Alchemy: “spagyric art,” from Greek meaning to pull apart and put back together again. An art of sciences: chemistry and astrology, mysticism and spiritualism. We are deduced to parts- to hands and palms, faces- heavy eyes and mouths, sloped noses, ears, napes, necks, breasts and shoulders, tummies and hips, shins, knees, toes, heels… We are deduced to parts- to protons and neutrons, electrons, fermions, bosons, undulating photons shot at foil, not repelled but penetrated, gravitons, axioms, polaritons with their dipole-carrying excitation.

Sometimes I can feel the glowing charged particles spring from my skin like photons, bumping and bouncing off the bodies around me. The positives and negatives lounging their atomic masses towards each other until their forms overlap, electric shared, and at once something entirely new is made.

Call this making gold -or- making love. And in taking that gold, which so many men have died to touch- panhandler kings- we shape our rings around our fingers, part to part, while we're swirling, twirling those bodies apart, then together again.

How learned men can be so ignorant to search for forever in a cauldron, when by bed posts we stand so brave and so proud. Every answer to every question and every cure to every pain are held in hands not gilded, but guided. Our parts welded. We thought we were making history, making precious of base metal, aligning stars, but really we were just exploring those napes, those neurons.

We map the metaphysical, we pant the paradoxical.

We built an empire.

We called it El Dorado.

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