Occam's Dream

Every night for months,

in the solemn hour

before waking, when

aimless dreaming is drawn to a point

of cryptic revelation,

I see the white flame

of burnished steel,

hear swords ringing in

matched conflict, and strop

with my palms the molecular edges

of knives honed to a fine line

as blade after blade is offered

to my eager hand.

There is something I desire here,

as I reach for the hilt,

the pure, dense fact

of the thing and

awaken,

wondering again what

I am meant to grasp.

Is there some hidden vein of violence

in my carefully cultivated life?

A need to conquer some ambiguity in

pure, clean combat?

Or just something that needs cutting?

Perhaps the spirit of old Occam,

urging me to

simplify, simplify, simplify.

        SCS, July, 2004

TOP