the tense hypocrite;
king fool.
solipsistic proselytizer:
border ******,
big definer.
i do not endure.

i bow to hollow birth,
crying out
**** me! **** me! i deny being.
God, do you hear me?
why have you given creation away?
i want life, but not consciousness;
my psalm, i want nothing, but to be.

youth, the persuader
using flesh.

torrid light-sparks
burn the floated eye,
the temptation glowing outer.
it is service glowing to those who
have the eye to see.

this is it: explore like a child,
surrender into humility
your grand, effusive self-sermon.
the story is written on empty paper
and you are not the hand.

be what you are, love yourself as led.

always the dancer, we seek
among the turtle-reeds
for the one and true immutable path.
here is peace in the copper;
a cursive emanation of calming action,
of a love like serving tea
or making bread; a love that gives itself away.

remember yourself not as judge, but as an awe-struck lover of now
curious for the magic of all the movement, patient
and kind, freely giving what you get.

the everywhere bounce
against the fringe membrane is the devil
asking you if you desire to keep yourself.

to accept our end as a rescue
is to break upon the skull a diamond
of GOD
and transport the soul
to the triune godhead.
death is every moment:
finding YHWH
is fresh birth.

i drink my coffee w/cocoa and turmeric
and drive a big car to church service.
passing the drug mart
i see a homeless man
and do nothing.

the lazy king
loses his kingdom
as the chaotic usurper
alerts naked to shame
with the unsaid word,
“i will tell you light from dark.”

the infinite become(s) mortal.

over and again order is flooded
with death b/c pride won’t sleep.
wrath crouches
and awaits the touch of minor suffering,
it is a signal of offense
and offense calls for retribution,
now you ****.

you say you’ve done no wrong.
you express honesty
and fairness.
you have your own scales
and the eyes to match.

abate yourself,
your cup runneth over.
it poisons the dirt.

—

the infinite became mortal
to make the mortal infinite.

the cosmic mountain is on arrival;
in Eden, we forgive.

steamed broccoli
leaks toward heaven
in a mouth
of scant highway excursions

horrid, hard boiled mantle bangers
invoke across the insta-wave
loud, loud
lathe induced labor pangs

big and falling
and told no often,
"i am not here, i shut my eyes.
i am now here, i come to listen."

the heathen code  
sold to be used on gourmet motherboards
is soul to spirit in man as animal on earth
making slowly its way through the rush