Wolf

The Wolf pads lightly,
Through the brush,
The rush of wind bristles fur,
Wish it were a normal Wolf,
But it's not.
It's huge and monstrous and vague,
Blurry edges, bloody smiles,
Miles away in a tiny bed,
I lie,
Shudders fill my little head,
I die,
A thousand murderous, gnawing deaths,
I cry,
Padding feet and dripping smiles,
Worm their wiles into my mind,
I hear it coming, bushes rustle,
A distant flute plays,
Peter speaks,
The cock crows thrice,
Darkness swims,
The windows rattle,
I cower,
The Wolf Howls.

You should BOOGIE

Everyone needs a good BOOGIE. The music taking hold of your muscles and making them twitch. You shake it, it feels good, you shake it some more. Lots of head-wobbling and booty-gyrations make for the intense, cosmic, entry into the reality of the universe and the divine YES to all of life that is BOOGIE.

And laughter is missing from dance. Everyone's too cool for their own good. We need to dance, to laugh, to spin and to live. The music should be groovy and fun, with a compulsive, groove-inducing beat. Then just let it rip, wherever you are. BOOGIE down.

And by the way, does no one appreciate camp any more? That self-deprecating silliness that 60's punk and old blacksploitation flicks perfected? Laugh at yourself, stop your constant posing and be naked before God and everyone. Enjoy being yourself, and let people see it!BOOGIE!!

Bitter

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Rip me to pieces and sell the chunks
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Mysterium Tremendum II

Today I found a strange and beautiful vase. It was made of a scintillating crystal, with a pearly shimmer. I coveted it. It shattered. Now there are meaningful little shards everywhere, and I don't know how to put them back together. But as I sift through them, I see a pattern. I didn't break the vase. It's been broken for a long, long time.

Burn

Acrid smoke,
Burn baby.
Soul alight,
Burn baby.
Fingernails broken,
Burn baby.
Cement smile,
Burn baby.
Street life,
Burn baby.
Soul afire,
Burn baby.
Come inside,
Burn baby.
Butane dreams,
Burn baby.
The pipe's the thing,
Burn baby.
Losing weight,
Burn baby.
Soul a'smolder,
Burn baby.
Ashen face,
Burn baby.
Lies to sell,
Burn baby.
Out of gas,
Burn baby.
Soul is out,
Burn baby, burn.

For My Wife

Timeless,
Our souls are beyond this structured clock,
Work of light is bound within,
Without the soul we shatter glass,
Ash and destruction are our lot.

Ageless,
Our selves are myriad in wonder,
Lands of reality span before,
After the rain the mists arise,
Lies and illusion cloud our connection.

Eternal,
Our pain is just an unscratched itch,
Which is truth, the seer or the seen?
Lean on me and I will alight,
Upon the windows of the night,
Might is knowledge, heart and love.

Above,
The eternal muse sings,
Brings me to my secret place,
The pace is too much for my mind,
But I am kind, and will return,
Eternal fires burn, and burn, and burn.

Within,
My self of selves, of selves,
The shelves hold books that lie unread,
Dead without the human soul,
And in the winter of the cage,
I age as shadow time goes by.

Always,
I am victorious over myself,
I am strong despite the time,
I am true beyond all measure,
I am whole, a splendid treasure,
And I will wait for you, sublime,
And make you soar on wings of mine.

A Moment,
Springs upon our eyes,
And dies before it can be touched,
There is so much to say and do,
My wish is full with the scent of you,
I will joy in moments passed,
Whispers shared and mem’ries vast,
I will strive to be,
And in the striving, set free,
The soul that loves you on and on,
And will hold that moment gone.

Forever.

The Radiance of Being

I am, I am,
Fire, whispers,
I am haunted,
Vaunted layers of soulless grinding,
Minding manners in a cage,
I Rage, I Chafe, I Struggle on,
Alone! Alone!
Inside my mind,
I am blind and I am soft,
Aloft on wings of pure retreat,
Elite in thought but low in deed,
I need, and cannot deny it,
I bleed, and will not belie it,
I feed, and gain not by it,
For all the toil my soul endures,
I ache for the soil my eye demures,
The dirt of work and created things,
Where wings are beaten, grass is trod,
God, his essence pooled throughout,
Seeks to recompense the doubt,
And in the silence of the dawn,
Sings a song of hope reborn,
And we reply with our own,
Known, yet frightened,
We are haunted,
Fire, whispers,
We are, We are.

Mysterium Tremendum

This morning I found a strange and beautiful flower. It was a dark, rich purple, fading to white in the center. The petals were severe and jagged, but symmetrical. It had a savage beauty that I could not resist. When I plucked it, it sighed like a dying man.

Incarnation Theology

I worry about the nature of the Christ. I have begun a fairly in-depth study of the Bible, tracing important themes throughout the "Old Testament" and into the life of Jesus of Nazareth, now considered by Christians to be both the predicted Messiah, the Christ, and also Divine (not necessarily one and the same thing, by the way). I haven't gotten far enough in my studies to come to any firm conclusions (as if there were any such thing in Theology), but I'm beginning to think the truth of Christ might be something terrible. I don't mean terrible in its current usage, but in the older "terror-inspiring" usage. It might be that Jesus was really the Christ, the incarnate and divine Creator of the Universe. It might be that God took on human form as the only way for an infinite being to communicate mutually with the finite. If that's the case, how did we fare? Did we understand God's intended message? Did we get it? And really, if humanity generally understood it, why do things still suck so badly? And if the message is popular Christianity, why are so few Christians I've met truly admirable?

Poetic Malfeasance

Riddles of a dying Muse,
Eternal on the moor,
A candle touches waiting fuse,
As onward soldiers pour,
Into the breach! of agony,
And suffering delight,
With uttered prayers on bended knee,
The Men renew the fight!
The killing rages on and on,
Beneath the weeping sky,
And falling thickly blood upon,
The victims howling "why"?

The First Wave

Here I am. I reveal myself here, torn and bloody. This is my soul, painted with electrons. I have voices, I speak multitudes, I scream like a razor-train chugging through your skull. I bleed, here, for all to see. I am a Vaudeville Barker, barking at a non-existent crowd: "Step right up! Step right up! See the amazing Waste of Humanity! He has powers beyond mortal man, but cannot bear to let anyone see them! See him cower, stricken in a dingy corner! Step right up!"

And that's me too. I'm the coward AND the freak. I am so many things that I can't even remember them all. Some of the things I am aren't even real; I just don't know which ones.

I don't have any place for comments. I don't really give a damn what you have to say. Not here, anyway. If you want to have Your Say, create your own Blog. Why should I make it any easier for you than it was for me?