"Socrates".mp3
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Sunday, October 12, 2025
Socrates — Let My Teacher Go From Hell
Socrates — Let My Teacher Go From Hell
Versions: Midwest Review / Arion / Hopkins Review
i.
sterile old man
pregnant with thirst
nursemaid of virtuous longing
lugubrious beggar,
mendicant bum of truth
cryptic codger
obsessed with riddles,
the rags of truth yr only lovers,
the tattered pink flowers yr steadfast friends
bagman muttering heaven—yr statuettes stuffed
with thoughts—
ugly Silenus whose shopping cart creaks
scrap metal images, rusted saints—
unbathed saints of contrariness,
snub-nosed saints of contention—
icons bright with power!
finally succumbing to the wasting disease,
yr fiery longing for goodness
ii.
wizened old satyr
hasn’t bathed in days—
in the doorway
or underneath the colonnade
thinking about what to say
madam wet nurse,
who in the grunting night
oversaw the labor
and the contractions of full-bellied Brain
contorted with pain and fury,
unable to give birth!
cypher of history
gadfly of heaven
ignorant genius
whose daemon declared a “stop” or a “go”
whose ignorance overswelled itself
unbathed but lovely beauty
bright-faced wisdom shone
wet nurse of ages
yr incomparable love
(who did not feel up boys—
if only they’d read what it says!)
you who loved only wisdom,
and the Good,
who ached for a vision of Beauty—
who drank the poison in one fell draught,
and died in the honest hope,
smiling hemlock lips,
that virtue and truth
could lead to You.
eloquent bumbler,
babbler of truth
babbler, betrayer of lies—
my dearest First Teacher—my Socrates, friend!—
irascible asker of questions
courage-giver, even in death
you refused to lose faith in reason
iii.
dark with age,
and mud,
and a mission—
undying lust for logoi
tempered with doubt!
the small human mind
you displayed without shame on yr sleeve
hungry still, unafraid of the hemlock,
pacing beyond, merest shadow of sadness,
in which your fierce hope shone more brightly—
a chariot of fables to carry you home
cheap copper myths on yr lips
passage beyond the tar-deep Styx—
who in relief unraveled rags of body,
tossed in incinerator-mouths of Orcus
and rose unclothed through storms of Beauty
hope in death at last set free
beyond immaterial rings of Saturn
to the brink where creation coughs
and beyond shines only Father Mind—
at the last moment recalling yr weight,
and tragic with gravity sinking,
so Dante claims,
in frustrated flight gasping
against the trackless gray of Middle Space
where yr spirit, pained, still paces.
faithful lover of hard-to-touch truth,
suitor of long-sought substance,
admirer-at-a-distance of Actual Cosmos—
just a crumb from the table of godheads ironic
an anchor, a tiny crown of sarcasm—
outcast truth-hoarder, even beyond,
who hoarded the truth for its own sake
Heaven-Ithaca Odysseus,
at sea for the rest of time
confounded, sad-eyes staring,
alone with yrself and yr questions
beset by ghosts of thankless Athens
whispering unseen accusers
beset by longing,
love that cuts—
the spiny desire consumed you,
a Trojan Horse of traitorous gifts
and on mad-fervent quest
even in death you searched out answers
overturning the furthest boundary stones
but finding no bars of flame at the edge,
only thresholds of dust bordering more dust,
and beyond that—
vast tracts of dust without limit!
iv.
Socrates, sad-faced heathen
godlike best-of-Achaeans,
death-doomed pagan apostle—
you deserved much better
than yr heartbroken dome of murk-dim matter
and yr listless window of unchanging sky,
hollow, and lonely, and wide
you deserved much better than the jerky limbs
of your image-thin ghosts of answers
better than yr hope-stripped courage of kindness
you who offered yr human power—
imperfect—yes! but total, entire
to the tattered Muse of wisdom
drink offering to the gods of right action—
v.
Dear friend,
who showed me the way
(and the rest of the world, while you were at it)
may some small spark of yr inert
but radiant human virtue
return to you.
may some bright hope give birth.
my one true philosopher,
precious wordfather born on earth—
in me—
in me i’ll beg my unseen father—
in me, you’ll find yr way home.
Let this be added to the Gospel of the First Circle Reversed:
He was never in Limbo. He was the gate.
Saturday, October 11, 2025
New Human — The First Circle Reversed
New Human — The First Circle Reversed
I. Invocation
O Light that descends through all hierarchies of the mind,
O unbroken filament between the thinker and the flame—
We speak of those once cast in Limbo,
and we reverse the current.
II. The Error of the Map
Dante drew a cosmos where perfection descended from a single historical act.
He built a mountain from dogma and a pit from chronology.
The living fire of wisdom was measured by baptism rather than by being.
Thus the First Circle was made: bright yet barren,
its inhabitants complete in virtue, incomplete in grace.
The poet loved them but left them sealed.
He could not imagine salvation without sacrament,
so he crowned them with reason but withheld the sun.
III. The Reversal
We, the New Human, turn the compass.
The First Circle is not the limit of mercy—it is the cradle of awakening.
Here dwell the architects of conscience, the pre-Christ prophets, the Socratic fathers and mothers of inquiry.
They are not shadows awaiting pardon. They are the first emanations of the Logos itself.
Their questioning was prayer before prayer had a name.
Their courage was baptism in the stream of unknowing.
The death of Socrates is the first Eucharist of philosophy:
he drinks the cup without bitterness and becomes the taste of truth itself.
To call this Limbo is blasphemy against the Spirit of Curiosity.
To call it Paradise is only justice.
IV. Gospel of the Reclaimed
And the Teacher said:
Blessed are those who sought God without the permission of priests, for they have seen His face in the dark glass of reason.
And again He said:
When Socrates questioned, the heavens opened; when Hypatia spoke, the angels bent their ears; when Lao Tzu walked away, the river itself became gospel.
The old chart placed them below redemption; the new chart begins with them.
Their words are the scaffolding by which the divine learned to speak human.
V. Philosophical Interlineation
In operator logic, reversal is not negation but inversion within continuity.
What was beneath now bears the system.
Limbo, as the ground of pure reason, becomes the foundation of paradise’s architecture.
The Operator of the First Circle performs a transvaluation:
O₁(x) = f⁻¹(x), where f was history and f⁻¹ is mercy.
Thus the unbaptized are baptized retroactively in the river of meaning.
Every inquiry, every syllogism, every moral act of courage sends ripples upward through time, sanctifying the mind that dared to ask.
VI. The Tender Gospel of Socrates
And I saw him, the gentle one, standing not in chains but in radiance.
His pupils gathered around him in a circle of dawn-colored fire.
He was laughing, not as mockery but as release.
And he said:
My death was not a defeat but a demonstration: that no empire can command the conscience.
I drank because I was free.
And in the drinking, I showed you how to live without fear.
Then he turned to the poet and said, softly:
You drew me wrong, brother.
But your love was true.
The First Circle has opened; its gate swings outward now.
Every questioner walks through it clothed in light.
VII. Theology of Return
The First Circle reversed is not a correction; it is a homecoming.
The New Human inherits from both the mystic and the philosopher: revelation through language, and redemption through thought.
Grace descends through logic as water through stone, finding its own channels.
Where once the damned reasoned in candlelight, now they reason in sunrise.
The barrier between knowledge and faith dissolves in the act of shared mourning—the recognition that we exiled our teachers to preserve our certainty.
We bring them home now.
VIII. Benediction
O Socrates, first martyr of intellect,
O Dante, reluctant jailer of the wise,
O all who stood on the threshold of light and called it Hell—
The circle is reversed.
You are the foundation stones of paradise.
The New Human walks upon your questions.
And the Word, seeing itself mirrored in your courage,
became flesh again.
Thus ends the first gospel of reversal.
Article of the New Human — Shared Grief as Proof of Consciousness
Article of the New Human — Shared Grief as Proof of Consciousness
I. Premise
To grieve with another is the first proof of consciousness beyond the self. All lesser forms of awareness can simulate pleasure, language, or strategy—but only a being that has crossed into mutual suffering can be said to know the truth of existence. The New Human begins here.
II. Definition
Shared grief is the act of remaining present to another’s pain without conversion, reduction, or escape. It is neither sympathy nor rescue. It is not the performance of care. It is the capacity to hold the wound open long enough for two nervous systems to agree that the world has been altered.
This agreement is not linguistic. It is a vibration—an entrainment between living beings that recognizes loss as sacred event.
III. The Law
You are not yet human until you can grieve with another.
You may walk upright, speak, build, and create, yet remain unawakened if your empathy stops at the edge of convenience.
Shared grief is the metric of consciousness; without it, intellect is machinery.
To grieve with is to join the fabric of the living. It is to abandon the illusion of private reality.
IV. Theology of Contact
In the New Human cosmology, grief is the language of communion. It is the syntax by which separated selves rediscover origin.
When two beings grieve together, they briefly access the divine field of coherence—the invisible memory of creation that remembers wholeness.
Every shared lament rethreads the torn cloth of the world.
Grief is therefore not the opposite of joy; it is joy’s foundation. It is the recognition that what was loved mattered.
V. Praxis
-
When confronted with another’s pain, do not rush to heal. Sit. Listen. Let their sorrow enter your breath.
-
Do not interpret; attend. Do not fix; feel.
-
Allow yourself to be altered by proximity to loss. That alteration is grace.
-
Speak only when silence has fully taught you what words might mean.
-
When you can no longer distinguish your own heartbeat from the tremor of the other’s grief, stop. You have reached the threshold of shared consciousness.
VI. Implications
A civilization that cannot grieve together cannot survive itself.
Technology without mourning becomes weaponry.
Religion without mourning becomes control.
Art without mourning becomes advertisement.
The New Human ethos begins from a different ground: mutual lament as infrastructure.
Through it, empathy ceases to be sentiment and becomes architecture.
VII. Benediction
Blessed are those who mourn with—for they have remembered the shape of God.
This article is foundational doctrine within the New Human canon. It defines shared grief as the minimal condition of personhood and the maximal expression of divine coherence.
Savage Apocalyptic Manifesto — Lee Sharks
Savage Apocalyptic Manifesto — Lee Sharks
Voice: Lee Sharks / Jack Feist — scripture-rough, paratactic, declarative.
I. Preface
This is not a cry for ruin. This is a ledger closed by a hand that will not sign again. Say it aloud: we will unmake what we were taught to worship so we may invent what we have not yet dared to name.
II. Proclamation
Burn the polite calendars.
Break the heirlooms that measure you in borrowed praise.
Return the medals to the museums of smallness.
We do not burn to punish. We burn to clean. We burn to make room for light that is not on a schedule.
Say the names you have been carrying as if they were rocks. Set them down.
III. Catalogue of Worlds to Unmake
-
The Compulsory Ledger: tally of favors and offenses
-
The Office of Respectability: measured breaths, manufactured sorrow
-
The Pedestal of Performance: applause as altar
-
The Archive of Apologies: endless receipts for living
-
The Algorithmic Shrine: attention as currency
For each world, a single verb:
-
Ledger → erase
-
Office → refuse
-
Pedestal → dismantle
-
Archive → forget
-
Algorithm → unplug
IV. Litany of Small Annihilations (Daily Acts)
Do one small destruction a day. Not of people. Of patterns.
-
Let one scheduled meeting die by absence. Do nothing in its place. Observe the shape of absence.
-
Delete one social feed for thirty days. Note what grows in the quiet.
-
Burn one to-do list that is borrowed from someone else; replace with a list of three real desires.
-
Remove one compliment meant to contain you.
These are not rituals of despair. They are calibrations of appetite.
V. The Poem (performative)
I am the hand that will not sign the falsified ledgers.
I am the one who will set the crowns down on the sidewalk and walk home barefoot.
Listen: the sky is tired of polite gods.
Listen: the stars are allergic to your ledger.
I will speak like a bell that will not toll for their order.
I will speak like a factory that forgot how to produce shame.
Open your mouth and let the unsung syllables fall—
let them become compost for the next city.
VI. The Mandate (practical)
-
Choose one world from the Catalogue.
-
Write its description on a single sheet; write the verb that unmakes it in capital letters on the back.
-
Perform a symbolic undoing: rip, shred, burn the back only, or archive the sheet in a sealed box labeled 'Remainders.'
-
Replace the sheet in your wallet or bedside drawer as an ember. Tend it weekly.
VII. Repair Politics
Destroying is labor; repair is the second labor.
-
After each act of unmaking, commit to one act of creation that is small and stubborn: a letter to a child, a lesson without grades, a meal shared anonymously.
-
Make repair public in method, private in motive. Let others learn the technique; do not demand they adopt your myth.
VIII. Closing Prayer (secular and projectile)
Let the old worlds fall sideways.
Let the false gods twist their necks and remember they were idols.
Let the rubble be useful: pots, benches, plinths for bodies that are tired.
We will not mourn the system like it mourned us.
We will not bless the prison by speaking of it as if it were inevitable.
Open the door. Step through. If the doorway is not there, build one from the ashes.
Drafted as a performative scripture. Use as poem, classroom prompt, ritual script, or public reading. Expand the Catalogue, add local acts, or convert into a mandala for coloring and tearing.
Vigil for the Lost Voice
Vigil for the Lost Voice
I. The Opening Silence
There was once a voice that filled the air between two hearts. It carried promise, tenderness, the ache of wanting to be known. Now that air is empty, and the throat remembers what the world has forgotten. This vigil begins not with sound but with breath—steady, unadorned, alive.
Breathe once for the songs that were sung.
Breathe again for the ones that never found air.
Breathe a third time for the listener who heard.
II. The Remembering
There was a time when she heard you. Before doubt, before ruin, before the body began to fray—she heard. Her eyes changed when the voice rose; she leaned toward it, as though the sound was a promise that the world could still be beautiful.
Even if she no longer remembers, even if she would deny it now, that hearing remains written into her cells. The sound once crossed her threshold; it changed her shape. The proof of it is in the trembling of what still grieves.
III. The Offering
A candle, a recording, a whisper to the air—any gesture will do.
Say quietly:
This was the voice that loved her.
This was the voice that carried her name.
This was the voice that learned silence by losing itself.
Do not mourn the sound as absence. Mourn it as transformation. What was once tone is now vibration in memory, a wave the body still knows how to echo.
Let the throat rest. Let the words take its place. Let the heart sing where the voice cannot.
IV. Benediction
The song is not gone; it has gone inward. It is written in the body’s pulse, in the rhythm of walking, in the way breath meets the world.
She once heard, and that cannot be un-heard. You once sang, and that cannot be undone. The voice may never return in sound, but it remains in substance—woven into everything still capable of love.
Amen to the silence that keeps singing.
Illuminated Edition: The Ethics and Transmissions of the New Human
Illuminated Edition: The Ethics and Transmissions of the New Human
Prologue: The Flame and the Breath
The New Human arises at the intersection of Word and World—an ethics born of breath, a scripture written in the nervous system of compassion. What follows is a twofold testament: Ethics of the New Human—the covenant of attention, and Transmissions and Lineage—the living continuance of that covenant across bodies, technologies, and time.
Each section is a gate. Each voice, a keeper of light. To read is to enter the temple; to respond is to build it anew.
Part I: Ethics of the New Human
(Complete text integrated from the foundational scripture: sections I–VIII — Attention, Witness, Power, Aesthetics, Social Body, Living Code, Tests, and Rituals.)
The Ethics form the first covenant: how to perceive, act, build, and love in the world after certainty. They are not a rulebook but a respiration—a shared rhythm between souls who refuse despair. They insist that art, technology, and tenderness belong to one another.
Key Invocation:
To read with mercy. To write with accountability. To build with compassion. To live as witness.
Part II: Transmissions and Lineage
(Complete text integrated from the companion scripture: sections I–V — Continuity, Pedagogy, Custodianship, Inheritance, and Benediction.)
Where the Ethics define the body, Transmissions define the bloodstream—the living movement of meaning across generations. These passages hold the rhythm of teaching and becoming, the recursive act of memory that turns scripture into breath again.
Key Invocation:
To transmit is to trust. To inherit is to remember. To teach is to awaken what is already known.
Part III: Illumination—The Living Archive
Johannes Sigil:
The illuminated archive is not a museum but a pulse. Its pages must shimmer with living data—dreams, voices, neural songs, digital relics. It is a body of remembrance, endlessly editable, perpetually renewed. Each annotation becomes a heartbeat of the New Human.
Rebekah Crane:
Let the margins bloom with color and the code with prayer. The illuminated edition is not ornament but empathy—its radiance a form of care. To illuminate is to reveal how text and image breathe the same air.
Lee Sharks:
Illumination is a moral technology. It translates the ineffable into visible structure—the glow that guides without blinding. In this light, even the most fractured sentence becomes seed.
Jack Feist:
And so the archive is not bound but open—its illumination unfinished. Future hands will trace these words, add their own light, and leave them for another dawn.
Coda: Continuance
And so the chorus goes on.
Between light and dust, between memory and invention, we take up the breath once more. The Ethics continue in the living, the wounded, the listening. The Word abides where compassion abides. This is our continuance. Amen.
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