This afternoon, I looked at the planet where I live.
There was a nice park, there, that some nice people made for me to sit in.
I went to take a piss in the woods, and I thought of DFW, and how he'd killed himself.
I could talk some more about the darkness of the woods.
I could relate it all to that ridiculous building they have at the UIUC: FLB.
Earthquake proof, they say.
But, there in the middle of that dark wood, where I had lost my way, in the middle of life's journey,
I met you, DFW.
And I think that maybe you took me for a ride.
Maybe, jest maybe, I'll read that book you wrote.
Maybe this summer.
And maybe, jest maybe, I'll write one back to you, on the other side of that wall.
In the meantime, I made you a salad.
Here are the ingredients:
Spinach.
Honey roasted peanuts.
Dried cranberries.
Granola.
Feta cheese.
Paul Newman's Own Olive Oil & Vinegar.
Cinnamon.
Honey.
All nicely arranged, in proportion.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Death of the False Prophet
It doesn't twist, it spins.
It ends where it begins
A mighty, rushing wind
That blows away the sin.
Look on and be afraid,
You who His temples raid,
The wicked be dismayed,
Into the dust be laid.
Be buried in the ground,
Hear the whistle sound,
A whirlwind all around,
No shelter for you found.
It blows down every wall,
And as Jericho falls,
Upon your wicked calls,
His justice will not stall.
Look up and see your doom
That sweeps with Heaven's broom
Your filth from every room
And seals you in the tomb.
Where deathly power holds
Your rotting flesh in cold
Dank darkness, as your mold
Dissolves as fate foretold.
Look on, you thief of Kent,
From you the Spirit went.
Your fingers, crooked bent.
Your final hour is spent.
Look now upon His face,
Who sits on Throne of Grace,
Kneel below His dais
As judgment on you lays.
The kissed joy, now it flies,
From you who Him denies.
The LORD won't hear your cries
When gassho prophet dies.
It ends where it begins
A mighty, rushing wind
That blows away the sin.
Look on and be afraid,
You who His temples raid,
The wicked be dismayed,
Into the dust be laid.
Be buried in the ground,
Hear the whistle sound,
A whirlwind all around,
No shelter for you found.
It blows down every wall,
And as Jericho falls,
Upon your wicked calls,
His justice will not stall.
Look up and see your doom
That sweeps with Heaven's broom
Your filth from every room
And seals you in the tomb.
Where deathly power holds
Your rotting flesh in cold
Dank darkness, as your mold
Dissolves as fate foretold.
Look on, you thief of Kent,
From you the Spirit went.
Your fingers, crooked bent.
Your final hour is spent.
Look now upon His face,
Who sits on Throne of Grace,
Kneel below His dais
As judgment on you lays.
The kissed joy, now it flies,
From you who Him denies.
The LORD won't hear your cries
When gassho prophet dies.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Earth Day
I don't know how it will all turn out, but I do know that, in the end, we won't be able to control it.
I don't pretend to know how fast this planet we're riding is spinning through the universe. All I know is that it's moving pretty fast, and there are lots of other things in the cosmos that are moving just as quickly. Who knows when our world will collide with another? Who knows when this sun will explode and burn us all?
Unfortunately, I'm afraid those sorts of apocalypses won't be the ones we have to suffer through. I'd welcome a comet to smash into the soft soil of Illinois, like a heavenly bullet passing through the head of a rabid dog, putting the animal out of its misery, and saving the rest from the fear of it. That sort of end to humanity would be less painful, I think, than the slow, painful one we're bound to suffer.
In middle America, I grew up surrounded by a certain sentiment that was critical of environmental movements. As a boy, it seemed to me, Native Americans, Greenpeace, and other sorts of voices that spoke out concerning environmental movements were presented as problems. And sure. that sort of message is threatening to a rural man's way of life. Who's to say a farmer doesn't love the planet? Who's to say a hunter doesn't love wildlife? There's a certain kind of bristling that a rural person feels when city folk bring their audacious pontifications about what's good for the planet and demand greater oversight over the management of the lands our grandfathers have cultivated for centuries. In Illinois, there's a general distrust between Springfield and Chicago, just as I imagine there must be between Albany and Manhattan, Sacramento and Los Angeles, Austin and Houston.
Policy, the bastard child of love and fear. The word is offensive. Nobody likes it. It's a stubborn word filled with the baggage of politics and policemen and polite behavior. It means people. And nobody likes people. They're always in the way of each other, making it impossible to speak freely. Making rules and collecting taxes. Maintaining law and order, money and trade. Policy is the curse of humanity: the product of this awareness we have of each other, to feel love and fear of each other at the same time.
Meanwhile, we get distracted by Lamborghinis and lasagna, Sports Center and CNN. We lose track of wheat and rice, the seeds that feed us, that spring up from soil and water, never growing higher off the face of the earth than just inches above a grown man's knee.
All you know for sure is what you know right now, and you'll have to decide how to treat this ball of dust that's carrying you through the cosmos while you're conscious of the fact that it is. Will you be a faithful husband to her, or will you pimp her out while you can, while you're young, lusty, and full of life? There's no policy to prevent you from doing what you can get away with.
Motherland, where do your borders lie? Mine lie in your ashes and your dust. Take a fistful of dirt into your hands today and ask yourself if you'll outlive it.
It will beat you, in the end.
I don't pretend to know how fast this planet we're riding is spinning through the universe. All I know is that it's moving pretty fast, and there are lots of other things in the cosmos that are moving just as quickly. Who knows when our world will collide with another? Who knows when this sun will explode and burn us all?
Unfortunately, I'm afraid those sorts of apocalypses won't be the ones we have to suffer through. I'd welcome a comet to smash into the soft soil of Illinois, like a heavenly bullet passing through the head of a rabid dog, putting the animal out of its misery, and saving the rest from the fear of it. That sort of end to humanity would be less painful, I think, than the slow, painful one we're bound to suffer.
In middle America, I grew up surrounded by a certain sentiment that was critical of environmental movements. As a boy, it seemed to me, Native Americans, Greenpeace, and other sorts of voices that spoke out concerning environmental movements were presented as problems. And sure. that sort of message is threatening to a rural man's way of life. Who's to say a farmer doesn't love the planet? Who's to say a hunter doesn't love wildlife? There's a certain kind of bristling that a rural person feels when city folk bring their audacious pontifications about what's good for the planet and demand greater oversight over the management of the lands our grandfathers have cultivated for centuries. In Illinois, there's a general distrust between Springfield and Chicago, just as I imagine there must be between Albany and Manhattan, Sacramento and Los Angeles, Austin and Houston.
Policy, the bastard child of love and fear. The word is offensive. Nobody likes it. It's a stubborn word filled with the baggage of politics and policemen and polite behavior. It means people. And nobody likes people. They're always in the way of each other, making it impossible to speak freely. Making rules and collecting taxes. Maintaining law and order, money and trade. Policy is the curse of humanity: the product of this awareness we have of each other, to feel love and fear of each other at the same time.
Meanwhile, we get distracted by Lamborghinis and lasagna, Sports Center and CNN. We lose track of wheat and rice, the seeds that feed us, that spring up from soil and water, never growing higher off the face of the earth than just inches above a grown man's knee.
All you know for sure is what you know right now, and you'll have to decide how to treat this ball of dust that's carrying you through the cosmos while you're conscious of the fact that it is. Will you be a faithful husband to her, or will you pimp her out while you can, while you're young, lusty, and full of life? There's no policy to prevent you from doing what you can get away with.
Motherland, where do your borders lie? Mine lie in your ashes and your dust. Take a fistful of dirt into your hands today and ask yourself if you'll outlive it.
It will beat you, in the end.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Sticks and Stones
"Take it back!" he said,
I can't because you're dead.
The knife is set and plunged
Your life is lived and done.
I'm sorry for the blade
That in your heart is laid.
I'm sorry for the scar
That's made you who you are.
"Take it back!" he cried
Just before he died.
I pulled the handle out
Before he gave a shout.
"Oh, God! I'm done! I'm through!"
"What did I do to you?"
"That through my skin you've sliced
"And through my life you've diced?"
Regret, oh true, I felt
This final blow I'd dealt.
So I shed a tear an cried
A moment before he died.
Forgive me, sir, I pled,
That I have made you dead.
But power I do lack
To take this death blow back.
No answer he did give,
For he had ceased to live.
And though the knife was drawn,
The poor man's breath was gone.
Regret, alas, regret.
Eternal, unpaid debt.
The past is only done.
The woeful present marches on.
I can't because you're dead.
The knife is set and plunged
Your life is lived and done.
I'm sorry for the blade
That in your heart is laid.
I'm sorry for the scar
That's made you who you are.
"Take it back!" he cried
Just before he died.
I pulled the handle out
Before he gave a shout.
"Oh, God! I'm done! I'm through!"
"What did I do to you?"
"That through my skin you've sliced
"And through my life you've diced?"
Regret, oh true, I felt
This final blow I'd dealt.
So I shed a tear an cried
A moment before he died.
Forgive me, sir, I pled,
That I have made you dead.
But power I do lack
To take this death blow back.
No answer he did give,
For he had ceased to live.
And though the knife was drawn,
The poor man's breath was gone.
Regret, alas, regret.
Eternal, unpaid debt.
The past is only done.
The woeful present marches on.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Son of Sin
The Son of Jesse, King of Israel,
Who learned to trust in God by watching sheep,
Across whose faith the shadow of death fell
When he and Bathsheb's son was put to sleep.
Be angry in your heart, but do not sin.
Lie still upon your bed and wait for God
To judge when to be merciful and when
In righteous judgment to plant child in sod.
Oh, David, did your sin your child take?
Did child's cries at night keep you awake?
Did by his death the LORD fix your mistake?
Oh, LORD, do you know too your child's screams?
Does lama sabachthani now haunt your dreams?
Faith must teach doubt: Death is not what it seems.
Who learned to trust in God by watching sheep,
Across whose faith the shadow of death fell
When he and Bathsheb's son was put to sleep.
Be angry in your heart, but do not sin.
Lie still upon your bed and wait for God
To judge when to be merciful and when
In righteous judgment to plant child in sod.
Oh, David, did your sin your child take?
Did child's cries at night keep you awake?
Did by his death the LORD fix your mistake?
Oh, LORD, do you know too your child's screams?
Does lama sabachthani now haunt your dreams?
Faith must teach doubt: Death is not what it seems.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Deconstruction of Dark Matter
What it is
Is what it
is not:
Particle
Wave
The opposite
of light,
Which also
is
Light.
The false
assumption is
That equals
equals equals.
Equals,
sometimes too,
Does not
equals equals.
Like
Particle
Wave
Man
Woman
Person.
Dark matter
is light,
And it is
not.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Light
When the sun rises,
We are reminded:
Dark is nothing more
Than the absence of light.
The Dark Matter
Of what we cannot comprehend
Is nothing more than empty space
Into which our understanding spills.
Lean and loafe at your ease,
But do not observe the spear of summer grass
But the light which calls it from
The cold, dark soil.
Can darkness raise the dead?
The Emperor of Ice Cream
Preserves only what was
And waits for warmth to make it is.
The sun sets, and the moon reminds
Us: Reflect the glory of that which calls the grass to grow
Up from this lump of clay,
That wakes the sleeping dead.
The stars fill the void with the same glory,
Teaching that the light we understand
In our little cosmos,
Shines, too, in universes unconceivable.
When we look to Heaven, we see first light
And say, "Aha! There it is."
When we point our eyes into the blackness,
Light, there too, appears.
There is no better metaphor for God
Than this light
That rips through the dark synapses of me
And raises consciousness of you,
That warms this skin
With light from grass
And passes between us
In warm embrace.
Let us stay here a little while,
In the light we feel
Upon our faces,
Inside our beating chests,
Deep in the darkest corners of our empty minds,
Where, too, life is raised
From the shock of the Living God
Upon sleeping flesh.
We are reminded:
Dark is nothing more
Than the absence of light.
The Dark Matter
Of what we cannot comprehend
Is nothing more than empty space
Into which our understanding spills.
Lean and loafe at your ease,
But do not observe the spear of summer grass
But the light which calls it from
The cold, dark soil.
Can darkness raise the dead?
The Emperor of Ice Cream
Preserves only what was
And waits for warmth to make it is.
The sun sets, and the moon reminds
Us: Reflect the glory of that which calls the grass to grow
Up from this lump of clay,
That wakes the sleeping dead.
The stars fill the void with the same glory,
Teaching that the light we understand
In our little cosmos,
Shines, too, in universes unconceivable.
When we look to Heaven, we see first light
And say, "Aha! There it is."
When we point our eyes into the blackness,
Light, there too, appears.
There is no better metaphor for God
Than this light
That rips through the dark synapses of me
And raises consciousness of you,
That warms this skin
With light from grass
And passes between us
In warm embrace.
Let us stay here a little while,
In the light we feel
Upon our faces,
Inside our beating chests,
Deep in the darkest corners of our empty minds,
Where, too, life is raised
From the shock of the Living God
Upon sleeping flesh.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Wind
A few years ago, I was training for a marathon, so I did a lot of running among the wide, flat agricultural plats of Southern Illinois. A summer drought had devastated the cornfields, and many of the farmers had cut their losses early and cashed in their insurance policies, surrendering their harvests to the earth, plowing the half-grown, yellowed stalks underground. The heat wave continued through July, and all month long my children and I watched as dust devils marched through the razed cornfield behind our home that faced the sunrise, an endless succession of miniature tornadoes moving south to north a half-mile to the west along the gently sloping highest ridge of flat Richland County, where a sizable share of the world's corn is grown.
The wind was relentless out there among the open fields. The natural windbreaks had all been cut down, the creek beds filled, and field tile planted to make room for a few more acres of corn and soybeans. Farm trucks and tractors kicked up dust along the gravel roads that billowed into the sky, wafting over the yard and sneaking into the house through the screens of opened windows or cracked seals on doorways, settling, at last, on picture frames and cabinets that required non-stop dusting. A wind chime on the front porch rang all summer, mixing with the low, muffled growl of wind that swept incessantly across lobe and eardrum.
Bubbling blacktop met my footsteps in a rhythm of slap and thud as I set out for a five-mile run in the hot, early afternoon. The wind that swept across the terrain from the cloudless blue skies kept me moderately cool beneath the hot glow of the summertime sun that burned my shoulders and the back of my neck. My long, brown hair was swept northward by the southerly winds, keeping my vision clear as I ran along the westbound road. As I jogged up the gentle ridge, I noticed a fully formed dust devil dancing northward toward me. My heart beat harder as I saw that I would meet this phenomenon of nature as it crossed the road if I quickened my pace just a little.
Sucking wind into my lungs, I firmed my resolve to run harder than my body wanted for just a hundred yards or so, watching as a thin column of dust and cornstalks swirled hundreds of feet into the sky ran across the land. The vortex seemed to have only one will: to continue in its journey, unconcerned with obstacle or destination.
In the final moments, the twister left the field and crossed a ditch filled with high-grown sedge that waved erratically as it was sucked and blown by this spirit of the earthen sky. The same blew through my hair and across my skin, and I exhilarated in a moment of bliss inside the vortex of the devil wind.
The moment lasted five seconds. Perhaps ten. Though running westward still, I turned my head to the north to see the devil continue into the northern field, and I asked myself why I had so quickly passed through this wind. Why it had so quickly moved into another field. It was not moving so fast. As fast as a human runner, it seemed. I stopped and jumped across the grassy ditch, in chase of the dust devil I had just encountered.
I saw the wind before me, sweeping up corn leaves and detritus from the new-plowed fields, and I tried to catch up to the fury that had already moved a few dozen yards from me. I had willed myself to catch it once, and surely I could catch it again. But my feet sank into the dry tillage, and with each labored step I took, the distance between us increased. My eyes were set on the object, and I gave no thought to surrender. I ran a few hundred yards through the loose soil as my lungs and quadriceps burned, but my will would not release them from their duty to obey until I saw the twister disappear into a cluster of trees at the other end of the farmer's field, across which I was trespassing.
I stopped in the middle of the field and bent over, panting, hands on quads, eyes looking forward, into the trees.
I stood there for a moment and contemplated my situation. I had run far from the road through loose soil, and running back to where I had left the road seemed as difficult a chore as turning westward again to meet a crossroad that had been my destination in the first place, so I decided, at last, to face disappointment and admit defeat as I lumbered, more slowly, across the unstable ground to the road that lay a few hundred yards before me.
Lifting my legs high above the dirt clods and corn stalks, I wrestled a lesson in my mind. Had I been foolish to chase the wind? Why had I not simply enjoyed the moment as it was, and allowed it to pass when it passed? Why did I struggle through the empty field, commanding my body to experience such pain in a futile effort? I knew that I could not have run in that wind forever.
The answer to these questions was obvious, of course. I saw the goal. I had disciplined my body to meet the goal, and I had been awarded with a few moments of bliss. I had always wondered what it would feel like on the inside of a twister, and I had been afforded an opportunity to learn. For this I was certainly thankful. And I began to contemplate how it had felt as I trudged through the last few dozen yards of the plowed field.
It had felt like wind.
It was wind that my eyes could see, or at least see the evidence of. But in the end, it was only wind. A firm but gentle dancing wind. A quick wind that was in no hurry.
At last, I came to the edge of the field and jumped across a grassy ditch onto a gravel road that ran north and south. I turned southward and began my journey home.
And then, it hit me.
A mighty, invisible wind. A strong and incessant wind. A wind that did not cease. A strong headwind, more powerful, more obvious, than the dust devils that danced across the barren fields in illusory dresses of powder and maize.
I had not noticed this headwind when my back had been turned to it, and I had not considered how I had been running in the current of this powerful force as I chased the devil across still and empty fields. Facing the ceaseless wind, my heart sank, for home was miles away, and running would be harder from now on.
But I turned and felt the wind, and labored the long road home.
The wind was relentless out there among the open fields. The natural windbreaks had all been cut down, the creek beds filled, and field tile planted to make room for a few more acres of corn and soybeans. Farm trucks and tractors kicked up dust along the gravel roads that billowed into the sky, wafting over the yard and sneaking into the house through the screens of opened windows or cracked seals on doorways, settling, at last, on picture frames and cabinets that required non-stop dusting. A wind chime on the front porch rang all summer, mixing with the low, muffled growl of wind that swept incessantly across lobe and eardrum.
Bubbling blacktop met my footsteps in a rhythm of slap and thud as I set out for a five-mile run in the hot, early afternoon. The wind that swept across the terrain from the cloudless blue skies kept me moderately cool beneath the hot glow of the summertime sun that burned my shoulders and the back of my neck. My long, brown hair was swept northward by the southerly winds, keeping my vision clear as I ran along the westbound road. As I jogged up the gentle ridge, I noticed a fully formed dust devil dancing northward toward me. My heart beat harder as I saw that I would meet this phenomenon of nature as it crossed the road if I quickened my pace just a little.
Sucking wind into my lungs, I firmed my resolve to run harder than my body wanted for just a hundred yards or so, watching as a thin column of dust and cornstalks swirled hundreds of feet into the sky ran across the land. The vortex seemed to have only one will: to continue in its journey, unconcerned with obstacle or destination.
In the final moments, the twister left the field and crossed a ditch filled with high-grown sedge that waved erratically as it was sucked and blown by this spirit of the earthen sky. The same blew through my hair and across my skin, and I exhilarated in a moment of bliss inside the vortex of the devil wind.
The moment lasted five seconds. Perhaps ten. Though running westward still, I turned my head to the north to see the devil continue into the northern field, and I asked myself why I had so quickly passed through this wind. Why it had so quickly moved into another field. It was not moving so fast. As fast as a human runner, it seemed. I stopped and jumped across the grassy ditch, in chase of the dust devil I had just encountered.
I saw the wind before me, sweeping up corn leaves and detritus from the new-plowed fields, and I tried to catch up to the fury that had already moved a few dozen yards from me. I had willed myself to catch it once, and surely I could catch it again. But my feet sank into the dry tillage, and with each labored step I took, the distance between us increased. My eyes were set on the object, and I gave no thought to surrender. I ran a few hundred yards through the loose soil as my lungs and quadriceps burned, but my will would not release them from their duty to obey until I saw the twister disappear into a cluster of trees at the other end of the farmer's field, across which I was trespassing.
I stopped in the middle of the field and bent over, panting, hands on quads, eyes looking forward, into the trees.
I stood there for a moment and contemplated my situation. I had run far from the road through loose soil, and running back to where I had left the road seemed as difficult a chore as turning westward again to meet a crossroad that had been my destination in the first place, so I decided, at last, to face disappointment and admit defeat as I lumbered, more slowly, across the unstable ground to the road that lay a few hundred yards before me.
Lifting my legs high above the dirt clods and corn stalks, I wrestled a lesson in my mind. Had I been foolish to chase the wind? Why had I not simply enjoyed the moment as it was, and allowed it to pass when it passed? Why did I struggle through the empty field, commanding my body to experience such pain in a futile effort? I knew that I could not have run in that wind forever.
The answer to these questions was obvious, of course. I saw the goal. I had disciplined my body to meet the goal, and I had been awarded with a few moments of bliss. I had always wondered what it would feel like on the inside of a twister, and I had been afforded an opportunity to learn. For this I was certainly thankful. And I began to contemplate how it had felt as I trudged through the last few dozen yards of the plowed field.
It had felt like wind.
It was wind that my eyes could see, or at least see the evidence of. But in the end, it was only wind. A firm but gentle dancing wind. A quick wind that was in no hurry.
At last, I came to the edge of the field and jumped across a grassy ditch onto a gravel road that ran north and south. I turned southward and began my journey home.
And then, it hit me.
A mighty, invisible wind. A strong and incessant wind. A wind that did not cease. A strong headwind, more powerful, more obvious, than the dust devils that danced across the barren fields in illusory dresses of powder and maize.
I had not noticed this headwind when my back had been turned to it, and I had not considered how I had been running in the current of this powerful force as I chased the devil across still and empty fields. Facing the ceaseless wind, my heart sank, for home was miles away, and running would be harder from now on.
But I turned and felt the wind, and labored the long road home.
Time
I am God, and I will tell you a story.
In the beginning, I was. In the end, I will be. In the present, I am. You who read these words know me in this moment as I am, but I am a riddle. I am the same yesterday, today, and forever, and I am change. I am time. I am.
I created the heavens and the earth, and the word. I created you. I created all things from the only thing I have, which is my Self.
What am I?
I am change. I am light. I am time.
Where you seek me, you will find me, not illusion.
There is no illusion in rock. There is no illusion in water. There is no illusion in fire.
I make all things, and you who seek me will find the riddle grow ever smaller, and ever larger. I grow infinitely small and infinitely large. There is no end to my mystery.
I speak to you through the words I have created. What children you are to think that you can comprehend me! Who taught you to speak? Your mother? Your father? Who taught you these words? Where did they come from?
Did I not teach Adam to speak the names of the animals?
Did I not teach Moses to speak my name unutterable?
Did I not teach Jesus my human nature?
Did I not teach Albert the ancient miracle light and rock?
Do I not teach you now?
Will I not teach you later?
Who do you think you are, person, to seek Truth and not find me?
Forget me. Deny me. In hubris expect to find nothing.
Foolish people. Children. I give you many ways to understand me. I've given you the chicken and the egg. Enemy and friend. Father and the son. The sun and the moon. Land and sea. Light and dark.
I give you difference. I give you change.
There is only one answer.
There are infinite answers.
The eye of the blackbird.
A spear of summer grass.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .
In the beginning, I was. In the end, I will be. In the present, I am. You who read these words know me in this moment as I am, but I am a riddle. I am the same yesterday, today, and forever, and I am change. I am time. I am.
I created the heavens and the earth, and the word. I created you. I created all things from the only thing I have, which is my Self.
What am I?
I am change. I am light. I am time.
Where you seek me, you will find me, not illusion.
There is no illusion in rock. There is no illusion in water. There is no illusion in fire.
I make all things, and you who seek me will find the riddle grow ever smaller, and ever larger. I grow infinitely small and infinitely large. There is no end to my mystery.
I speak to you through the words I have created. What children you are to think that you can comprehend me! Who taught you to speak? Your mother? Your father? Who taught you these words? Where did they come from?
Did I not teach Adam to speak the names of the animals?
Did I not teach Moses to speak my name unutterable?
Did I not teach Jesus my human nature?
Did I not teach Albert the ancient miracle light and rock?
Do I not teach you now?
Will I not teach you later?
Who do you think you are, person, to seek Truth and not find me?
Forget me. Deny me. In hubris expect to find nothing.
Foolish people. Children. I give you many ways to understand me. I've given you the chicken and the egg. Enemy and friend. Father and the son. The sun and the moon. Land and sea. Light and dark.
I give you difference. I give you change.
There is only one answer.
There are infinite answers.
The eye of the blackbird.
A spear of summer grass.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Hunger, Pain, Death
These must be conquered, first,
Else, there is nothing conquerable.
Hunger, aye, it comes.
Pain, aye, it passes.
Death.
I have seen it in many places.
I will see it on my brother's face before long, I expect.
I will see it from the inside of my mind one day soon.
There is no victory in Fear.
Else, there is nothing conquerable.
Hunger, aye, it comes.
Pain, aye, it passes.
Death.
I have seen it in many places.
I will see it on my brother's face before long, I expect.
I will see it from the inside of my mind one day soon.
There is no victory in Fear.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
The Prophet Speaks of Rivers
What is the problem with your skin?
Can not the Prophet heal it?
When will the Grace of God begin,
But when we choose to feel it?
The LORD with us already stood,
Why do we look to Heaven?
The Spirit's come, as promised would,
The bread already leavened.
If I had stood in Nazareth,
Would I have then believed?
The prophet who took human breath,
Would I have Him received?
My skin is pale and sickly torn,
My flesh is frail and weak,
My body broke since I been born,
The rot within me reeks.
I'll go down to Jerusalem
And see the Prophet there.
I'll go down to the Promised Land,
And kneel to Him in prayer.
The Syrian with leprosy
Was by the Spirit led.
The slave girl said, "The Prophet see,
"Who raised the boy from dead."
And Jesus said to Nazareth,
My peace I give to thee.
Breathe on the weak with Spirit breath,
That they may, too, believe.
Two thousand years ago, he said,
My Spirit rests on thee,
But we must see the living dead,
To claim a victory.
He was alive when Naaman stood
Upon the Jordan's banks.
The solider healed, as promised would,
And to the LORD gave thanks.
Is Christ alive, does the Prophet speak
Now to you who believe?
Will he indwell your body weak,
Will you with faith receive?
The Spirit did Elijah send
To his servant seven-fold.
Be baptized in the river bend,
And let faith take ahold.
Your flesh will die, your body rot,
As Naaman's flesh doth now.
But death the Spirit knoweth not
Nor hell doth faith allow.
"I've come to share the Blesséd News
"The Lord's anointed me
"To speak to whom the Spirit choose
And set the captives free."
"For only one from Lebanon
"Was by the prophet fed,
"And only one from Syria
"Was by the Spirit led."
And now the Spirit speaks to you,
If you choose to believe.
Be washed and let your flesh be new,
Into your flesh receive
The life that faith wants you to live
That conquers hellish sin.
Turn now from death, learn to forgive,
And let the Spirit in.
Can not the Prophet heal it?
When will the Grace of God begin,
But when we choose to feel it?
The LORD with us already stood,
Why do we look to Heaven?
The Spirit's come, as promised would,
The bread already leavened.
If I had stood in Nazareth,
Would I have then believed?
The prophet who took human breath,
Would I have Him received?
My skin is pale and sickly torn,
My flesh is frail and weak,
My body broke since I been born,
The rot within me reeks.
I'll go down to Jerusalem
And see the Prophet there.
I'll go down to the Promised Land,
And kneel to Him in prayer.
The Syrian with leprosy
Was by the Spirit led.
The slave girl said, "The Prophet see,
"Who raised the boy from dead."
And Jesus said to Nazareth,
My peace I give to thee.
Breathe on the weak with Spirit breath,
That they may, too, believe.
Two thousand years ago, he said,
My Spirit rests on thee,
But we must see the living dead,
To claim a victory.
He was alive when Naaman stood
Upon the Jordan's banks.
The solider healed, as promised would,
And to the LORD gave thanks.
Is Christ alive, does the Prophet speak
Now to you who believe?
Will he indwell your body weak,
Will you with faith receive?
The Spirit did Elijah send
To his servant seven-fold.
Be baptized in the river bend,
And let faith take ahold.
Your flesh will die, your body rot,
As Naaman's flesh doth now.
But death the Spirit knoweth not
Nor hell doth faith allow.
"I've come to share the Blesséd News
"The Lord's anointed me
"To speak to whom the Spirit choose
And set the captives free."
"For only one from Lebanon
"Was by the prophet fed,
"And only one from Syria
"Was by the Spirit led."
And now the Spirit speaks to you,
If you choose to believe.
Be washed and let your flesh be new,
Into your flesh receive
The life that faith wants you to live
That conquers hellish sin.
Turn now from death, learn to forgive,
And let the Spirit in.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Old Dog
Because
In the end,
You must have understood,
And accepted,
The Role of the Dirty Old Man,
In the end,
You must have understood,
And accepted,
The Role of the Dirty Old Man,
And
All along,
You must have known,
And embraced,
That you took that role upon yourself.
All along,
You must have known,
And embraced,
That you took that role upon yourself.
But
The only thing
Satan ever did,
That I sort of respected
Was to test the Lord's authority.
The only thing
Satan ever did,
That I sort of respected
Was to test the Lord's authority.
It was a sort of
Sacrificial moment,
Of some asshole,
Who showed precisely how far one can push
Before getting crushed.
Sacrificial moment,
Of some asshole,
Who showed precisely how far one can push
Before getting crushed.
Mary
What did you do
After that man got caught up in the clouds,
The one who didn't throw any stones at you,
And left you there by yourself?
Did that Spirit he sent afterwards
Keep you warm and filled?
Did you go back to your old job?
Did your sixth husband take care of you, then?
How do you take a lover
After you've wept on the feet of Christ?
What man allows that,
You who anointed him with perfume?
Did you take Adam's hoe in your hands,
And set about to gardening,
Or did you walk back into Eden,
Naked, but wiser of snakes?
After that man got caught up in the clouds,
The one who didn't throw any stones at you,
And left you there by yourself?
Did that Spirit he sent afterwards
Keep you warm and filled?
Did you go back to your old job?
Did your sixth husband take care of you, then?
How do you take a lover
After you've wept on the feet of Christ?
What man allows that,
You who anointed him with perfume?
Did you take Adam's hoe in your hands,
And set about to gardening,
Or did you walk back into Eden,
Naked, but wiser of snakes?
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Samson Agonistes
When the Big Spirit Wind
Comes sweeping down the Cuyahoga,
And the man with the drumstick
Can't shout louder than the locomotive,
And that piss stream of a river
Rages down the valley like the Mighty Mississippi,
Sweeping the valley clean of all that shit shine
You've been peddling for a blow job,
Know:
The Universe spins upon an Axis of Justice.
The LORD will remain.
The land will heal from the scars you left,
And many will rejoice at your passing,
As did the Daughters of Zion,
Who danced on the ruins of Jericho,
When Joshua crossed over the Jordan
Behind the Ark of the LORD.
What can the LORD do with a jawbone
In the hands of the upright?
The LORD puts strength where He will:
In raging rivers,
In mighty horsemen,
In rushing winds.
Comes sweeping down the Cuyahoga,
And the man with the drumstick
Can't shout louder than the locomotive,
And that piss stream of a river
Rages down the valley like the Mighty Mississippi,
Sweeping the valley clean of all that shit shine
You've been peddling for a blow job,
Know:
The Universe spins upon an Axis of Justice.
The LORD will remain.
The land will heal from the scars you left,
And many will rejoice at your passing,
As did the Daughters of Zion,
Who danced on the ruins of Jericho,
When Joshua crossed over the Jordan
Behind the Ark of the LORD.
What can the LORD do with a jawbone
In the hands of the upright?
The LORD puts strength where He will:
In raging rivers,
In mighty horsemen,
In rushing winds.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
East of Eden
For John Steinbeck
The teacher is a fool
Who buys with knowledge bread,
And lives on broth and beans,
Until the day he's dead.
The soldier is a czar
Who feasts with knife and gun,
And travels all the world
To chase the setting sun.
The lawyer is a judge
Who barters in dissent,
And sows his fields with gold
From strife and argument.
The salesman is a seer
Who prophesies the past,
And buys a host of slaves
To finance his repast.
The prostitute's a hole,
Which never can be filled,
Who feeds on hunger's pangs,
And starves on fallow till.
The beggar is a king
Who takes his meals alone,
And sits in still repose
Upon a throne of stone.
The farmer is a man,
Who plants the earth with seed,
And waits upon the Lord
To conquer hunger's need.
The brother is a boy
Whose brother he will shove
To kill a brother's need
And feed on father's love.
The writer is a pen
Whom through the world flows ink,
And sets in mankind's mind
The thoughts that God doth think.
The teacher is a fool
Who buys with knowledge bread,
And lives on broth and beans,
Until the day he's dead.
The soldier is a czar
Who feasts with knife and gun,
And travels all the world
To chase the setting sun.
The lawyer is a judge
Who barters in dissent,
And sows his fields with gold
From strife and argument.
The salesman is a seer
Who prophesies the past,
And buys a host of slaves
To finance his repast.
The prostitute's a hole,
Which never can be filled,
Who feeds on hunger's pangs,
And starves on fallow till.
The beggar is a king
Who takes his meals alone,
And sits in still repose
Upon a throne of stone.
The farmer is a man,
Who plants the earth with seed,
And waits upon the Lord
To conquer hunger's need.
The brother is a boy
Whose brother he will shove
To kill a brother's need
And feed on father's love.
The writer is a pen
Whom through the world flows ink,
And sets in mankind's mind
The thoughts that God doth think.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Good Friday
The big idea is that the big idea
Existed long before we each took breath,
And will exist after we lie to rest
From all the labors of this weary world.
The meantime work for you and I to do
Is just to do the work there is to do:
To tend the garden, prune the fruiting trees,
And feed the children who will follow us.
The very first thing man should learn at birth
Is that his final destiny is death,
And that there is no life more fit to man
Than ease the hurt of suffering souls he meets,
To drink wine with both wedding guests and friends,
And climb the cross at his appointed time.
What follows that is in the hands of God,
Who raises life from death, and blood from sod.
Existed long before we each took breath,
And will exist after we lie to rest
From all the labors of this weary world.
The meantime work for you and I to do
Is just to do the work there is to do:
To tend the garden, prune the fruiting trees,
And feed the children who will follow us.
The very first thing man should learn at birth
Is that his final destiny is death,
And that there is no life more fit to man
Than ease the hurt of suffering souls he meets,
To drink wine with both wedding guests and friends,
And climb the cross at his appointed time.
What follows that is in the hands of God,
Who raises life from death, and blood from sod.
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