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!