The True Artist Lives By His Art, or Dies. He Does No Harm to Anyone for not Receiving Him.
The congregation sings,—
Grass in the field,
Lilly in the field—
We sprout up, sing our praise
With all of nature,
Who sings with tiny little spirits,
Innocent little doves.
Sway, sing the praise hymn.—
We are grass.
Here for a short breath of time
We are seeds,
We grow, wither hoar,
Become soot,
And are fed upon by the lilies in the valley.
If I thought it would actually protect victims
I’d be for it.
At first, I saw it, and agreed.
I saw justice executed
By those who used their full rights.
They had de facto used these laws
To make sure justice was executed.
And the defendant was guilty
And the state prosecuted him
To the best degree, and fairest degree of the law.
Then, I considered every petty theft
Every assault charge,
Every crime committed on another.
I, unfortunately, saw this being abused.
To the effect that the courts would no longer
Regard the victims.
Then I considered a victim being read Miranda rights.
How traumatizing it would be
For an officer to read them these rights.
How, as the defendant were being traumatized
By the full weight of the law
The victim would be read a longer list
Of rights, that would pass over their minds…
I can see a cop saying it as part of a recited
Verse. Like the pledge of allegiance.
And the victim sitting there
As just another victim.
Then I considered humans are sympathetic
To the first thing they’ve ever witnessed.
Their first time seeing war.
Their first time seeing a visibly broken victim.
Their first time seeing the victims in the court room.
Frankly… I can see this being abused
And it will be because people are fascinated
By things which they are involved with…
Much like a circus spectacle
They, with morbid curiosity,
Would attend their accused’s trial
Hurl stones, and possibly turn the court room
Into a drama, and a laughing stock.
If there is real hurt,
A victim will—
As I was first hand witness to this—
Pursue their rights to the accused.
Even without these rights
I saw victims put a man in jail
And be active in every part of the trial.
It worked, precisely because the police had never seen it before.
If police, and district attorneys
Are being inundated by messages
Lambasting them and their efforts,
Screaming for the harshest penalties
And then, ultimately, turning the Prosecution’s
sympathies toward the criminal…
I don’t think this is an exercise of justice.
I think, rather, it will have the opposite affect.
I think it will burden the courts with extra phone conversations
It would create entire branches and bureaucracies,
And considering the information and rights are already
Provided.
My little sister, Tori
My family pursued the accused
With the mighty wrath of God.
She had been brain injured.
Had every victim done this
Tori would be in a worse state
Because it would no longer be special.
It would be another angry parent.
Another angry victim.
I say this from witnessing both ends
The spectacle will not help court proceedings.
The rights are already there.
It will, as a matter of fact, hurt the victims.
And that is something I cannot tolerate.
How love burgeons in every wind…
Great are the mysteries
The fantasies,
The wars, the pestilences,
The romances, the great deeds of heroes
Or the great failures of our average men.
Soon, the political ideologue
Puts me at offense
Therefore I must rebut him.
So much of my writing was against one particular ideologue.
The one who says, “You can’t.”
I can’t… because I can’t.
I tremor… a thousand sex fantasies
Become the object d’art
Becomes chefs d’oeuvre,
Become a Magnum Opus.
Where is my greatest work?
I don’t know…
What frightens me
Greatly,
Isn’t simply not being listened to.
It’s being great…
A great man when I never was.
Throw the money to the wind…
I still need this to be my pedigree,
My PhD,
To get the job I want
At the food bank or salvation army.
Great is my degree, my thesis
My studies. My mastery.
All stemming from a girl
In High School and a TV show
With a certain red head.
How many times have I made love to them
In my daydreams.
Those daydreams now in my sleeping dreams
Where I make love every night
And wake up feeling filthy and disgraced.
Wanton glory, only fame
Great is the vice of that idol.
I do not want saved.
I want… for lack of a better term—
Since I am already saved—
I want to cure Hecate’s Luck
In an acquaintance.
That is why I write this poetry My Soul…
Perhaps the demons I have seen exorcised from myself
Perhaps those demons can be exorcised
If my heroes beat them in those complicated verse.
What I write is not a love poem…
Rather, acquaintanceship,
And a sincere respect.
How many gospel messages have I spoken to you?
How many homilies?
Yet, you listen. Thankful I am that you do…
For, I am frustrating I know.
I won’t leave this time…
Why did I get frustrated?
Everyone in my life hated this art…
Told me it was worthless.
Priceless, it was like calling my soul worthless.
My soul, you’d understand.
Better than any,
How the beginning was just a place
To relieve the frustration of never having been in love…
At least for me.
Later, the soliloquies became homilies,
Homilies became prophecies,
Prophecies became urgent diatribes
Against a country that never did me any harm.
Fearful… I have dreams.
Fretful, I scream to my nation not to let those dreams come true.
I walk in the state park.
The embankment is reminiscent of a long fought war
Eons ago. I think my feet had been on the mountain…
Now how do I perform my solemn vows?
I do not know… My soul…
A listener… I make counsel with you
As is said in David’s psalms.
Rather, I don’t write you a love poem;—
How can I love myself?
An extension of who I am
Under the luck of Hecate’s
Spell… the Felix Felicis
Which gives me luck.
Drunken wine, meed,
I know what the drunkenness is.
Never feeling touch…
Being afraid…
Seeing what you want so nigh
Yet it seems impossible to grab.
When it’s successfully grabbed
O my soul,
What would you do with it?
Drink of the luck potion?
The potion that saps all unkind thoughts away?
Rather, I’m drunk on my not being a success.
Not that I don’t want success, O my soul.
To burgeon into greatness
When I am not great…
It is not my song.
Understand I sabotage myself
For good reasons.
What is the man who gained the whole world
But lost his very soul?
O my soul…
I shan’t lose you?
Shall I?
The hopes and dreams?
I preserve my soul, and the hopes and dreams
Rather than the melancholy reality
Of Felix Felicis;
That by luck I falter
Into a great tailspin.
By succeeding,
I lose my very soul.
Modesty… understand
O my soul?
I do not wish to suffocate
But rather let you breath.
What am I with success?
Especially when I am unable to wield it?
Like Prometheus, I grab the lightning
And wield it wrong…
Save me a cup of water
And we’ll drink from the same cup.
For, I do not wish to wield lightning
With luck, and therefore strike
Down the goodness of my soul.
I rather want to wield a leaf
And have it turn, and bring comfort to Zion.
My soul…
The Witchen Queen whom Beowulf beat
Is any foul brew, any enslavement. Say the silent prayer
For every silent hour of doubt.
Soon, you will awaken a little earlier
Because soon the willpower comes.
There it is
Red in the cup.
The proverb says
Do not look at it,
Do not linger long at it.
It goes down smooth.
Hecate puts the blood of deer
Into her pot…
A dash of Kohl,
Leaven and anise.
Is there also the juniper berry?
It’s curse is luck…
The luck of turning what we dread
Into joy.
It’s not hopeless.
This is why I write.
The curse lifts with a desire to end it.
Desire… then comes the waters to drink.
There it is
Red in the cup.
The proverb says
Do not look at it,
Do not linger long at it.
It goes down smooth.
Hecate puts the blood of deer
Into her pot…
A dash of Kohl,
Leaven and anise.
Is there also the juniper berry?
It’s curse is luck…
The luck of turning what we dread
Into joy.
It’s not hopeless.
This is why I write.
The curse lifts with a desire to end it.
Desire… then comes water to drink.
Democrat, Republican;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Crypts, Bloods;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Pepsi, Coke;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Libertarian, Green;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Communist, Capitalist;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
CNNABCMSNBCCBS, Fox;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Ugar, Jones;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
Hacker, Provider;
Harpy, Valkyrie!
The myth of the Harpy and Valkyrie
Is that their feuds,
When they have finally snared enough men in their nets
Convince them to set fire to the earth
For the jealousy of Man’s love.
One has spotted wings
And the other speckled;—
Also, they both hate one another
Because of it.
With his feet on mounds
He walked;—on two sides were walls.—
Walls from a nightmare.
He published peace, so may know;—
Ashur broke Eons ago.
A torrent comes
And goes…
It knocks me out.
Please, understand…
Prufrock
With his brown eyes
I do not wish to be him
Who recites a word like it was
Homer’s; like he were speaking the words of Beowulf’s monk;
Like Milton’s Paradise Lost were his,
Like he authored the Inferno.
The word he said was more like a fart joke
Than high poetry.
If seen,
If viewed…
Please don’t patronize polished turds.
I have a bad tick.
Grace heals it until I doubt.
Grace heals it again.
What if as frequently as you fed others
In Heaven, God would cook for you?
What if, the greatest you gave on earth
God would give to you?
What if every time you accompanied the prisoner
God, in heaven, would enter into your home?
What if, for every person you bestowed kindness
God would show a kindness to you?
What if heaven followed your life’s seasons,
And those seasons you “slipped,”
God would be elsewhere?
What if whenever the homeless found comfort in your house
God would give you room and board in his very mansion?
What if every good deed on earth
In heaven, God did equal the deed for you?
What if heaven has seasons
And for every kindness bestowed
On another human being
God bestowed an even greater kindness.
In our seasons, God gave us according to our seasons?
Like spring, winter and fall,—
Summer seasons,
The wet seasons,
Would be the seasons we gave to the homeless
Fed the widows,
The orphans
And showed kindness?
What if the least we could offer was lip service?
What if the least of kindness
Was “Sharing” the gospel?
What if the greatest was showing the gospel?
What if God didn’t want us to argue about whether He existed
But rather showed He existed
With our goodness here on earth?
What if this is what Christ meant by saying,
“Store up your treasure in heaven.”
What if every shekel you gave to the poor
Were worth a talent of gold in Christ’s kingdom?
What if, being very poor,
That same shekel were worth ten talents of gold?
What if, being the widow
Who put in her mite,
You received a thousand talents of gold,
And two thousand talents of copper?
And with this God would spend to build you a mansion?
What if by giving tents to the homeless
God would provide in your mansion
An entire corridor?
What if by giving a book,
You received a library?
What if by giving time
You received time with the Father himself?
Whose stew is better than even the heavenly food?
What if God’s greater servants
Would be your reward,
For living life with luke-warm kindness?
You would be approached by them
Much like one is approached by a Count
Instead of a Prince
Or a Marquis instead of a King?
What if there are some
Who spent an entire lifetime being good
Believing in Christ’s grace
And Grace Salvation
But did very little?
For those internal acts
God might send a Duke
Or a Viscount
Or a Baron.
But, those acts of kindness
The great feats which we accomplished
To help the poor, the homeless
The downtrodden,
What if Christ the King Himself
In the Flesh God gave Him
Or the very Father Himself
Came to your home
Each season at its season
For eternity, and for that season
He came?
Perhaps, this is a good way of looking at Works.
B. K. Neifert 