July [1] 2008


Leaving Leibnitz alone

to rattle the rusty bars

of his windowless monad,

Carl Gustav Jung,

the imprisoned pioneer,

snooped beneath the floorboards

convinced his liberation

lay well below the dirt.

Jung cut the ground beneath his bed

like a sly pirate upon the buried promise

until one night, nearly down to China,

he pushed through the prison floor

and discovered a hidden labyrinth in the depths.

With  empirical caution did young Carl

descend the spiraling staircase

until he came upon an open room,

a chamber extraordinaire,

for upon its dampened walls stood shelves

stocked with an exquisite treasure

of aged and ancient wine!

With steadfast hands to one dusty bottle

that shined a magnificent Mediterranean label,

Dr. Jung, at once, took upon the task

of drinking himself under the table.

And but for one distant cry

from a dark lady in the eaves,

Jung’s stupor may have hung eternal.

Or so it was written in the prison urinal.

Sig Freud and his coke-head boys

typically smirked at Wild Carl,

the country boy Swiss,

who was given to those higher altitudes

where mountains protruded like majestic breasts–

thus they humored his phantasmic libido,

until young Carl proclaimed a numinous underworld

that circled far below–

their voices raised

for the mystic’s head

upon their beloved Prime Credo.

Hurt like a hero left beholden to himself,

Jung crept back down the secret opening

and for years remained in the prison depths,

exploring every inch

of mud, brick, and wood,

always seeking the Prime Material.

And by the time he reached his middle age,

he was known above as the eccentric sage,

but within the nooks and crannies

far below the prison floor,

Carl Jung found his freedom.


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