Metaphysics lives in a parking lot

There is a thing called hule and it invades our souls

Someone had better be prepared for rage. There would be more than ocean-water broken Before God’s last Put out the light was spoken. ~ Robert Frost

A root beneath a NO PARKING sign declares nature to be a unique, unrepeatable entity – Not prosoponbut hupostasis How many know the theologic-philosophic distinction? One, perhaps two … and one I’ve lost. A Monad without the all-formative, productive Dyad. So now what? I smoke my cigar, awaiting governmental largesse. My watch is white gold and platinum, my shoes are KC, but yet I’m poor. I’ve squandered my money on liquor, women, and Onyx Toros. But somehow the Monad remains. Augustly aloof, rotting in the juices of his own noetic effluence. This root beneath the sign that I keep tapping, enjoying its permanence, makes me feel ephemerality as almost a virtue. I sing a song and dance a dance with myself …. Quietly alone, awaiting the worst but somehow always finding an angel. They DO exist, but not in dreams or shadows as Stevens once put it. Divinity is an attribute of our evolved selves. I lack it. But I love it in others. The sweetest woman who ever lived (in my own biased estimation) was the pretty Vietnamese lady who hugged me when I cried, and sent out a page for me to make sure I didn’t leave before (chastely) hugging her goodbye. And yet still I return to this root. It establishes a strong sense of  - a sense that the wooden nature of reality will never abandon us. A sense that no matter how much vodka I imbibe, I am still Edward Moore, 39 years old, at the midpoint of my life … And like Dante in his dark wood, but with no Virgil to guide me. A guide? I reach out when necessary, and as Ginsberg once wrote, Mohammedan angels dance on the rooftops. What more can I ask for? My angel ….