nine.
In the benighted village in which
I grew up in the 1950’s
They considered me precocious.

I skipped the usual fairy tales
Flopsy, Mopsy and Cotton-tail*
And graduated straight to stories
Like The Famous 5 and The Secret 7…

Adventure series by Enid Blyton.
Then I became absorbed in the
Just William books by Richmal Cromton
About an 11 year old English schoolboy…

Before finding Arthur Ransome who 
Wrote the Swallows and Amazons Series
Beginning in the 1930’s and featuring
Unruly boys and girls in sailing dinghies.

The early teenage years were devoted
To Dennis Wheatley and the occult
Before discovering Ian Fleming’s 
Panoply of James Bond novels. 

Now, I read Thomas Merton
A Christian monk who died in Bangkok
Under suspicious circumstances**
But more importantly, was a great writer…

And part of a diverse monasticism
Predicated on the notion that
In solitude one may consider a life 
Of spirit divorced from the secular. 

As he writes in a Note prefacing his
Translation of poems by Chuang Tzu
He equates the ‘climate and peace
Of his own kind of solitude’…

With his retreat from the mundane
And his imaginative immersion
Into all manner of worlds.
This is what I seek as I read.

* Characters by Beatrix Potter
** See U/W December 17, 2025

ASSAULT ON FLOODGATE 13

​After all of August, our
Escape from New York*
Was effected at a moment
When the earth sat between
The sun and the moon.

I had grown accustomed to 
Watching the sun rising 
Across the East River
Between the towers along
The shoreline of Queens. 

As this morning dawned, the three
Heavenly bodies were in a syzygy.
The rising sun was thus mirrored
By a moon sinking over Manhattan. 
It was a cosmic farewell…

To a city that I had enjoyed
Best at its edge - an urban ecotone 
Of concrete walls founded on piles
Driven deep into the sand and rock
Bordering this North Atlantic estuary.

I walked most mornings to
Asser Levy outdoor gym on 25th St.
Returning across the FDR bridge to
Waterside Plaza, past the booze cruise
Yachts, and thence to the waterfront…

Where Stuyvesant Cove Park is now 
Edged by flood walls and terraces
Designed to withstand storm surges
And a Hurricane Sandy-like
Assault on Floodgate 13.*

Some mornings, drizzly and grey
The view across the water dissolved
Into a fog of unknowing -
The far shore drained of substance
My amygdala recalling the Neolithic.

*Referencing John Carpenter films
from 1976 and 1981.

TAKE ARMS AGAINST A SEA OF TROUBLES

We are taught 
From a very young age
To identify with the system 
That governs us.

To believe in the beneficence
Of a two-party democracy
And to believe that this system
Derives from the U.S. Constitution.

Well, actually it doesn’t.
Parties are not mentioned
In the Constitution, developing
As a duopoly only in the 1850’s 

Now Democrats and Republicans 
Are indispensable to one another
In a Congress that functions
As a two-headed Monster…

Snarling and snorting, locked
In a gilded cage of Corporate money
 Performing for a Zionist ringmaster
And fed by the Nation’s avid attention. 

Meanwhile, The Judiciary has been 
Stacked with the president’s 
Nominations, rubber stamped by
The aforementioned Monster.

The Presidency is a very bad joke.

Thus the three decision making bodies 
No longer serve the Nation. Congress
Has abrogated its constitutional power
Over the armed forces…it now falls to 

Officers of the U.S. Military 
To defend the Constitution against
Foreign and Domestic enemies 
By assuming all power over our affairs.

Please stand-by. 

FEET OF CLAY

Once was a time
When Manhattan was a city 
Of red brick and brown stone.
Much of it still is. 

Bricks came by barge
From kilns along the Hudson
Where clay was fired into
A fiery red ‘common’.

Many remain obscured
Along its streets…
Hidden behind sheets
Of grey or tawny stone

Like the Empire State Building
Framed in steel, infilled
With red brick
And then faced in limestone. 

Or, more humbly
Where red brick terraced
Houses are covered 
 In a veneer of brownstone.

They remain the predominant
Material in its ancient fabric -
The great blocks of Manhattan’s
Urban grid all built in brick.

It is after all, an historic city:
It’s rustic teguments
Laid cell by cell
Brick by brick

By immigrant labor in the 
Late nineteenth and early
Twentieth centuries. Laid
By the calloused hands…

Of a worker horde who lived
In the houses and tenements 
Of the outer Boroughs; Now
Manhattan’s grand edifices… 

Are reserved for the old
And rich, entombed
In orderly stacks
Along its storied Avenues.

But, as the Borough’s brick 
Slowly crumbles, Harken:
For out of clay they were taken
And to clay they shall return…

HAPPY TRAILS

Early on I learnt that
The territory does not necessarily
Conform to its representation…
That there’s more going on
Than meets the eye…

As a simulacrum of a complex reality
Maps are easy to manipulate, essaying
An objectivity they can never possess.
Theirs is a gaslit twilight that purports
 A reality they can never match. 

This simple truth has been established
In one declarative sentence:
‘The Map is not the Territory’.
But although pallid and
Untrustworthy, maps are useful.

Maps are subject to propaganda
And deceit yet remain irresistible
In describing an abstract picture
Of a chimerical reality - just
As a star chart maps the heavens.

The first geography I studied
Was Ordnance Survey maps
That rendered the U.K. countryside
At one inch to the mile, a scale
That provided excruciating detail.

They were first produced  as a
Defensive measure during the
Napoleonic Wars, which threatened
To engulf the British Isles in the
Late eighteenth century. 

This documentary response to
Existential danger contrasts with
The concrete solution proposed
By Eisenhower who began building
The Interstates during the Cold War.

In the seventy years since
They have been woven through the
 Patchwork of the forty-nine states
And hold much of my sensory
Understanding of this vast country.

They are wayward expressions
Of Westward expansion, trade routes
Cattle drives, Indian hunting trails
And now international commerce
Between the U.S. and its borderlands.

Initiated at a time of great fear 
Of a Soviet invasion they are 
Mirrored in complex air-traffic routes:
Together they stifle localism, regionalism
High speed rail and common sense.

They have eroded a sense of place
Because diversity has been replaced
By replication according to the mores
Of marketing, fashion and entertainment…
They deny us the sensuality of difference.

Maps, though presented in new media
Present the stolidity of continuity:
The bland conservatism of ‘God’s in his
Heaven, All’s right with the world…’
The whitewashing of a crumbling reality.

MIXTUS ORBIS

WHERE we are living NOW.

Where Grace or Damnation
The esoteric and the ordinary
The beautiful and the ugly
The happy and the sad
The material and the spiritual
The higher and lower planes
All coexist.

And where there is a perennial
QUESTION:
Are we having fun yet? 

All the while, we suffer the condition of
FINITUDE…
The Certainty of our Mortality. 

THE IMAGINAL

Mundus imaginalis
Is a term coined by the
French Islamicist Henry Corbin
For an aspect of Sufi mysticism…

Which he located in the
Mystical Earth of Hurqalya -
A concrete spiritual world at
The edge of the ninth sphere.

Others, more prosaically
Locate it as a heavenly realm
That trades in the symbolic
Archetypal, and synchronous.

It is accessible to those who shed
A past life or two, ready to be reborn…
Open to its subtle suggestions
And alert to its fateful configurations.

A carefully orchestrated relationship
With the Imaginal can then help
To direct a life bearing the
Imprimatur of cosmic consciousness.

JULES

Celebrating the Nation’s birth
Just 250 years old:
Only its incipience
Worthy of passing interest.

Now? We know too much.
There are many wonders 
In this slice of North America -
Our Declaration of Independence…

No longer counts as one. 
The Nation has moldered in its
Long journey into senescence.
Meanwhile - there’s new life.

I could be talking about
Democratic Socialists breathing
A little vigor into the moribund 
Body of our democracy

But I’m not that naive.
Instead, what we have here
Is a new grandchild:
Welcome Jules Rhys. 

Flesh and Blood
Mostly sleeping, but
Somehow ready
For his Future World.

SIZZLE

Ramakrishna suggests that
The world sizzles with
Consciousness. You can hear
That sizzle early grey mornings
In the Chaparral.

At least, that is what happens
At this time of the year
When everything has started
To look fried: blanched, browned
And crisped to a flaky crust.

I always thought that the ground
Crunched under my worn boot
But now I hear that sound
As a sizzle of Consciousness:
It is the voice of the phenomenal.

Orthodox Hindus understand
That the phenomenal
Is all illusion: that reality exists
Only in the formless Absolute.
RK was radically heterodox…

Accommodating the limits
Of my Western and white brain
While expanding them to
Accept that All
Is sizzling Consciousness.

REQUIEM FOR CORONADO

In California 
Zip Codified as
Nine two eleven eight
‘The Crown City’… 

Is an uncomfortable mix
Of a U.S. Naval base
A Disneyfied grand old hotel
And an up-scale Marina

Bordered by palm trees
Crisp white mid-rise condos
And a broad crescent beach
Polluted with Tijuana’s sewage.

At one end of the crescent
In the corner of a Navy
Compound a seaman idly
Fingers his automatic weapon.

At the other, an airfield
Sequesters a Helicopter 
Fleet that surveils
The border marshlands*.

A banner celebrates the 
Marines’ semiquincentennial
And bunting presages July 4
In this still patriotic outpost…

Mexican islands loom just
Beyond the surf-soaked beaches
In a curious affront to their
Sovereignty, more evidence that

In this south west corner
Of the dream that was America
Uneasy lies the town
That wears a crown.

*More about these in ‘Tidings’ 06-23-2025

SUPREME SWAN

As an explorer of
Mystical literature
I am aware of its
Symbolic, allusive
And oblique character.

Which is to say
As Evelyn Underwood notes
No direct description
Of spiritual experience
Can be possible to man.

That experience, however
Is undeniably and uniquely
Evidenced by Ramakrishna
As explicated by his stenographer
Mahendranath Gupta, writing as ‘M’.

Human language is an altogether
Inadequate vehicle to express
Supersensuous perception
But Ramakrishna spoke in a rustic
Patois full of beguiling parables.

Faithfully recorded by M
We have an accurate reflection
Of Ramakrishna entering Samadhi:
Lost to the outer world, tears of joy
Flowing from his large round eyes.

The Paramahamsa* spent
Much of his conscious life
In this God-intoxicated state
Engulfed in an oceanic
Feeling of cosmic connection.

The Development of Spiritual
Consciousness, the expository
Line with which Underwood
Subtitles Mysticism, and which
I am casually exploring…

Is simply answered by the Swami
In his heartfelt contention
That consciousness is manifest in
All of creation and soaked in the
The Bliss of Kali, the Divine Mother.

* Sanskrit, literally ‘Supreme Swan’,
an honorific applied to those who
evidence ultimate enlightenment.

UNLIKELY AGE

My mother…
Had she lived beyond 92
Would have been 113 today
May 25th. 2026
An unlikely age.

Well, you might say
We live in an Unlikely Age:
But she did not
Firmly planted, from the start
In the Twentieth Century.

Born in London on the cusp
Of the First World War
She survived the Second
The rearing of two children
And an unhappy marriage.          

With barely a toe
In the Twenty First Century
She was spared Artificial
Intelligence - which would have
Affronted her own mother wit.

CELEBRATION

Simone Weil is explicit:
The uprooted tend to uproot peoples
Who have remained rooted
And call it progress…

The Hebrews were escaped slaves
Who exterminated or enslaved
The population of Palestine
And called it their homeland.

Romans occupied Ancient settled lands 
Then the Spanish and English massacred
Or enslaved populations of color
The World over and called it Empire.

​The uprooted of Europe massacred
The rooted Populations of North America
And now rampage across the World
Seeking more rooted peoples to destroy.

But those peoples who possess
The benefit of a shared spirit
A common identity
And a sense of rootedness will prevail

For Uprootedness is Toxic:
It leads to a deathlike inertia
Of the soul and ultimately to
The death of its own Civilization.

In 1940, as Weil elaborates, France
Fell under the Nazi onslaught
Just as a tree with damaged roots
Collapses at the first blow.

On the 250th. Anniversary of
Its Declaration of Independence
Who can doubt that the United States
Rotten to the core, is ready to fall?

FIRE CLEARANCE

When the rain falls freely
The grasses grow tall 
Such is the cross that I bear
Following each wet winter.

Light rains fall ‘Pitapat’
Heavy rains fall ‘Topatopa’ 
My world exists between these
Two onomatopoeic words…

In sleep my feet point towards
A range of mountains*
Named for the giant rye that
Grows prolifically on their mesas.

These lithic Topatopas
Reference a plant for which
The Chumash had many uses
Midst the split-splatter of rain. 

And a wet winter we had of it:
Now I endure the burden of
Cutting and raking its bounty
Of beautiful bunch-grasses…

*The people of A’whay slept thus.

TODOS SANTOS

I died a little inside
When I stopped surfing
After three decades
Of an inept practice.

I was always a runner.
And for many years
A bare foot runner
Before I arrived in the U.S.

I died a little inside
When I stopped running
After most of a lifetime spent
 Running, running, running.

Now I sit outside my room
In Baja, overlooking an arroyo
On its rocky path to the Ocean -
A grey-blue strip on the horizon.

I am neither planning my next run
Nor checking the tide or the swell. 
I just gaze at the arroyo, its pitaya
Cactus and its wildlife…

I was last in Baja 40 years ago
Long before these small deaths -
Each a modest sacrifice of self
Uncovering a wider consciousness…

Now, am I awakened or regretful?
This is the measure of my
Preparedness for the big one:
How I die before dying…