You say I see the world as monochrome – No texture and without tonality. The truth for you grows wild: reality Springs forth, connected, plural, as rhizome. Perhaps it’s true; I’d rather be at home Within the comfort of fixed certainty, For here amidst truth’s many pleats I see The wholeness seen across each moving zone. Life’s essence, irreducibly complex, Must stretch and test the bounds of our abode. To each their own; we all have our penchants And you, it’s true, leave space for life to flex. But threefold truth converges at one road And that, for me, has made the différence.
No root, no trunk, no stem, only these weeds; No path to travel, only lines of flight. No start, no finish, unity or seed, Only these thoughts that twist and turn, alight. And when the course is twisted and the root Cannot be simplified, then who are we? We are creators and Creation's fruit, We are this complex multiplicity. We are the thoughts inside the Maker's mind Yet we are circling where we do not know. We are towards Him, and in space and time, We are eternal in the finite Now. The truth is tangled and we cannot see Yet in the complex mass, the sovereign He.
Being is constant creativity,
Or so old Gilles Deleuze has made us think,
But reading him my mind caves inwardly,
My being draining outwards down the sink.
These post-structuralists, they all like to speak
And multiply their words like plural truths,
But at day’s end, we all of us must eke
A living out, for which they are no use.
I’d love to live – don’t get me wrong – like them
And break down structures like a fallen tree,
Attack the garment, rip apart the hem
And make my own truth rhizomatically,
But sad to say, dear Gilles, you make my head
Feel like I think it must feel to be dead.