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.