CARL JUNG ON PAROLE
July [1] 2008
(Poem)
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.
1979
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