The Blue-Eyed Owl
My ancient enemy the blue-eyed owl
lies in wait for me in the forest of my words
false prophet-bird clothed in the plumage
of phenomenology, he glides ghostlike through
the naked limbs of my thoughts ever ready
to distract me from what is real and true.
I have often felt the brush of his feathers against
my cheek and noticed that his eyes are blue
But I forget that I should slay him one more time
believing I’ve already done - only to feel his
feathers once more against my cheek, and
realize again that the battle is still not won.
I have slain him indeed so many times, that
my arm, like Alexander’s arm ,has grown weary from
the slaughter: and still, he flutters back to life
arising from the ashes of my complacency like the
phoenix bird of ancient legend to taunt me with his
presence and beguile me with the touch of his feathers.
He knows well my language and has carefully studied
how I like to pontificate with symbol and metaphor
fabricating words and manipulating signs in order
to pleasure myself in the fleshpots of speculative thought.
I know he still has the power to entice me with these
bitter fruits because of my weakness.
I must hide myself in the sheltering darkness of a way
that leads to a place that is a no-place place, and whose
only entrance is by a secret path that is not a way
and it is there in that all-encompassing darkness that
I can become mindfully secure and joyously awake
where the blue-eyed owl cannot find me.