Argument: In which a maintenance professional,
freed by lowly status and driven by hatred of day, contemplates the state
of modern life and the history of western metaphysics, coming to the conclusion
that he was born at the wrong time.
Good riddance to oppressive day,
Sire of countless follies,
Spurring manís avarice like a whip,
Whose bright visage offends the sensitive
And burns every hue of skin,
Until itís sore and cancerous;
Shamelessly beckoning with fiery fingers
Many minions to the sandy shore,
To lollygag with unbridled immodesty,
Glistening with oil like sweaty pigs.
Away! Away! Phoebusí vile cart,
Falling like a flaming dart
That bloodies the Western firmament;
I wish your death was permanent.
Now is the time for night to reign,
Marching before a royal train:
The moon, the stars, the mysteries unseen,
Wheeling above a land of dreams.
Now my heart stirs to life,
To again embrace my love, my wife!
My eyes caress her celestial attire,
Stimulating sweet mental desire.
Delighted I watch from my glass tower,
And revel in the lonely hour.
While city lights twinkle and glow
Like precious diamonds cast below.
Many are the joys of being alone,
Toiling beneath a heavenly dome:
Emptying baskets and mopping floors,
Call me Carl, the janitor.
Each morning offices fill with drones,
Pushing paper and working phones.
With genteel manners they compete,
Dissemble, lie, and often cheat.
On the bossís butt their lips do dwell,
Prisoners of mammonís unholy spell.
Working late to raise their status,
Worn subway steps mark their passing.
All through life they daily creep,
Never waking from this fearful sleep.
How I marvel at their plight,
In the midst of day to lose all sight.
Caught in chains forged below,
Their greed will never cease to grow.
Moving with machine-like motion,
Bound by some grim compulsion.
Convinced they act by their own volition,
From Hephestusí anvil they are driven
And into oblivion are hurled,
Unknowing slaves of the underworld.
Unlike these denizens in Morpheusí keep,
I follow whatever my mind does seek.
While my footsteps echo down the halls,
I harken to the siren call
Of that seductress Dame Knowledge,
To her my devotion I solemnly pledge.
Having raised Mankind from the mire,
And blessed us with a heavenly choir.
Soothing our nighttime fears
With the music of the spheres.
Such delight to contemplate the mystery
Of the Mindís march throughout history.
How the fire of reason pierced the darkness,
Kindled by philosophers of genius.
Like pioneers venturing without fear
Into dense woods to make a clearing;
That we may grasp our human nature,
Revealing the work of our creator.
Above all else we must rejoice
That mortals can speak with angelic voice.
Boundless is my passion to learn
From thinkers whose lamps still burn.
Oh, to walk the Ionian shore
While Heraclitus talked of an even score:
How in the rough exchange of strife
Is born the unity of all life.
Or endure the rigors of the Academy
While seated rapt at Platoís knee,
Whose insistence on ideal forms
Caused the senses from nature torn.
To stand on the foundation Descartes sought
By doubting the existence of all but thought;
Thus completing the metaphysical bind
With his exultation of the Mind.
It was left for frail Nietzsche to construe
How the destruction of the world ensued:
The Mindís usurpation of being
Would set all of nature reeling.
And humans from their poetic nature drift,
Threatened by this tragic rift.
My mission is to pursue whatís true,
But still I have a job to do.
Setting aside these thoughts of doom,
I make my way to a conference room.
There precious solitude I will sacrifice
For the sake of checking on the ice.
Into the company of people I must stoop,
Providing service to a focus group.
I open the door and walk in unseen,
None suspecting a mind so keen.
Around a table ten subjects sit,
Sifting through a marketing kit.
Every nuance, glance, and word
Is recorded by some suited nerd.
Undeserving words do immortality gain
When downloaded into a computerís brain.
While big shots watch through a mirrored wall,
As if consulting the Delphic Oracle.
Attention paid not to the brightest and the best,
But to those chosen for their averageness.
Ah, whatís the point in being glum
When thereís nothing to be done.
Bad enough people are empty as balloons,
But how their superiority makes me fume!
So once more I retreat to cherished solitude,
Sick of humanityís self-important attitude.
I will walk the endless corridors of thought,
Mining gold that canít be bought.
What a curse to be a sage
Doomed to an unheroic age.