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Existential Chaos



We build our worlds on patterns and play out their game,

Like cyclical motors of behaving collections acting the same,

Yet each of us has our own responses to how to be tame,

Based on

Race,

Size,

Employment,

Religion,

Philosophy,

Up-bringing,

Chemistry,

Geographic’s,

And Life Content,



Yet moral’s do not withstand time and space,

The same rule given 2,000 miles away has a completely different face,

So then we stare the monster in the eye before we are chased,

That freedom of choice has staggering pace,

Fecundity itself has a funny place,

Only limited by patterns of physical space,

So anything is possible is definitely quite true,

Yet absolutely absurd to me and to you,





The damning part where our brain sits in argument,

That infinities are possible yet beyond determinant,

So then we are crushed with what is really true,

It comes down to how much control you give in to,

And how much comparison our primate brain can do,



Then really knowing we have barely touched introspect,

The greatest vehicle of the existentialist,

We know that we have barely scratched the crust,

Of the possibilities of the groups not so robust,



For if we could all live in Epictetus’s view,

While balancing Epicurus’s living for you,

Why a great world would be there for me and you,

But would then be swallowed by the ignorant few,



For great wisdom comes from Laozi,

Telling Confucius you are a genius for peace and truth,

Yet the other governors around you don’t hold your same views,

So inevitably your utopia will be diffused,



For anything is possible,

Yet some things are not,

Then life should be held from a virtue tie knot,

Unfortunately policing soon will ensue,

And duality’s chaos will come back a new,

That is why sages seldom do,

Work directed to the few,

For cyclical action is a pattern of truth,

That means change is the only constant,

Only our perspective can be renewed…



So then comes the hardest question:

If this is my life,

What do I want to do…



Sean Stutzman

Heretics Dream of Truth



More change can come from the crazy few,

The dreaded end of societal views,

The modern born of the Dyson’s and Feynman’s,

The questioners of what there all is,

For we should erect and mold a counter group to large of a whole,

The check of balance to societal goals,

The Elders of the world untold,

So for the actions we side with are bold,

That truth can come through the smallest folds,





For as a creature we like to agree,

With the general peoples mentality,

Seeking order through dictatorial choice,

Yet minimizing individual voice,





Apollo’s order is our horse blinders put on in full,

To deft to hear Dionysus’s rebuttal,

For from the heretics chaos can begin,

Yet without them Majority can be criminal without sin,





Do we all wish to be more controlled?

Vlad Tepes’s wet dream manufactured,

No crime No poor No feud,

But you sure need to kill off those who “Just won’t do,”

Free will dies with perfect stats ringing truth,



Or should we be Laissez-faire,

Only looking for individual cares,

No demands No arrests No responses,

But then you can’t care for one another’s needs and wants,

Free will makes most things impossible taunts,



Well fine the middle must be the right truth to stop at,

But then the Buddhist problem rises up the vat,

Enlightenment can be reached but never clung to,

And middle ground landscape only lasts a minute or two,

No arguments, No division, No radical action,

But all the individual action becomes non-existent,



Ironically this makes Heretics new,

For which ever format out of those we choose,

Always clinging to the single we miss the big view,

And by looking big we neglect the few,

We strive for balance and middle ground truth for dictation,

Then break down the stability with humans living contradictions,



At best it makes us good in small groups,

At worst our machines of government concentrate people with troops,

But all the while the radicals smile,

Knowing they’ll be first to die,

First to defy,

First to strive,

The true martyrs moving history’s lines,

But our world destroys them from in front and behind,

For ask the common man to recognize the Rockefeller days,

Where the anarchist’s heroes don’t even have names,

Where the tyrants are called great innovators,

Yet the labor-march leaders are never spoken out for,



The people who setup what protects me and you,

Their names are lost but to only a few,

Their enemies built to look good from afar,

Get more respect from poisoned future political stars,

Lied to that we need them all,

Yet forgetting they need us or they are half as tall,

Half as strong,

Half as voiced,

Half way viewed,

And only having half choice,

Then they are leading us without our voice,



Shouldn’t we question that position like every power given?

Allowing checks and balances to spread within,

Protect us from megalomaniac voice,

Helping the common man by invested choice,



But now you see the Heretic has sprouted in me,

My truth will hold until the next seed,

When if my truth makes it to the top,

The next new me will go and rebuff,

Challenge and change my view,

Filtering the waters of culture by the few,

To allow the Heretic’s is our best que,

Yet listening might help hold us together like glue,

Either way we stay in the same kind of game,

But its beauty is when we enact to help what we look at with shame,

Our insanity of trying to solve every problem,

To solve it and novelty creates more stems,

The unending hydra comes from its den,

Let out the Herculean kind of men,

Then the heretic’s become our greatest god-send…







Sean Stutzman