This Place of Prose and Poetry. Lucian Krukowski

is a-priori; and linguistically, is synthetic. The content of the experience is obtained through the senses—its source is not other-worldly. Yet, its form is inherent in the mind—as it reflects on its (very) need for unity and harmony in the completeness of its thought, and finds an image of this need satisfied—in the reflective judgment that some “x” is beautiful. This purports to have us understand the possibility of the world through the nature of thought—a (developmental) notion that places our awareness of the import of sensory judgment within the process of (our) species evolution. Further, it places the notion of our need for completeness within this process—in our experience of beauty.

      For our purposes, then, the brain is the world-in-perception (synthetic), and the mind is perception-as-consciousness (a-priori). We do not have theories that would satisfactorily place the one (either one) within the other. Yet we do have needs, physical and social—even metaphysical—that would reject (no?) the proposal of “identity”—that one “just is” the other.

      BIRTHDAY BOY

      Birthday Boy was born in the same old way—

      at the break of day as they wrote it down.

      But it was a different place and another day—

      quite far away in an Eastern town.

      It was some time ago—a time that’s past.

      But time doesn’t pass away—not the way

      he will, when his late time comes

      in some other town at another day.

      He sits here now—this very moment,

      lounging in the early evening,

      much opinionated and less than neat,

      with reading glasses and an a/fib beat.

      But he’s a Hearty Harry notwithstanding.

      Come by most any day you feel the need

      to use him or peruse him.

      He’ll love it both or either way.

      But choose your coming from among

      the moments within the many times of life

      that form the functions of our varied minds.

      Choose the ones that happen

      more than once—or in multiples of twice.

      Remember also that the family thought

      your visit was very nice—for him—not you.

      They do remember that you once said —

      you would prefer him dead.

      KINDS OF TRUTH

      Poems are like butterflies; they flit blamelessly to the outsides of the page—just in case they must hide—or otherwise protect themselves from the demands of a lurking prosy notion that took on the rule of power to profess the truth, but in the process became too dessicated to perform in places set aside for song, dance, and the sweeter sadness. There are few such places now—worn shelters that once resounded with old ballads—all the ones that overcame their rhyming to tell us what is important for us to know.

      Prose is hard.

      Is that all you have to say?

      But, I say

      I’m getting smarter by the day.

      Poetry is harder.

      Is that all that counts for you?

      But, you know—

      maybe that-there’s all there is

      to say.

      When did poetry relinquish its affinity between telling and knowing? Perhaps when truths that come from knowing became democratic and lost their categories, when most any truth would qualify for all levels of profundity—and become suitable for most any use —whether in prose or poetry. But should we not, if we need a measure to keep our truths together, safe and in one piece, choose a good measure—the best we can afford—and then only mind the most potent truths? After all, there are so many that try to play the game, and increasingly they (both truths and measures) look less and less alike—unless we show them all we love them equally and dearly. But then—how can we choose between them—when love is made before its choosing? Well, we could avoid this riddle —and tell the chosen that some won’t get paid (in kind) for being lovers—unless they’re certifiably true-as-advertised, and also will behave themselves as stipulated.

      This is difficult to do with truth, for the word hides many sentiments such that, if you listen carefully, can have outlandish applications—some of which you would not reference with friends at supper or when in bed with a friendly stranger. There’s no stopping public sentiment, however. One can slash the pictures, burn the books, and ring the curtain down—even shoot the messenger. But, like Asian carp, presumptive truths will get through the barriers and proliferate down stream—by the very banks upon which you and your true love once were safely wont to bide.

      Years have been wasted building barricades—but I say the day can still be won. The wars of truth are raging still. (can you imagine—after all this time?) So get off your fat ass and reach with me into the seamy places where truths of all persuasion comport and disport one with the other. We cannot love them all, for some are too sad and tired, others too mean and ugly; and many—more than we once thought—will not show themselves because they are already spoken for in hostile languages.

      But some truths look familiar: They have grown to full discourse in adjoining neighborhoods, speak the same if differently inflected language as we do, wear trousers that buckle snugly at the waist instead of sagging below the butt, do not use wigs or multi-dye their hair, avoid tatoos, and seldom pierce in private places.

      Such truths represent us better than do the others: Among these familiars are the self-evident truths—they come in all colors. When asked why they are true, they smile and wave at everything that now is and has ever been—and then quietly affirm that we and they, and all of that and them, are one. There is no point in arguing with self-evidential truths—but a glass of white wine at an outdoor table is comforting.

      Then there are the logical truths—they are neither red nor blue (actually, somewhat colorless). These truths are more vulnerable to the question: “Where do truths come from?” than to the question: “What is true?” In respect and wonderment, we see them in their stern and subtle robes, but we also want to know what place it is that gives them their authority. They reply that they, of course, are from the mind—that is where they think up the rules by which they themselves, their proofs and propositions, are formed—a neat trick—the snake in full-circle with tail-in-mouth. But we can also suppose that they come from elsewhere—the mind of God, or maybe chanting on the beach.

      We now retreat to go forward: As the mind is—must be—a proper part of the brain—then the logical truths, together with all possible rules of formation, must be there as well—assigned variables and firing neurons are kissing cousins. Indeed, one might imagine the brain to be (not merely look-like) a comprehensive (bio) logical system. It once was understood as a comprehensive (teleo) logical system. Both are true under certain conditions. But can we imagine the mind that way? It is (should be) too unruly to conform with systems—or parentheses.

      If we poke around—dissect, scan, and otherwise illuminate—we might find those rule-forming places in the brain more easily than if we searched for them in the mind. Poets, it must be said, have done some good mind-searching—but have published their findings through their poems—which, as art, can be discounted but not disputed.

      If we assume that the brain (unlike the mind) is a proper part of our physical extension, we can, as above, speculate that rules are somewhere there as well—that the rules of logic must be compatible with the stuff of the physical