The Spirit Of Descartes


Mark Andrew Holmes

When the empire of ice cream congeals,

And quickly bright things come to confusion,

The serpent regards the eye of the beholder with gimlet eyes of mentality,

Cold, blue, coruscating eyes of Medusa—

Gold, silver, and platinum, limber, nimble and volatile—

Stopping in a capricious nanosecond for a pivotal moment in time to stare and fierily speak its piece;

A flash burned forever on its interviewer's brain instantaneously, to be rerun like a video in another's—

And another's, et cetera, on and on forever,

As long as there are those who listen—

But all who hear will remember;

The serpent has fangs that drip fuming toxic nectar,

Twin lances of Achilles that simultaneously heal and kill;

Alis volat propriis, a maximis ad minima,

And even a cat may look at a king,

For mines of sulfur burn within the soul of Walter Mitty,

And which of God's blessings can one deny?

© 2002 by Mark Andrew Holmes.

Click here for endnotes to this poem.

Go Back