poise. balance attic. beauty manful.

the greatest organ pulsing, covering, taut, alive with every scrape

and each cut and bruise and sore place a badge of honor.

for living, using, living growing!! the organism rejoicing at its liveliness

the strength coursing. i feel! i feel! vision acute to brilliance.

toes gripping, muscles learning to become awake to one another.

this is the true adolescence. the one that puberty points to.

only now with two score voyages in my belt can i now see the wisdom of all creation.

we cannot come alive until teh graces gird us up.

now tall and straight, my buckler fastened by a virgin sweet and my breastplate fastened by my valet loyal.

my helmet i carry under my arm. robes of finest gold and reddest red drape across my habiliments martial. gods! had i known my destiny i would have feared to leave the womb.

and now i see all. i see afar the wisdom of creation. it is only through the many births of youth and manhood and death and yet death again, and the crushing of all hopes and desires. and their solid rebuilding on rock. rock unshakable! that manhood finally blooms its precious blossom, pistals magnificent, each lobe of the flower heavy and rich. the aroma so fragrant and pungent that lesser beings are unaware, and the aware but malformed cannot abide. this is the odor of the Christ-man! i cannot do all. omnipotence is not my aim anymore.

but my strength is greater than the omnipotence that i once dimly conceived. and to have hands and arms and legs as i do--the stronger to lift children and slash enemies, it is exquisite pleasure. to sit beneath the banyan tree is natural to orgasm and there for sweet hours i stay. and refreshed, i begrudge not the interruption of the bodymind. for here i chose to make my stand.

i chose this life. i chose it. dammit! i chose this! all tears of pity for myself tall away like hideous, filthy rags, they fall and their putrescence dissolves into smaller than atoms before they touch the ground my being now makes holy.

and so, upon a horse so great i sit magnificent. i ride, i fly, i go to the great city. its gates yearn for me. my visage already there in bas relief. i go to my new home. the home prepared for me by my true father. the home my earthly father in his way did his best to prepare me for. i go home. i go home. i go home. my children fast and my wives like grape-clusters overflowing await me there. for they two 'foreknow me. and all is joy. joy! this is the bliss that they meant, those prophets i saw but dimly. this is the vision written of in inks of gold on pages of silver. but the bliss itself is greater than ambrosia. better than coupling, more heady than the densest mead. o gods! this life, this life, this life!

and now but a little while and shall i sit enthroned and there my table before me shall i arrange my armies. and we, knowing ourselves, and knowing well our enemies, shall wage jihad against death. and life shall gain for itself riches and new lands. i am DUKE. if emperor i must become, so be it. but i hurry not. for my lands suffice for now. that is, once this battle ends and i take possession of its sweetness.

i see, i see the land that is mine by conquest to come. a land of ancient beauty and wisdom, of lands cultivated and tamed for millenia. A land that i did not inherit, but that i was groomed to take. for all my thought it bent on it. but i, wiser than the fools of corrupted vision, see all, and forget not the whole world. my armies point in all directions. i advance, for this land may not even have a king. fighting is necessary only when resistance comes. i do not invite it. for if perchance my heart is pure, all walls shall open at my touch. i am ready for all things. ready. ready.

had there been anyplace else to go, would i not have done?

i would have lived in the hell of my own making, willingly.

but you sought me out in my childish game of seek and hide.

hands over my eyes. spirit huddled in a corner of my soul.

and you held me, lightly, until i fell into your arms. and then we embraced.

and now, you lift my untried limbs to stand. and already you are running ahead.

i pant and long to live in my cramped box of ignorance.

but you yet lead me on toward light and joy and vitality.

your yoke is light. yet still a yoke.

my own was heavier, darker, rougher, but i knew it well.

thou winds wandering whistling,

winding from head to breast to feet.

covered all in whitest winter-light.

but mantle blue between in all and buddest

forth thy fragrant flowers.

had i but once a moment given me

to share. with anyone! o! yes with thee

with thee wouldst spend it i though briefest,

glimmering twilight stealing life away.

still looking back upon the world of grief, with gladness

would i tear and tear my breast for thee.

o lamb, o darling, sweetest mine

my thought rushed to eyes so bright of thine.

alabaster softness, life to touch,

death to leave.

departing thee in deepest peace I go.

o! lover mine but for another moment for to rest!

my head upon thy neck.

for this ten thousand lives an easy trade.

for no one knows thy face as I can read.

my fatherland thy cheeks and lips and hair falling,

falling down as last i gasp for th' moment promised past.

the boatman takes my final coin and on to death i row,

with heart a'bursting limbs quaking still.

through eternal shades that light shall dim not.

o faith!

i have dared not write here. but only in my secret journal to my lover divine. for our love is for each other alone. none others exist.

while we are there, all heaven stops and the galaxies rest their weary wheeling work. the earth slows in thanksgiving from its tread upon the wheel around the fire.

soon o lover! we will quit the sacred grove to share this love with those whom you bring to me. but my hand grasps yours with a deathgrip. i trust, but like a child, i must hold on to your hand for dear life. for there is no other life but thy hand so strong and hard and warm around mine.

and with the other, i bless and caress and guide. one hand o god! one hand! with it i shall build 10,000 upon 10,000 temples to your name. see! i cast down thrones and raise up the lowly--but all for thee! all for thee! o hide my face in your neck o god. for i cannot walk anymore today. may i not hold thee for one more hour? may i not sob into thy breast yet further. i am destroyed by yoru love. my bones melt and my sinews fall away. i am become nothing but tears.

and yet i remain. this love a consuming fire that leaves teh leaves more green than before. despise me not. cover me with thy cloa o god for i have cast off my clothes. i shall not wear these hideous rags again! give me of yourself! your robe only of your wondrous smell only will i wear. thy robe only can i stand. my own skin it shall become for in comparison with you i hate myself and all i see.

see. yet i stand. the robe is firmly around me. and i open my mouth . . . .

with no fanfare, the child gently pulls his sweaty sweet palm away from his wet nurse, and puts it into the over-large hard hand of his father. smiling. radiant.

If you knew me, you would fear me.

But I no longer want or need anyone to see what is behind this gauzy curtain.

For I AM.

And you are hard to discern from the winds.

I am an army of ten thousand upon ten thousand.

I am the shaman in the midst of the host of heaven.

My hands and staff are raised. It is the LORD who does the battle.

Through me are life and death. You have only moments to decide what is best to you.

I have come not to bind up but to destroy. The old passes away.

Behold! All things are made new.

From my mouth a terrible serpent comes. My eyes are bright death.

My hands are stones. My feet the foundation of the earth.

My torso the mountains.

My chest is all oceans as one.

my throat is all winds.

my hair is all storms and all lightning.

I am the door. The flood. I am the furnace. I am the threshing floor.

I am the shower of fire upon the cities consuming all.

turn back not! lest you be made into salt.

For I am the angel of the LORD. I come to succor only the weak. The strong I knock aside.

The hungry I feed of my bosom. The full I dash against the stones.

I tear down the principalities. I raise up the villages.

My breath is destruction.

"Wait upon the lord." "Make a highway through the desert". "Every valley shall be exalted and every mountain and hill laid low." What is all this?

I mean, what is it really. I'm not sure. But I don't think it is comforting.

heart thrilling to beat wildly, purely, free.

arms rejoice at their strength.

body laughs as it runs and rips and falls and runs again

mind and heart in gladness contemplate that in ages past at my age i would be elderly. and yet, now, in this day at the dawn of a much greater even if more terrible future, i am in the flush of youth.

and i breathe in great gulps. the air dry and old. my lungs, though, make it new.

all is fresh. clean. silent.

my laughter raucous.

Prayer is now far more 'powerful'--what other word is there? Because I do nothing. I close my eyes and i feel a large, hard presence, a me that i only dimly understand.

and he is clothed with my skin--a 3/8th inch of flesh over implacable metal/solidity, of which I have never seen. And his eyes are fire and arrows. and his hair is as the fire of the sun and his body the darkness of all being and all potential. and it is he now who rules. nearly! nearly! there is nothing I can do. and all is the other. finally, the oblivion and end that I have so long sought is coming. and, in its stead, this other. soon there shall be no action that is not he acting. i become only his illusion. his magic trick. his 'cover.' if i betray him not, we will stay together. now, if i try to work against him, i will only tear and die.

it is glorious to know that a step outside of this other, true self will mean incurable insanity for me. but the will of he who is not yet named will work regardless. it is up to me to make the shell what i want; what i deem the most effective and perfect vehicle. for now, as an offering to the most high at the end of all things, i have little to give, but the little should be as a precious jeweled box in which he can place what he will.

sunday was the feast of corpus christi.

until becoming a priest i never thought of the day at all. or, if at all, that it was a pious sentiment.

but as a priest, it is an entirely different event.

what is our purpose as priests? it is NOT to 'be kind' 'do good works' even 'clothe the naked' or 'visit those in prison'. Of course these things flow naturally out of our hearts, or rather the heart of the Divine One because His mark is indellibly on us and in us. But ANYONE can and must do these things.

what is our purpose but to make heaven and earth meet in the eucharist? all the other sacraments are but a distant second to this.

so, once a priest properly understands his place: WHICH IS BEFORE THE ALTAR OF GOD-and nowhere else. And a footnote: those who denigrate or misunderstand this central message are fools and in peril. Forgive me, but I have seen it so often it sickens me. at any rate, once understood that this is our place, this is our raison d'être , then, think:

this SOLEMNITY--equal in stature to Christmas, Easter, etc., this solemnity is the emphatic re-affirmation of our role and the centrality of the role of the eucharist in the life of the Christian. Then, this solemnity comes into true focus. And it may leave the priest speechless.

at any rate, i found it extremely moving to celebrate it and found myself taking my time. even more than usual. loving every word. the longing and yearning of my heart and all my love pouring forth. it was a wonderful Mass; I cannot think of words to describe it. But it was very . .. deepening . . . full of the primordial darkness that is the light for the contemplative . . . it was a star in the night of my soul, empty, waiting only for him. . . it was the divine power-over-the-elements. This is the true power that magick, sorcery and all manner of esoteric practices can only mimic, and poorly. this simple thing; this is the unfathomable power of the Divine in the world. It cannot help but open hearts, and open wider those that have let Him in.

But I digress. At any rate, my wife later asked me if I was alright. She could not understand why I kept slowing down, kept pausing. I assured her that all was well.

But I took my sweet time in 'concealing' the sanctuary (putting my mobile sanctuary away). It was the way for me to be able to bring my thin shroud of worldy consciousness back on. To cover what was fully uncovered.

I only know one person who knows what I mean. Perhaps there are others. If so, peace be with you. If not, peace be with you.

Even as I wrote this, my physical body was gripped with an uncontrollable spasm. Perhaps one day my physical body will be able to experience these things without resistance. Until then, perhaps, there is more 'unbeing' to realize.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

read these lyrics: a FAR better poem, and far more suggestive of divine truth, than anything I'VE ever written:

So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
and nothing else matters

Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don't just say
and nothing else matters

Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
but I know

So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
but I know

Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don't just say

Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us, something new
Open mind for a different view
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they say
never cared for games they play
never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
and I know

So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
No, nothing else matters

On pastor's leaves

in willow's dean

a spottl'd man

in shielded sun.

an arm atop a knarl-ed sheen

a hat, a cloak, and boots agleem

unruly white and white again

hairs like twigs and silver spun.

the shepherd lean

a face that teamed

with worries, sorrows, pleasures and

one smile nine hundred races won.

eyes blue then dun then mottled green

they pierce the forest and county mean

bright shore afar made this world bland

search'd richer heav'n he'd just begun.

i fear him not for i am keen

to hold his pearly hands between

my breast and face heart-heaving sad

exquisite frame youth's tender plunge.

for my face too ablaze alight

my footfalls ne'er by dullards seen

the god's compelling glorious brand

upon my heart, the fateful course I run, I run.

Whenever I put on my habit I pray: "Hodei, si vocem ejus audieritis, nolite obdurare corda vestra." I believe that prayer is a powerful one if prayed in sincerity: indeed it is my monastic motto.

Yesterday the voice was different that it has been for many, many months. I felt the dark, inexorably unrelenting of the pull down into darkness, into non-being, into undivided diversity, into the waters of black all-potential, all-life.

And I ran to my prayer-closet and put on my old, old chadri, one of white and the black on top of it. And I sat. And I was instantly transported to that heavenly court to which I had not been for so long. And my long absence was acknowledged with profesional, soldierly-like nods. And I was given an update on the world beyond seeing.

I was pulled into a trance deeper than I had ever felt, yet did not sleep to my knowledge. Many things i saw and many things were said, but not in a language I can recite to you. And I perceived much, spoken of in terms of battle. With millions working with me, and reports on the progress of contrary forces. And much is being done whether I look or not.

I still ponder this in my heart. And am left guessing as to what this all applies. I suppose it applies to itself and may or may not have anything to do with my current, mundane concerns.

i murmur my devotion to the Lady as I walk. And I look up, to see if yet the black folds of her garment fill the sky above me.

And they do. she does not look back, however, her face, white as alabaster, hair raven black, eyes blazing. she looks only forward, to the west.

but west is to the ocean and beyond, but first the Baghdad of the West.

she has not moved, although the billowing suggests flying at a great speed. still she is above me, huge, but not filling the entire horizon. but more perhaps than I can bear; no, i can bear it, but it is greater than all my plans together.

She tells me under her breathe, "yes! i hear your prayer. fret not! I am doing what I must do. What you must do will be revealed."

And so I trudge doggedly, climbing so slowly the staircase behind the mountain. no one sees my hands, callused, tired, or hears my breath short and gasping. my habit torn, mud and filth and my own excretions staining.

there is no time for stopping. although sometimes, i rest, my hands gripping the cold, sharp, black stone. my feet unsteady but sure for now. and after my wearying dreams of torment, i begin again up. to what destiny i know not.

or perhaps i do. but i dare not dream of ecstasy or rest.