For this is the will of God, that by doing good you should put to silence the ignorance of foolish people. Live as people who are free, not using your freedom as a cover-up for evil, but living as servants of God.
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Doubt, And Love, On The Eve Of Resurrection
I woke up gnawing
On a half-gnashed,
Fleeting thought
Possibly re-heated
From doubt-filled
Feasts of dream
And the muscle-clack
Of nerves and swarming
Teeth grind
Snaps my heart awake
To face the platter
Set before me
Heart to sink
At beetle things, and
Pre-chewed half moons
Slewed up from slurry,
The knowledge
Of my own failings.
I am no feast for
The likes of
Kings and Queens
I am a lukewarm pool
Of half-hearted
Fool’s gruel
Some mornings,
I wake with slake and
Pangs of hunger
And on others
I myself am
Half-consumed
Yet she dines on my love,
And with my table set
Knowingly lackluster
Her eyes are the
Tradewinds of bluster
And sweetness
Her beauty paints
The sordid and the chaste
In grace and in steel-blue
And she offers her
Fruit up
To me
So we circle
And we feast-
Our hearts sustained
And we as one
Remind the other
That yes, dear,
Yes
You will always
Be good enough
Hear everything.
Question all things.
Doubt most things.
Believe some things.
Trust one thing.
But I know that any interpretation impoverishes the myth and suffocates it. With myths, one should not be in a hurry. It is better to let them settle into memory, to stop and dwell on every detail, to reflect on them without losing touch with their language of images. The lesson we can learn from a myth lies in the literal narrative, not in what we add to it from the outside.
The Double Minded
Half spoken truths
Are darting through hallways
Peeking from corners,
Reluctantly sloughed
From tongues
We fortress them up
In so many
Bricks and cinders
Yet still they flicker,
Paper-veiled,
Leaving tastes on our lips
Like shame
And time
And watermelon candy
We dilute and forget
Scythe and discern
Chisel away like a sculptor
In marble
Until the truths stand
Made in our image
And Ozymandius
Is reduced
To geometric patterns
Of colored sand
A withered signpost
Calling out nameless
Destinations
To the wilderness
All of them
Swallowed by
Deserts
And dreams
So,
In a sense,
Our half-honest hearts
Are a formless asterisk
Pointing to,
And signifying,
Nothing
Uruk
Every man an Enkidu and Gilgamesh.
Of twain mind, or stormy heart.
Clay, and divine spittle.
Who knows what came before the Flood?
Thin bellows, selfish thunder.
Unrighteous anger.
In each moment, we create our doubles, and let the two contend.
Let them embrace, and take each other by the hand.
Only then will the City know peace.
An idea for a musical masterpiece:
Step 1.) Convince Bob Seger and John Oates from Hall & Oates to form a Sigur Ros cover band.
Step 2.) Name the aforementioned cover band Seger Oates.
Step 3.) Profit.
Seeing someone reading a book you love is seeing a book recommending a person.
Naiad
I have encountered the sea
In your lips-
In the blush-taste and softness
The stars align, to spell
Out playful mysteries
In rivulets and constellations
Warm, and salt-graced,
Swelling with time, rhythm-gasps
As you put your face on mine
Your kiss, an abstract flutter
Of gull-cries, and of regal
Evening crimson
The sky is red
When you tell me you love me-
Our embrace becomes endless
Our arms never ceasing to roll
And crest
And roll
Swallows In Flight
I found a crowd once
It circled itself warily
And gave itself a
Once-over
Each eye darting
And one to another
So many swallows
In wild patterns
Of migration
Moving in all directions
At once
Yet collectively
Retching onward
Each one silent-preening
Sketching out coordinates
On cocktail napkins
Driving forth, warring,
Yet needing to be seen
Like mouthless figurines
In glass cabinets
I found a crowd once
Lilting towards the gaping maw
Tapping litanies on concrete
Confusing faith and demarcations
A golden arrow piercing
My breast
With shoe shuffles
And tragic fractured unity
And I prayed
For God to save me
Because even then
The parts were the same
As the whole
And in my own
Solemn Petri dish
I myself
Was a crowd
Birthed by a traffic jam
Of molecules
Rushing toward perdition