Frags

Silence is not practiced at the expense of speech. On the contrary, we will value our words to the extent that we value our silences; the fewer our words, the weightier they must be.

There is one path. It is that which you are on. It is the only path -- from which there is no deviation. Now it leads upward into wider light. Now down into a narrow dark. Like a river, it traverses hill and vale, field and wood, disdaining nowhere, welcome in all places and times. Without concern, it nourishes all things.

Our home will not shelter us unless the world becomes our home, our kin will not comfort us unless all creatures become our kin, and our god will not bless us unless all being becomes our god; for our home takes shelter in the world, our kin take comfort in all creatures, and our god is blessed by all that is.

A baby bird breaks through the egg and disregards it, not because it served no purpose, but because it's purpose has been served. So it is with the soul's relation to the material world. Like an egg, or a womb, it is that which shelters and nurtures the soul, until the soul has become sufficiently developed to break through.

 The spiritual world is not altogether hidden behind the material. Truly, the Kingdom of Heaven shines through nature, as a light beneath the door. Thus, in preaching the doctrine of world-transcendence, we do no disservice to the creation as instituted by the Lord, Our God. One does not deny, nor disregard, a doorway by passing through it, -- but, rather, makes proper use thereof; for Heaven cannot be entered, lest the door be apprehended, and the threshold traversed.

Freedom is that commodity which labor cannot secure.

You are here to decide for yourself why you are here;
not to discover a meaning, but to declare one.

I have a mind like a sieve;
it retains only stones, shells, and bones,
and occasional nuggets of gold insight.

Fools give credence to authority and whatever is commonly held.
To their way of seeing, that an idea is original only proves that it is false.

We are in no position to judge a vice which we have not discovered in ourselves. Nor have we any right to judge a vice which we have discovered in ourselves. The former would expose our ignorance -- the latter our hypocrisy.

 It takes courage to be sincere; to be serious, vulnerable, insightful, and to allow others to be serious, vulnerable, insightful; without immediately cracking some careless, stupid joke. Not everything is ironic. Not every reflective moment needs to be shattered with instant levity. Where did we ever acquire this notion that being cool means caring for nothing? Enough with that! It is not cool to be flippant. It is cool to care, to question, to teach, to share what you really think and feel. All of my heart to the sincere, serious people. The ones who make you think. And, yes, I love the ones who make me laugh, but it would be nice if they knew when to stop; when not to make a joke out of everything; when to allow something to stand, a little awkward on the page, if need be, declaring something of substance. Jokes are easy. Apathy is effortless. Cowardice.

How could any momentary pleasure, however exalted, not leave a residue of disenchantment behind; when man is that being who harbors a longing (insatiable by definition) for the Absolute? Even mystical wine has dregs.

Love of hard work must have developed for sound reasons, dictated by necessity, but now we see it encouraged for absurd ones, far beyond the bounds of reason, and dictated by excess. Without a doubt, it is one of the virtues most treasured by materialists (whether or not they practice it themselves), since their luxuries can only be afforded at the cost of tremendous labor. Whereas, idealists naturally esteem love of ease far more than love of labor, and labor only as much as it will afford them ease. Their pleasures are not culled from the earth, nor very long in procuring. They do not require heat, nor cold, nor any treatment at the hand of man. The world as it stands distributes more goods than they could ever make use of or hope to surmise. An idealist is wealthy beyond measure because he does not search for objects of beauty, but, rather, his search ignites the beauty within all objects. He is no less content with the idea of an object than with the object itself. This is why he praises leisure over labor; being over doing; as a man for whom God has performed all things, and is all things.

Mankind harbors a sneaking suspicion that the deepest emotions, insights, and perceptions to which he is sensitive have already occurred to him, and are present in his earliest memories. The aim of all culture is to make infancy articulate. In spite of the reality of evil, if all things are tending towards good, we may say that only good is ever really happening. Indeed, we may have good reason to.

Guerilla Radio

Who hath ears to hear, let him hear." -- Matthew 13:9


Love is in the air,
riding the airwaves,
making beautiful music --

playing new songs
all day and night long
in the heart of a mystic
attuned to this delicate frequency...

God is ON THE AIR, broadcasting LIVE.
All the prophets have advertised.
Everybody knows the time:
now and forever.

So, when are we going to tune in?
When will we raise our antenna;
lift our hearts skyward and listen?

Christ Jesus is taking requests.
And angels are singing their best
love songs.

Loud and clear...

For ALL to hear...

But who has ears?

Empty-Handed Charity

all you gathered under
working for an answer
holding what is out of hand

meekly struggling to awaken
bravely failing what's at stake and
drowning in a glass of stars

my heart is in the place of mourning
weeping blood upon your tombs
growing chill and wafting
sighs of love's perfume

pray, do see my verse is gentle
dear friendship is the banner hung
and heed with force this sober rhyme
before your lives are said and sung

for there is lighting in the cloud
and more than ready to be blunt
some thing most woeful will not hold
some thing more ancient will affront

behold The Devil now complacent
all his fiercest demons placed
insisting with their patient roots
upon the neutral soil

angels on their bellies
sparrows sunk in mud
here lies the wild we fathered
in purest impossible love

grinding our teeth to the beast
bones we all suckled by nature
like cannibal offspring nursing
when milk has ceased to run

is this the dawn of action
is this the fight or flight
has free-will made a motion
which faith cannot abide

for it would seem all things are blessed
and nothing simple could be wanting
that greed alone demands a test
and complicates exalting

people get lost just finding their place
words want to leave when unspoken
mind weaves a web to watch its own thoughts
silently creeps up and eats them

this is the fire we said we would tend
back when our souls were dark ovens
back in the night of interior life
when daylight was but an illusion

there we discovered a secret height
faint and yet present in blackest sight
tender to the breath's own breath
like the candle of a ghost

how it held us in suspension
saw us through the emptiness
left no doubt, no door, no question
blessed us with a full abyss

'till the cock disturbed our dream
by signaling the sunlight forth
and all was lost that was not seen
all subtleties quite blotted out

grunt forth self-dismembering angel

this is the lime

glowing out, become

the life spread for a time

splayed legs and minds

dissected, dismembered

unforgotten but clinging 

like a slime

like roots spreading unencumbered

freely reaching to become

ghosts transfixed

floating over notes

slinging a thousand songs 

shouldered like the throngs

of disbelieving chorus

where we have spun

struggled embittered

like the sun not betraying

endless feelings

but singing, singing,

bleeding like full women

cunts remembering what it was

to love like this

and south of here

strange emblems declare

something you would own

if you could own

all the myriad rhythms

that coarse like gifted madness

through the tomb of you

words crash like bubbles 

into airy discovery

we won't let them fall 

not now, not when 

we could ride them

like fast cocks

into nothingness

because that's the place

where dreams break

like tired waves

and curse us

who love them

chamber maids discover us

naked babbling memories

we would do our best

to feign enchantment

if all would leave 

us alone

blankly tumbling

over forests embedded 

in planet earth

souls stumbling 'round stumps

and forcing our way through

into black triumphant wonder

where we don't know

what we won't

understand

anyway

angelic hosts

choke on however many

angry fast motes

garbled in light

struggling to emerge

into signs, into words

wanting to stand

for more than beauty

and how many of you here

wander staggering star-struck

awe-struck in sympathy

with this transfixed crowd

of constellations?

will you ever draw back

into the moment without remembering

another time like this one

or girls squirming

like this rare woman

who has been a girl

and has shed girlhood

in so many tears

will you draw back

into her chest

while she holds you

and you remember

a similar fierce warmth

because of her

in spite of her

will you fall headlong

into remembering

while she stands strong

anxious to withstand

the heartbreaks

you're preparing

your soul ghost

ambivalent, passionate

not at all forthcoming

but blazing some truth

all around, but not inside

buried deep like water

locked in ice

will you transcend

the tears that jump

and gather, crumbling

in seas that suspend your ghost

how can you hope to

fire rises like any element

burning what sustains it

burning you and your treasured

anxious imaginings

all that you're worth

burning, burning

because isn't this how you want it

how you imagined heartfelt grace

rendering itself somehow

immaculate in sin

ghosts running

gallant flesh trying

wanting what it already is

wanting what it can never

be more than

its own wanting

oh my ones

slurp the hoar

you frosted goats

unemplore the missing

wonder forth

impress the host

with undisclosed

forgiving

range a million

isles of sundered

smoke-lit thunder

cliffs

give forth

endless

ageless

naive

hope

oh my sundered

surrendered ones

my poor angels

digruntled

wondering

what goes

you unbelievable ones

you powerful ones

disbelieving ones

how can I speak to you?

all my wonders 

gasp

before you

dependent

on your strange attention

Strange

a bottle of wine
a sonorous rhyme
an hour of what it can be

Sunchild, mild, soft-trodden girlfriend, wild angel, my animal. You come ready into me, and I withstand all I can. Your power transcends my spectacle. How can I impress your most imaginative heart? All my ageless dreaming ends in emerald shallows before you. How can I implore your passion, I who would sustain you? I am milk under the mountain.

Gentle, I would lay all my ignorance down. Be rid of all embarrassment at once. Fires humiliate me, my skin shrinks. I am post, declaring laundry.

Worm wriggling under this enchantment, smile delivered from unknowing, ghost testing passage, -- you are all my strange inspirers. Lights that shock and show no reason, -- you are my provocation. The question that I feel is the reason for my loving.

But I am struck with grave misgivings.

Some gross consideration thus disturbs my liberal attitude.

Can everyone enjoy this moment, as subtle and as odd? I want to know.

And is it snobbery, if I alone, or of a few, delight in this?

Is it, perhaps, some deliberate pretentiousness?

Or are we of a kind, however misaligned,
do we find a separate joy in equal oddities?

Are we fools to one another,
while masters in our minds?

Do we translate the same dream
into vague, disparate signs?

Within

Before we can discover His name,

He is present deep within us.

As long as we live, the Lord has not ceased to offer

a light into mystery and a hand out of trouble.

It is not God who limits Himself, but we who limit God;

for His will is not to impose, but to wait upon our invitation.

His teachings are as inexhaustible as our patience in attending them.

His generosity supplies no more nor less than we desire to hold.

The more closely we listen, the more compellingly He speaks;

the more deeply we examine, the more astonishing are His signs.

It is not a matter of deciding which signs are worthy to be called divine;

but of allowing the divine to enter, by custom or by stealth, into every sign.

When we are full of God, then every sign, no matter how obscure,

will discover itself effortlessly related back to Him.

Even in a foreign realm, every new spectacle more clearly recalls,

whether by similarity or difference, the spirit of our homeland.

Thus the boundaries of God's kingdom extend as far as our steps,

and as we proceed, so does His sovereignty increase.

For He is in us, as we are in Him.