Free-Radicals

Once he slunk behind the stars
the gases swirling yet sustained
by his breath.
Also, molecules. Densely packed,
an impermeable membrane--
he slipped between the atoms.
He made cosmos his playground
riding on the tails of comets,
skating the rings of saturn,
filling minute space of near-infinite space
with the odor of himself.
(And still the perfume lingers
if only we venture toward Neptune and beyond).
But there was no life there.
But there was life on earth--
quickly waning.
And so he ran (he did not walk)
he ran, weaving between the planets
bounding moon to moon
until our rich atmosphere
transformed him to a child.
A real Son.

A weight of government on such tiny shoulders?
No.
He waited.

He touched our death and became one with it.
And then told it who he was.
It shirked and ran,
never to return.
Of the increase of his government and peace
There will be no end,
Upon the throne of David
and over his kingdom.
And yet his former self,
the one that played amongst the nebulae
was not burned up by our air,
was not consumed by our death.
The swirling gasses did not cease their centrifuge,
did not splinter.
And the fabric of the universe did not tear.
Something kept his tiny mind,
his growing mind,
his dying mind,
his life-again mind,
upon the infinite reaches.

And he still held it together.

And yet our fabric here is tearing.
Death, who ran, has lost its fear
and gives us thirst and war.
Sometimes there are free-radical cells
that multiply their poison
and destroy what He came to sustain.
We are free-radicals,
multiplying ourselves
multiplying our destruction.
Often our homes are not enough.
We cannot just destroy those so near.
We steal flying machines and crash them into towers.
We lie about weapons and kill desert children.
We scoff at compassion and leave a continent to die.
We consume and consume and consume and consume
never pausing to question what we are consuming.
And just yesterday, I swear,
it hasn't been twenty-four hours
I let hate consume me
I let lust take its course,
I saw truth and submitted my substitute.
I am a free-radical.

But still it seems he's playing in the stardust.
Go on and say it. You feel it.
He's playing in the stardust, isn't he?
He's ignoring what we have done to ourselves?

Or is he screaming?
Have we somehow terrified the God of all creation?
How horrific is our sin?
I never mourn over it.
I just have guilt-pangs,
and continue the consumption.
But he is screaming. He is yelling.
Yes, he's in the stardust
but still he is here now
bursting and swirling between my atoms
frustrating my own choices by
nearly forcing my hand toward the good
and yet somehow I still resist it.

That government. The one he waited for.
The one that came only when death
had thought it had won.
Isn't it here now?
Building itself?
Multiplying itself?
It is.
But we are multiplying ourselves
at an alarming rate.

As for me I want a son
Playing in the stardust,
in a universe free from my poison.

when it's war
the scripture's only use
is rolling cigarettes
And the Kingdom is some dream
rolling in your mind
like machine gun fire.
Render unto Caesar
what is his due,
Your neighbor's blood
your soul and conscience,
ideology.

Cowboy up, son.
suck it up kid.

City of Progress

I.

Great city ravaged by choice
And hardened by election.
There once were high buildings.
The children played upon your stoops,
And in the evening:
A twilight call.
And hop-scotch ceased
and the pavement was littered
with jump rope.

And as the sun,
Glinting through the troughs and peaks
Of banks and apartments
And smoke stacks,
Fell to its rest beneath
Distant dales,
There was, perhaps, a prayer
Over spaghetti or
Potatoes.

II.

Great city fueled by progress,
Each breath a tower babel.
The high buildings overturned,
The children all chalk,
Ground to powder
In wheels of progress.
And a harsh wind howls
Past a bereaved mother.

And the Spirit of God moved
Upon the chaos as before,
Judgment executed by his creation.
And you, O City, stood on you back
in obstinacy
And refusal of your redemption.
And the Spirit found a spirit seed
with which to propagate himself.

visit this website and read about this unfortuante situation. I'm not sure why I was so moved by it.

http://www.friendsofericvolz.com/

Perhaps you could write your congresspersons.

Ty

More than mortal chrysalis
A shell to shed at trumpet blast
Thy incarnation hast placed emphasis
Upon its worth, and one day at last
My soul that seems to brim in fullness,
From Thy Spirit's dwelling there,
Shall receive, free from its dullness,
A transformed body with which to share
An eternity upon an earth
Recreated from such scandal--
Physical picture of spiritual birth.
At last this flesh shall we not mishandle.
-----And with mine body thou hast deigned pure
-----I'll touch Thy flesh love did procure.

In quaking wonder of starry sky
That yonder stellar scene I view!
Hast thou deigned this profane eye
Thy wondrous creation works pursue?
Shall my tainted senses sense
The gleaming gas from fingers spun
To make my body shake and wince?
O distant beauty! Distant suns!
My body is now tremulous!
The fear of God at last I know!
Divinity of righteousness!
Where from your spirit may I go?

-----No less Thy presence here than there
-----Indeed, thine image man dost bare!

I was just thinking:
"Writing equals discipline."
What's on the TV?
*
Haikus would be fun
Or at least (I think) more fun
Were they limericks.
*
I think we should just
talk to eachother in haikus
So, what do you say?
*
ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha

Down on silver moon beam
with a message on abundance
how her shimmer-streaks are lingering
behind each stranded cell
and I'm making choices
corroborating with each block
that's building up eternity
and shudders off the temporal
We're taking hands and she,
the spreading beams from fingers,
is illuminating each vertebrate
that shares the world's backbone
infected though with scoliosis
the twist-turn consequence of choice
still within the festered marrow
is new life awaiting brimming
and so this lady who has come
to show us her own ways,
(but ways our own, till now unknown)
is firing up this world with light.
And we the image-beareers, the
scandal of the cross now scarred
shake off the vestige of this world
and disease that twisted its true form.
The lady Love is beckoning
and each of us with joy
Lift up fabric universal
and show a healed and straightened spine.

I heard a snicker when I spoke of beauty
and the binding thread did tighten,
That joining strand
connecting the prophets
Bespoke your pity, understanding.

(And did you feel it?
The pull of tether?
When I was in the inclement weather,
the breeze cool and winding,
I a witness to wild surf?)

And were the thousand miles worn
between us gathered then stretched tight
when once I spoke
of beauty and heard the
quiet, breath-covered mock?

And when the sun
broke free of iron
--that water suspended, yet a heavy weight--
and shattered all the weather
all at once to tighten tether,

then at once did you sense
that great, green grid-work,
did fabric lift?

And did Isaiah and Ezekiel
feel the common pull like we?
(Wheels in wheels and
dragon heads,
living bones from
dry ones dead!)

I must lie down now on my bed
And pray these visions for your pen.

I hope you don't just breeze over this one. I pray that you seriously consider each one of these reccomendations. I have read all of these over the course of the last month or two, and they have made those months overwhelmingly FULL.







Crime and Punishment~ Fyodor Dostoevsky
it has renewed for me the possibility of a genuinely happy ending, both in life and literature.








Ten Things I Wish Jesus Never Said~ Victor Kulligan
you will hate this book, in the most wonderful life-changing ways.






The Wasteland and other Poems~ TS Eliot
There are few books I have read so many times. You will not understand on the first go through, but slowly his words will assimilate into your very being. Each reading brings you closer to the divine, gives you faith in the goodness that follows from genuine, unmitigated pensiveness.






Young Goodman Brown and other Short Stories~ Nathaniel Hawthorne
Absolutely delightful. The dover thrift edition is two dollars. It is just over one hundred pages, and each is adorned with utter beauty. Hawthorne reclaims for me the hope that art is a worthwhile endeavor, and that the artist exists in a state incomprehensible to those blessed with such a life.







Franny and Zooey~ JD Salinger
no words. no words. no words. please, please. read this. please. no words.







Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters! and Seymour: an Introduction
In Seymour i see every member of the bagshot row. Fellas. Please. read, as my love letter to you all.







The Complete Stories~Flannery O'Connor
yes.




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We Have Always Lived In The Castle~ Shirley Jackson
No. She didn't stop with the disturbing and beautiful "The Lottery." She gave us this beautiful depiction of the horror of humanity, and a secret purity even in the most depraved.