As the dove departing from the ark
Sent out like a sonar ping
To the end and back again
With awareness under wing,
So these synchronicities increase
In both meaning and frequency
Reverberating as sound waves
Off the inner wall of shrinking
Time, closing in
Closer to the end,
Completion and consummation:
The eternal rock mountain.
Daniel 2
It’s been so long since I’ve seen him
Even from a safe distance.
I’ve petrified into stone
Reinforcing my resistance
To coffee galaxies
Swirling in the deeps;
To allowing the yearn
A knee bent to relief.
I am thoroughly untouched
Because it’s safer for us all,
But I lean against the wind
Sensing an endless fall
If rock yields to water,
And cold, and gravity.
In the final days
They abandoned me savagely.
I still miss the grins,
The lightness, the fun.
For a moment, I was someone’s;
I was someone.
I am wiser now,
But I’ve always known why
No one is capable of loving me
Past the goodbye.
Things for which I can thank the company:
I believed men were varied in sort,
Good and bad and ambivalent
But in ways essential
They are all quite equivalent.
I believed humans needed humans
Connection a cornerstone
No man ought to be an island:
But I’m better alone.
I believed people, in their soul,
Had a worthy aim in sight,
But they couldn’t care less
About doing what’s right.
Naive, my lofty ideals
Left me perpetually exposed
To everyone’s passing consumptions
With no hope of repose
But they have disabused me of many notions.
Good men do nothing
And as such, are worth the same.
They may recognize the war,
But they prefer the game.
Bad men do things
Because they can
There’s no one to punish them
Or prevent their hand.
Women aren’t afforded
Reductions of like divisors.
Given the state of men
We may only be victims or survivors
Based not on what we do,
But what we will take
And what we will not.
Some phases, my thoughts are sheer
Drifting as simple cotton clouds
Reflecting on still waters clear
Stately, demure, unbowed
In quiet, single-file procession.
Other rotations, expression compounds
In capillary network transmissions
Tangled complexities abound
In spaghetti-junction compositions
Chasing ideas and tracing confessions.
Sin is a condition of pollution:
Inherited, genetic dysfunction,
Cellular, resistant to ablution-
Compulsion without compunction,
Comprehensive disrepair,
In like-form replicating,
Producing blindness and despair
Reducing and translating
The language of God the Creator
Into false contexts
That install desires as translators;
Reducing the Marvelous and Complex
Into barter and trade,
And self-adulation or justification,
Poisonous comforts; the rebel Made
Straining to distort the Maker, the creation
Pushing against Creator through passive valves
Designed to protect the course
Of humanity entire, no salve
Contains potency of equal force
To overturn the quantum condition
Of spiritual necrosis and hijack,
To resurrect our haunted cognition-
To bring the children back:
None but the One balm mixed
Of the only remaining incorruptible,
Undiluted, undivided, Divine DNA-
The only drops of Pure Priceless Blood:
Communion.
The antidote to the corrupted.
Available through a real system
We cannot now test and exploit-
Mirror-realms influencing each other,
Unmeasured of yet on our side.
Entanglement sharing properties
Pure through the affected to the resistant.
Transubstantiation:
First guilt to scapegoat,
Goat to quarantine and purge,
But now,
Himself to elements to ourselves
Cured in dribs and drabs
By the shared exchange
Conversion spreading like smolder
Mingling the whole with the fractured
Entropy double-backed and driven out
In a militaristic, subatomic regeneration
Hidden in plain sight
Opening a world the world can’t see;
Faith: a fiat of uncharted power
In alignment with the order of His intent-
Our own effective, material coding;
Adam naming what is.
Faith communing,
Unlocking infinite potential
By the morsel and tablespoon.
And in all these musings, I know
I’m but a child
Groping through the dark matter
For the wise and holy Light.
In Memoriam A.H.H.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
“So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.”
Spilt blood
Cries for blood spilled.
The neglected wound
Does brutal wrath instill
In even the meekest soul.
I purpose tonight
To wall out all men
To never again
Yield to the blight
Of their blind, self-placating reality
Pleasured by lack of sight
Tromping in the delights of their sin
Returning again and again
To the stained impotence of night
In abdication of God-given responsibility
Laughing in merriment at those
Who must shoulder their abandoned loads:
A decadent city built on the backs of widows and orphans
But God inhales.
Oh My God,
I feel so alone.
Please hold me close.
So much is at stake.
Please don’t let me break.
Help me be strong like You.
I have no one else in the whole world.
I still miss them.
All these wonderful things
Don’t make me less sad.
I mourn the moments I loved,
The life I almost had.
They bustle on
Like I was never there,
But in my pangs,
I see I still care
All on my lonesome.
viewingcamelot 