En this post-modern age

Of the Iron Clockwork
Of the social, political charade
Of the heart coarsen’d by hate

The contraction of man’s most degenerate impulse
Is a grievous, involuntary response

Post-modern man,

He works so hard 2 be a destroyer of all-things
That happen 2 reside outside his experience,
Beyond the reach of his animal understanding
And rudimentary sight

Post-modern man,

He works so hard 2 be offended by the skin of his very own drum
                             2 be sanctimonious
And convince the world that his revolution has injustice on the run

So hard, w/ all of his might, 2 demonise his neighbor
And cast shade upon his lantern’s prospering light

Post-modern man,

He beseeches heav’nly constellations 4 universal peace
Although they are constellations en which he does not believe

Post-modern man,

He takes excessive pride
En the cut of his intellect

Cold, colder, coldest!

And deliberates ev’ry swing of Mother Nature’s mane
W/out the will 2 act on behalf of what is beautiful, noble, and good

He does this
2 the detriment of his soul.

Post-modern man,

He beseeches the jinn of degradation 2 befoul the Other
And gorges himself upon the nev’r ending sorrows of his Sistahs and Brothas
Who, 4 whatever reason, take the bait

He watches the boulders of a supreme mountain spill,
Gravity take hold, and ev’ry chamber of ev’ry heart fill
W/ the angular stones of human ill will

Post-modern man,

He seems 2 nev’r weary of filth
En fact, he feeds it as it fattens his dark space
And the pinholes, above his prow, drift

He watches as they drop from the thrones of Heav’n
                                drop from the many troves of Bliss
Drop, drop, drop!

Post-modern man,

He does not revere nature
He does not give her her due

4 him, biology does not hold sway
And he rebukes harshly the poor bastard
Who does not think-upon-it his way

You can be me, he scorns,
And she can be you.

Swindler! Hypocrite! Fiend!

Post-modern man,

He champions a rising tide of gloom,
Then bemoans the loss of light –

That eerie stillness that arrives
W/ the splintering of the cosmic loom

These are his transgressions
And their wages are far from trite

A lasting wynter
A soulless nite

Serves him right 4 his many treacherous deeds.

Forsaking the opening of the heart
Forsaking the groves of the Mahadevi

And then again, generations later,
The miraculous parting of the sea of reeds

And then again, generations much much later,
The truth of that beautiful prince
Who realised sublime emptiness beneath the Bo tree
Alongside a rushing river

Post-modern man,

His boast
Is a jest

En ignorance, he will die
Like all the rest

Unless he returns 2 the garten
Where his I began

Unless he returns 2 the grove
Where his fingers 1st ran
Thru the mane of a lyon’s roar

A lyon who, disguised as a feather’d serpent,
Instructed man,

Hike up those britches, nephew
And take a fuckin’ stand!

A lyon whose godly seed, by way of a Sacred Har,
Descended upon the shore of Gaul w/ a great secret 4 the soul of man
(The greatest secret 4 the soul by far); namely, Deliverance!

Fret not this ride
Fret not the fall of these earthly kingdoms
(As their citadels crumble around thee)

Fret not the stars en this darkest nite
(As they refuse 2 mirror The Dangler’s last cry)

Fret not the divine quiet
Fret not the divine repose

Fret not the tumult
Outside these ancient city walls,

Tho’ he hast died, HE is risen!
Arose! Arose! Arose!

© The Herder 20Seventeen

Soma from the Well: C.G. Jung

All steps forward in the improvement of the human psyche have been paid for by blood. Meanwhile [today] everybody teaches everybody, and nobody seems to realize the necessity that the way to improvement begins right in himself. It is almost too simple a truth. Everybody is on the lookout for organizations and techniques, where one can follow the other and where things can be done safely in company.

C.G. Jung / Jung & Hesse 



N.B.  Verily, one must enter the dark wood at its darkest point;
And one must enter alone.

– Valentino Santi

Message 2 the Seekers and Sowers

The Supreme Goal
Is 2 see The Divine, The Absolute,
The Brahman en ev’ryone and ev’rything.

Good Luck!


Declaration and Demands

[Seated At A Cherrywood Desk En His Uncle’s Tuscan Villa,
The Divine Messenger Puts His Bamboo Quill 2 A Blank Sepia Page.

En A Writing Vox, Born Of Love And Courage, He Authors A Declaration
And Then A Litany Of Demands On The Present World And Its Amoral Pantheon.]

WE choose 2 not defile our spirits with your political bodies
WE choose 2 not be the building stones of an economic bastille
That will enevitably call upon us 2 smith shackles 4 our brothers
And then ourselves

WE choose 2 not do this
WE choose 2 not lie, cheat, and steal
WE choose 2 not have our spirits brought 2 heal

WE choose 2 not fear our neighbor
2 not envy his happiness
2 not covet his dame

WE choose 2 not walk blindly
2 not be blind

WE choose 2 not shed another precious drop of blood
4 the brutes en suits
And striped silk ties

WE choose 2 not covet the purse of our countrymen
WE choose 2 not hoard the pantry’s Ghee
When WE know there are Paupers and Pros who need it most

WE choose 2 not demonise
WE choose 2 not hate
WE choose 2 not be the willing (or unwilling) host
Of an ill-conceived and misanthropic fate

WE choose

This here!
This here!

{Two-Beat Pause}

WE choose Beauty o’er Fashion
WE choose Resolve o’er Blame

WE choose Thalia o’er Scarcity
WE choose Bliss o’er Fame


WE, the Seekers and Sowers of The Aesthetics Underground,
Demand a great healing 4 a world terribly sick

A world w/out oil (4 the lantern’s wick)
A world w/out flow

A world w/out light
A world w/out soul

{One-Beat Pause}

A world w/out poise
A world w/out rarefied aire
(4 the Righteous 2 breathe)

A world w/out maidens,
Tall, blonde, and irresistibly fair
(Much too fair 4 Love’s Rogue 2 leave)


WE demand Prometheus be unbound
WE demand Atlas be given wings
WE demand Medusa be adored (4 the divinity she is)

WE demand the right of our Heav’nly Grandmother’s apron pouch
2 house a bevy of otherworldly things:

Golden Apples,
Figs and Almonds and Pomegranate Seeds!

WE demand a new Garten 4 Adonis
And a new grazing Skye 4 Apollo’s fiery steeds

WE demand that Mercy like Misery
Be given the freedom 2 walk stride 4 stride

From dusk ‘til morn
From tide 2 tide

{Two-Beat Pause}

WE demand that ev’ry Prince and Princess born
Be granted the means 2 re-di-rect their personal lot

WE demand an arrow thru ev’ry heart
And a shakti 4 ev’ry maverick, en the thicket, caught


WE, the Seekers and Sowers of The Aesthetics Underground,
Demand a great healing 4 a world terribly sick

Sick of Sorrow
Sick of Ignorance

Sick of Tyranny
Sick of Pain

Sick of Division

Sick, sick, sick
. . . at heart

© The Herder 20Seventeen

The Dawn

A crack en the veneer,
We so carefully crafted,
Reveals a wasteland once hidden
Behind the ramparts of our vanity’s shame

A wasteland where
We are neither kind
Nor generous 2 ourselves

A wasteland where
Brutes dig en their heels and
Shadows dwell

And the only Hell
Is the Hell we make!

{Two-Beat Pause}

A wasteland where
We suffer needlessly

A wasteland where
Anguish sets in

A wasteland where
The kindling of Ananda is discarded, then
Hastily thrown ento the bin

A wasteland where
We await a new sword en stone and
                a new round table w/
Glorious Knights of Faith prepared
To travel the Dark Wood alone

And atone,
For us all,

The loss of the Dawn

[The White Wood’s Beckoning Aside.]

Dawn –
The fall of Grace
Upon errant shoulders

That liminal state –
The very moment b’fore daye breaks
The very moment b’fore a purple skye is gorgeously fill’d
W/ a billion billion rays of light


A crack!
And a battalion of Seraphim descend

A crack!
And a siege of Demons rise

A crack!
And The Gatekeeper,
Pine cone staff en hand,
Opens his big brown eyes

© The Herder 20Seventeen