12.30.09

There is no escape from destiny. No escape that is palatable. In the gutters of the world lay the geniuses, the mystics, the transformers, who feared, who shrank from their greatness. Perhaps that guru of 20 years ago who created a colony from beggars and drunks had the right idea. It is the scum of the earth that are the fallen, or descended gods. Awake! Awake! Awake!

All mean and women are gods. But they are sleeping. They are comatose. They are emasculated by fear. A religion comes to free them, but they turn freedom into a sash, then a belt, and then a straightjacket. Be Free! Be Free! Be Free! Ears be opened! Tongues loosened! Eyes opened! The blind, deaf and mute dominate our cultures. Just imagine a world of magicians, of mystics, of geniuses, of craftsmen and musicians and scientists greater than all that have come before combined. and then what? We shall flee to the stars, colonize, decay, and regrow, but we shall be the greater for it.

Let us be the greatest golden age of all golden ages! Let us turn Greece into a Silver age only. Perhaps we can leapfrog into an age of platinum. Whatever it is you desire, take it! Have it!

Walk, Peter. Along your path. Your time is coming, and soon. It is overtaking you.

I begin to understand what 'lack of mind' means. It is not lack of thought--rather higher thought. It is not lack of analysis or understanding or perception or decisive action. Rather, it is the transformation of parts of the common mind, their deification, and their slow removal from the center of mind. eventually, a super-mind or higher intelligence is born like a flashing, like a swirling white dwarf star--and then, what is left is a room left only with remnants, like fine pernicious dust, which must be swept away.

swept daily.

12.2.09

there is no sea wide enough
nor mountain high enough
nor desert dry enough
nor harem enticing enough
nor monastery quiet enough
nor career fulfilling enough
nor wife wonderful enough

to escape

to escape the truth that our lives are all wasted.
flowers that never opened completely or often enough.
trees that never reached their full height.
we are all failures. and one cannot escape the ashes in one's mouth.
ashes and fine sand. death!
the taste will never leave me. i feel that this is how god feels too, yet always also full of life.
he is the ghost of christmas present turning to ash while he laughs one last laugh.

but even though i am dieing and this is good, what of my wife, my children?
i must plow my field. you are dead anyway, might as well plow.

11.30.09

Tread confidently, lightly. Whenever a strange or horrible or hideous vision comes to you in your contemplations, let it be, it will unfold to become a great gift from you. It is only your 'mind-function' or perhaps some other internal structure trying to keep you from a holy gift. Once used to these false wrappings, you become fearless. A good feeling. For the master fears nothing inside his mind. All is open to him. And if there is anything unopen, he commands it still. This is a sacred command hidden in Jesus' teachings. Look even to the Lord's prayer: thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. what is heaven? what is heaven other than G-d's complete and utterly coherent and masted mind/existence. be that. be G-d on earth. Be not fettered. But fly, fly, into the arms of our Sacred Brother and you will see.

all for the good

oh! those days of sweetness. yet nothing different in the particulars.
the same exertions, the same sweat, the same itches unscratchable.
the same drudgery. but a modicum of relative ease--the number of inanities reduced.
the luck of the draw giving me concern and empathy rather than derision when i fall.
the comeraderie of the workaday brethern sweet and simple and stern and mystical.
the sounds of a favorite song come with ease to my mind. and the gods retreat from their strangeness, put on robes of human gentility. and we quaff together under the stars of my imagination. cigarettes shared.
but then the psychadelic dreams and ultra-fluidity begin again and the gods their fiery unearthly aspects resume. and chords begin their denoument. but even that is sweetness too.
the last few dregs of my coffee; the last tiniest sip of my beer.
on a dark desert highway . . .

a better class of enemy

you've heard the saying that you can judge a man by the caliber of his enemies. i have decided to consider whether i will allow myself to be a better man. it is a serious and dreadful question. full of peril. but, in the end, there can only be one answer. to the bat-cave, robin!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

my hand

see? i have extended my hand. and lo! the nations against whom i have turned crumble into dust and my generals soldier-knights collect the booty. and all shall then enter into the basilica and worship the true god. and those whose love for justice and for each other is pure, they shall i bless. they shall i make those whose works never fail, and whose lines extend forever.

9.24.09

g-dhead as undifferentiated, all-encompassing variety and potentiality. that apparently is the orthodox view from augustine to the psuedo-dionysius (or vice-versa).

if so, and if we are created in his image, then how is there truly an 'i' and 'thou'? when i bow down in worship of the ONE, why does the one, whom i respectfully 'see' as infinitely far and infinitely cold and infintely pure, flit thoughtlessly and irresistibly into my own skull? how then am i to arrange myself for worship?

what if the Jesu were to ask to be my blood-brother and grasp arms with me, and then pull me onto a stone altar and take my body wholly into his? what then?

what if apollo, that fore-image of the Jesu, were to become my lover. what then?

what if ploutos, god of plenty, were to slip into my spine?

what if the 9 muses were each to impregnate me? what would happen? what if.

9.17.09

pearly whiteness. expanses sweet and curves and trails unending circle back and across in joyful tearful wondrous deadly thrill.
bone-chattering mind-numbing jaw-rending neck-breaking.
i soar and fall and soar again. then stillness and blackness and star-reaching peace that forcibly fills me down to my toes.
and i hold on for dear life.

and then the train arrives.

9.16.09

everything is false.
everything is true.
the master walks upon the blackness in between these vast oceans of white and black.
and he slips not, else he dies.

the curse and blessing of childhood is a lack of understanding, but mercy.
the curse and blessing of adulthood is complete understanding, but none.

stray but a little, and the quest is doomed.

9.14.09

upon a sea of blue-black waves i stand. feet planted.
waves part around me and all is glass and stillness.
i look out to the distant sandy-dark shore. no one looks back.
i raise my arms, the gods look on with interest.
i look to my left, my faithful companion smiles sweetly, an encouragement.
to my right, my bailff looks sternly toward the shore, eyes never wavering.

and so down i bring my arms with crashing blackness rushing whiteness roaring vacuum of air.
my lungs freeze and my brows grow long and white.
it is done. but what?

9.9.09.b

all light and melodious ambrosia flows from the divine essence into the lesser iternations. and all dance. all rejoice at the exstacy of living. all rejoice because there is no end. the song for them is eternal. all their ecstacies are but a drop in the pool of their collective consciousness, which is as an ocean, eternal, all-encompassing. their love for us is genuine, but their minds are too great to hold us in their thoughts tooo closely. i am happy to be along for the ride, though.

god. you have my permission, such as it is, to do as you will. let they divine power flow througyh me, although it is difficult for a human to withstand your immensity. i fly, i float, i arise through the ethers to your blessedness.

when last i saw a flower
more blood and closer it flowed to heart and mind
and worries not had i
and time was inexhaustible, as was my strength
and the old and weak i pitied.

when last i saw a flower i laughed
for i was more beautiful and more puissant
for worries not had i
no lady fair need i woo nor child dandle
and work a future far away and amicable in its imaginings

when last is saw a flower i cried not
to see children cry or old men's eyes so weepy;
my eyes were dry, dry as bone, for my life and mind and heart were untrammeled.

when last i saw a flower i sniffed,
for i knew that armies and muscle prevail over such frivolities as petals and sunshine;
i believed in strength and i wanted some for myself.

yet now,

if i ever see a flower again, i shall be abashed
for my strength has seeped into nothingness, my heroes disgraced.
my dreams tattered beyond recognition,
and toil my only relief from the peace of hearth and home.

if i ever see a flower again, i shall weep, for i die, and it remains.

a shoe.

a shoe. a boot. a sheet. a shoot. a tree. a presence as wide as a continent, longer than a world. down it comes. there is no one to believe it, to see it, and so, i again am ripped from the tapestry of the world, and placed into his unbelievable nothingness; a ruby in a black box, a black box of black velvet and outside the velvet, precious woods inlaid, unreachable.

"Doubt" and "Certainty"

Just watched the wonderful movie "Doubt". I had never seen the play, so it was fresh to me. It was such a gorgeous, lush, taut, wonderful movie. Of course, every moment without Meryl Streep in it is a wasted moment, but I loved the experience so much.

What I loved about it was the transcendent aspect of Streep's character's certainty. Of course, this parochial school principal had years and years of experience in spotting sexual predators---she had seen it more than once. And she had the life experience to recognize that children are vulnerable, as well as little hellions at times. But there is more to Streep's "certainty" than professional judgment. And certainly more to her actions based on that certainty than professional ethics or even moral injunction.

SHE KNEW. And she had a conviction to pursue and destroy, or at least remove, the evil in her world, even if it cost her her job, vocation, her religion, even her faith. Conviction to complete an act, even when it may cost you your IDENTITY--THAT is a transcendent, mystical experience. There is no other explanation. When you HAVE to do something, even if it is costing you the basis and foundation upon which your own convictions is based---that is more than going out on a limb, it is cutting the limb off and hoping it doesn't hurt too much when you land.

And what I most MOST loved about Sr. Aloysius (Streep's character) is that she never, NEVER had a moment's thought of her own personal safety, never had a doubt that she WOULD pursue this man (no hand wringing, she's the anti-Hamlet), and never, never doubted that she would prevail.

I think anyone who professes (or is stuck with) a faith in a transcendant, personal and moral G-d should stand up and take note. Being devoted to G-d is dangerous--he will do things to us, change perspectives, change boundaries, etc., within us, and make us brave, even if we have no will to be. But, as Sr. Aloysius so winningly demonstrates in the end of the move, that doesn't take away our base emotional selves. Once the fire is extinguished, the sword carefully cleaned and put away, we will be wracked with tears, "doubts", and misgivings. But that is the flesh re-asserting its will over the spirit. At that moment, our weakness becomes a virtue, it is allowing the balm of gilead to wash over our tired limbs. Then, and only then, are 'doubts' permissible. All else, as Sr. so waspishly admonished her junior religious, is just "wishing it was over so one can return to one's treasured simplicity."

Sr. Aloysius sacrificed her peace of mind, her happiness and probably risked her sanity, by pursuing with rabid devotion her mission to educate and protect children. Being grasped by so powerful a mission is truly a grace--but perhaps not a grace to be asked for.

g-d created silence.

we created speech.

sometimes g-d likes to punch us in the gut and knock the wind out.


he must tire of the chatter.


when we are silent too, he smiles.

but he can take as good as he gives, so you can't fault him. much.

perhaps we began to fail as a truly spiritual civilization when we exalted prose over verse. and verse over song.

oh save me oh lord, for they mercy's sake.

every night i water my cup with my tears.

and uproot me not.

the discipline of spiritual emptiness

i saw a little tract once while a parishioner at St. Ignatious in San Francisco. It was all about the discipline of spiritual emptiness. the idea is that we constantly leave our hearts open, free, unemcumbered, not bogged down with thoughts, so that grace or the Lord can rush in when necessary to use us. I like that. And I never understood it, although I've come now to understand, somewhat, 10 years later.

we must list passively, on the inside, while the exterior self moves and shakes and acts. inside, we can be still waters, ready to receive god's bombshells.

lady of the sorrows

lady of sorrows, pray for us.
lady of worries, pray for us.
lady of fears, pray for us.

lady victim of violence, pray for us.
lady victim of uncertainty, pray for us.

lady queen of hope, pray for us.
lady queen of peace, pray for us.

lady of resolve, pray for us.
lady of courage, pray for us.
lady of wisdom, pray for us.

lady of smiles, smile on me.

when thou readest.

when thou readest, see my ink.
when thou readest, see my parchment.
when thou readest, see beneath my scratches.

for my ink is mixed with blood and oil and wine and the unnameable.
for my paper is my very flesh, pulled and shredded and mulched and dried and pressed.
and beneath my scratches are spells glorious, terrible, malevolent.
but for you, my lover (for all readers become my lovers), my spells shall heal and not wound.

if only you have the eyes and fear not.

seest thou?

is it too late, o lord?
is it too late to re-enter the womb--to emerge a boy again.
so clean and bright, my features still round and no angles and no stubble and no dissipation?
is it too late o lord to have again a child's voice--so high, so pure, so beautiful, such as to make old men cry with wracking cries?
is it too late o lord to feel the earnestness of youth? to be innocent in spite of petty foolishness and foibles. is it too late o lord, my god, to be thy child? thy son?
o god i would be that child. with hair of gold and cut in the norman fashion of purity. with eyes of delightful and not-too-piercing blue.
could i not cry 'vivat regina!' could i not be the hymn that makes the earth spin and the angels lament their immortality?
o god, is it too late now to shed all that i am?
is my repentence possible?
o god. to be a man is but to be a boy who missed the aventures he should have had. to have foregone the purity he could have kept, to have joined the fray of life, when i could, oh god, have stayed pure, ripped out my manliness and remained with you. pure, in the heavens, to be taken up with you. and my face framed in white and my young body swathed in red. red so soft and stiff and unyieldinng.
o god. who wretched must be for all we are in your image. do you, too, seek that childhood?
come then, play in my wretched heart and make light of me and throw stones at me if you wish. for i will only rejoice at seeing that picture, that picture where hope lives, and meals expected, and comfort the norm.
and your voice, o god, would pierce the heavens, raising up to high upon high. and if you did that, i would finally end. finally shed this frame. and take my chances with the angels, and with the starry night.

tonight is the night

all is in readiness. all that is not in readiness is in readiness.
the candidate is prepared and not prepared.
the candidate is neither naked nor clad.
his heart shod; mind, unshod.
he wishes to fear, but cannot quite manage it.
not to worry; that comes later.

lotus opens

it is time for me. i am. i am man. i am professional. i am dad. i am lover. i am madman. i am patient. i am physician. i am master.

fall down. throw your crown to the ground. tear your robes. if i deem it, i will make love to you, and you shall live. if you are truly worthy, and i care to, i shall kill you with my steely knife. and you shall find love.

if you please me not, you shall be sent unto everlasting fire. worship.

and i labored long. suffered much.
summoned a midwife. he came with sharpened, shiny blade.
one long, slow thrust, and the child was out.
growing to crowd out the midday sun.
black as black, blacker than soil under soil.
stronger than the men of old.
wild and untamed.
he fled my city. and his footfalls, which no shadow could penetrate, shook my foundations.
but i could not follow just then.
i was waylaid by death.

live through me

o g0d. o apollo-principle. come. enliven my bones. give strength to my sinews. put heart in my chest. put power into my lips. for my flesh sags. skin silps from sinew, sinew from bone, bone from bone.

let us rest

oh arms so soft and cool and white!
o raven hair with starry fires bright!
thy slippers upon satan's neck move not
around thy head a circling universe is brought.

let mantle thine be mine as well.
thy folds my shelter.
the bullies that bruise my nose and pull my arm
be gone. for a mother protects her son.
and in the recesses of the night, i crawl in bed
with so fair a sight: mother in her linens and hair
betressed. lavender in my nose--I wiggle and pray
dear god! take not my mother from me!

the secrets

every intonation and rhythm of the mass whispers it. every note of the song of the priest. every word of the Eucharistic prayer. every plaster visage. every flake of gold leaf.

they proclaim the mystery. the mystery of god's true desire. his desire to live under the spiritual life.

his desire to breakaway somehow from that being which one perceives in one's mind and heart. to sneak away from his pleasant visage.

to be a secret lover. to have a secret pact. to give a secret gift. if only we will do this one thing for him, he hints, then much will be ours.

dare not refuse. for he takes his silly games seriously. take the dare, or it will become an unknowable secret passion.

play his game. placate the child. for he is god. and 'no' is not in his vocabulary. recall: a child, with limitless power. limitless time. limitless energy. limitless CHILD's energy. he can play this game 'all day.' take a guess how long his days are.

take the dare.

the child

all hail the child.
whose is he?
is he of mary?
is he of the spirit?
who is the spirit?
who am I?
let me not, i pray, be he.

i wanted peace: he gave me ashes.
i wanted health: he gave me pain.
i wanted love: he gave me sadness.
i wanted wealth: he gave me unbearable burdens.
i wanted happiness: he gave me afflictions.
i wanted prayer: he gave me insanity.
i wanted power: he gave me disabilities.
i wanted wisdom: he gave me eyes that will not shut.
finally, i wanted nothing: and he gave me nothing.
and i was satisfied.
there is no peace with god without annihilation. for he creates so that he may destroy utterly.

great goddes; great mother; great advocate

folds of cool linen like feathers and dew and a new morning on my tortured face.
smooth skin of alabaster white but pulsing living breathing more alive than new grass, more vibrant than fresh snow, more puissant than a yearling stag.
and i pass. i pass.
and backwards i fall, fall, falling but my head strikes no stone. a hand, great, carries me and i am laid up in the softess bed of down and white and pillows and a breeze, cool, upon my cheek.
and my memory erased and clean and only softness remains.

for now your limpid flesh erect walks and finger, hands and arms gesture according to convention.
your main flows in the gentle, discrete, shy canal of the banal.
and ready to do commerce.
amen! though are ready for the world.
but to be OF if, there is no concern.
my inner minds and mountains and streams and glaciers and lakes all Thy heavenly hosts reflect.

silver? gold? blue?

three daughters of spotless aspect.
one mother.
a diamond.
a knife.
and now i must be comforted.

a! elbereth!

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
O Elbereth Starkindler,
silivren penna míriel
white-glittering, slanting down sparkling like a jewel,
o menel aglar elenath!
the glory of the starry host!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
Having gazed far away
o galadhremmin ennorath,
from the tree-woven lands of Middle-earth,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
to thee, Everwhite, I will sing,
nef aear, sí nef aearon!
on this side of the Sea, here on this side of the Ocean!^[1]

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
O Elbereth Star-kindler,
o menel palan-díriel,
from heaven gazing afar,
le nallon sí di'-nguruthos!
to thee I cry now beneath the shadow of death!
A tíro nin, Fanuilos!
O look towards me, Everwhite!^[2]

A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!
O! Elbereth Starkindler,
silivren penna míriel
white-glittering, slanting down sparkling like a jewel,
o menel aglar elenath,
the glory of the starry host
Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth!
Starkindler, O! Elbereth!
We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees
The starlight on the western seas.

a new (to me) marian devotion: the seven sorrows

• The prophecy of Simeon
• The Flight to Egypt
• Loss of Child Jesus for 3 days, later found in His Father's House
• Witnessing Jesus carry his Cross
• The Crucifixion of Jesus
• Taking Jesus Down from the Cross
• The Burial of Jesus

beardless

i had hoped that g-d might really still wear a great beard.
that he would be as kindly as my grampa could have been.
that he would be as venerable as a naked saint in a tree.
that he would be as masterful as Jehovah of old.
that he would be as giving as the rivers.
that he would be as constant as the ocean.
that he would be, in short, a proper, decent sort of g-d that did the right things when prayed to.

i've found, however, that g-d is far too young, good looking, devil-may-care, disinterested in this world, and, frankly, far too hip, for my taste. but he is, at the least, very, very beautiful. and he makes good coffee. and he never gets 5 o'clock shadow.
and he is exceedingly patient.

Define Faith?

Faith is the function that happens when logic and reason are no longer applicable.

wilmshurst - anima naturae

Swirl of the river aflow to the sea,
Aspen a-quiver all tremulously,
Skylark that shivereth song o’er the lea,
Shaft of the sun;
Snowflakes that sprinkle the wind-bitten wold,
Fireflies that twinkle with shimmer of gold,
Wavelets that wrinkle the sands where ye rolled,
Rivulet’s ripple and run; myst.
Lone mountain-meres that are silently dreaming
Of far-flashing spheres that enmirrored are beaming,
Clouds’ crystal tears when the rainbow is gleaming,
I, also a son
Of the Mother, inherit the soul of her infinite throng,
See it and hear it my paths all about and among,
Throb with your spirit and sing with the manifold song
Of the infinite, manifold One.

if you take my hand, i will release my grip on your throat.

Rising up. As a leaf floating up to its mother-branch.
Like a stag leaping.
Like the g-d rising up over his creation.
A lover stands glorious to his beloved.
I stand. I am all.

Wet earth between toes.
Upraised arms and rain, silver, shiny, sinuous slides down from my firmament onto my plain.
I have rolled back the skies.
Now verdant, verdant roll the hills and rich blacky loamy earth my command.

A waste has given way to my fertile fields and milk and honey flow gorge my eyes.
I rise puissant and all obey. I have righted the orbs by night and day and set their course.
I have crumbled the mighty hills and laid them lowly. And valleys I have filled with grace.
The four corners of my realm I establish firmly.
None shall pass. None pass.

Sealed. My lips so terrible.
My side has poured out and all is holy. None profane my secret.
Words have I unspoke’ by ones, tens and thousands.
All glorious. I suffer not a blade to be trampled.
My fortress mighty, walls of spirit to the uttermost stand.

bless us

faery sky.

angel wind.

satan's fork.

mother's lap.

father's hand.

and bless us, Thou Omnipotent, with thy fearless ruthless smiling ways.

honey. gold. myrrh.

Many years of barrenness have I notched into my belt. And I nearly became a waif and a wight.

Indeed I had built a stone crypt and altar hideous beneath the ground and thought perhaps to feed on wayfarers and entrap them and indeed I had entrapped some and others merely feasted upon and let them go.

And now I have crushed that terrible crypt, hill, stone, altar and knives too all beneath a single step of my mighty glorious foot. For I have been raised upon high, higher than I had ever known the gods to soar.

And my days are filled with loving and sweetness untold. For I have had to store honeycomb in caskets rich with gold and jewels. Each of 1,224 caskets of pure gold overlaid upon silver bars thick and weighty—emeralds encrust them. Each cake I wrap in linens dipped in myrrh and linen fit for a god. And even these I am filling faster than I could imagine and soon I will move my hand and create greater caskets and barrels and soon I shall store my honeycomb—each sweeter and heavier and darker and richer and wilder than the purest honey of queen bees—richer than the food of queens and the desire of kings—each so pure that for a commoner to think on it would merit death—quick death and an unremembered death.

For this is the sweetness that I carry each day. I shall open my storehouses and crypts and they shall be filled.

all is laid waste

all is laid waste.
not a stone stands upon another.
smokes rise from fires dark.
reeks cling to the hills about the walls' remains.

and god in a yellow sun dress, pressed and stiff,
her girlish sun-specked shoulders bared and browning,
picks sweet pimpernels to keep.
clover sweet and wild she winds into a wreath.

laughing, she drops it at the gates.

lunatics among us

there is a reason why you don't get much when looking for 'mystical' literature. that's because most of it isn't so described.

there's a reason for that, too. that's because mystic tend to get stoned, burned, etc. whenever they open their silly mouths and try to put in to words what they actually see and actually live and actually hear and actually feel, they are antichrists. so they must use allusion on top of illusion on top of hints on top of poetry. that's the only way they are entitled to live and make their way.

the only other course is quiet, persistent madness. although, perhaps that's what mystics get regardless. but there is madness and madness, as they say.

i think.

save us from 'mystics'

when i set up this blog (um, 25 minutes ago), a couple of the names i wanted were taken. so, i figured, there must be folks out there identifying as 'catholic' and 'mystic' and who blog to boot! apparently not.

at any rate, i 'googled' "catholic" and "mystic" and came up with stories of monks (ok, just one) who advocate freelove and 'shrooms' and a 'born-again' catholic who decries the mass as cannibalism. the rest were even worse.

folks: newsflash: 'mysticism' is not synonymous with 'nutball', 'heretic' or 'woolly-headed, faux-zen, pope-hating monk'. mysticism does not mean 'speaking in tongues', 'faith-healer' or 'psychopath'.

i'm afraid 'mystic' means something rather other. and i'm hoping that ignorant catholic lay-people and even more ignorant atheists that who are looking for the next big non-fiction book topic will stop ascribing every tom, dick and lunatic harry the label of 'mystic.'

mon dieu!!! read a book!!! a 'mystic' is one who experiences g-d through images in a direct, personal, emotive and (yes) innovative way. it is intensely personal, idiosyncratic and strange. but it is not necessarily heretical, unorthodox or even progressive. it simply means that some folks think about god, the world and life in a story-book way that uses a highly-developed set of symbols and images that others don't (readily) understand.

normal people. married people. suburban people. they can and are mystics. mystics don't wear signs that say 'mystic'. they don't wear habits (necessarily). they aren't cloistered religious (necessarily). they don't even 'believe' in 'god' (in the normal sense of the phrase) (necessarily).

and i sure wish folks who don't know anything about religion, spirituality, and haven't ever read any books on mysticism, or don't know who St. John of the Cross is, would SHUT. UP. NOW. At least, if folks would stop buying their books. I'd be EVER so grateful.

i have a feeling this hasn't cleared anything up. but i sure do feel better.

Ode to my brother

in lushy marshy fern-strown glen

I wait with basket brim-full

And light so tranquil ‘pon each leaf

Of green and mossy black

And heat perspiring steams return

To heaven the whole a shimmered tower

To Thee that men may follow.

See thee not the blanket spread and oil

Provided wine and bread

Stay awhile! And sup with me for hunger

Is of two types.

Thy lips a morsel brush a drop of wine bestow

Enough for me. Thy body ivory turns away

And thy light fades but slowly.

Return then after battles won and I shall weep into thy wounds.

o g-d.

i hate it when you give me those days when i rejoice at the happy songs.
i always regret those mornings at mass when i can sing lustily.
i want to hide away when you give me simple happiness.
i'm not cut out for that.

you are easier to deal with when blackness covers the solar orb.
you are more honest when you leave us to our miseries.
you leave not off in your desire to pry under the skin.
you just can't leave well enough alone.

come live in my dreams.

the "good" part

i was thinking of calling this 'the 21st-century catholic mystic', but the URL would be too long--just plain 'catholic mystic' has already been taken.

but i'm thinking i might jot down the sermons that i habitually write in my head, plus throw in some of my religious poetry, and in general throw up lots of what is running around in my head, or otherwise hidden in a secret folder on my company laptop, and share it with anyone who might happen along.

it is my fervent wish that my thoughts might be of some use to someone out there: under the cynicism, the saint.