All the magic gone,
All I can see, clearly now,—
All was a daydream.
I still believe in Jesus.
He’s the only miracle.
All the magic gone,
All I can see, clearly now,—
All was a daydream.
I still believe in Jesus.
He’s the only miracle.
The year 2060
Men plow their entire yards
Or cobble shoes;—
They plane houses
They build furniture in their wood shop.
They go to the markets.
They cook, they clean.
In the year 2060
Women sit at the computer screen
Do woman’s work by earning the household income.
The money she earns,
Gets given to the man.
The man pays the bills.
The woman sews the garments.
In the year 2060
Both parents teach their kids
The course material comes from online schools
And the mother—when not doing her online work—
Sits and schools the children on Columbus and Calculus;
The pixeled hologram of the teacher stands in the room to lecture.
The children spend most of their days with their families.
In the year 2060
Children play tag,
They don’t get homework
But they do love to learn because learning is about
Nurturing creativity and problem solving skills.
They meet with their local friends
And play with sticks instead of video games.
In the year 2060
If we’re still around
This seems like a nice way
To spend time and live life.
Life with family
Who raises you
Instead of peers and strangers.
Two cheeseburgers
From a high end restaurant
Costs, for the whole meal
About 12 dollars per person.
Two double cheeseburgers from Wendy’s
Costs about 10 dollars per person.
I did the math. My roast dinner…
With premium, 4lbs of Roast Chuck
Four premium potatoes
2lbs of the best carrots on the market
A gallon of Rice Milk—
I’m not making a political statement here—
A quart of Beef Stock—best on the market—
A can of sweet peas—
A whole container of Parmesan cheese—all of it won’t even be used—
Comes down to about 34 dollars
Divided into four people’s hungry bellies…
That’s $8.50
Per meal.
And I guarantee you,
It will be better than anything I could buy at Applebees.
God took me up.
And, I didn’t make it.
In my heart… I knew why.
There was a little ember of resentment
Against God.
It’s there.
Yet… where is my hope
Except in Jesus?
The pages of my life flew by
And most of it was miserable.
The ardent belief in strange things…
All I should know is Christ Jesus.
That’s what the dream meant.
Falsehoods, about things I don’t understand.
When heaven seemed like it was a computer screen
I knew I was in trouble.
I knew I was rather in that other place.
It was the dream I needed.
The wake up call.
How many things I believe that are false.
I will, for now, and always
Meditate on Paul’s wisdom.
All I can know is Christ Jesus.
I was raptured last night.
I flung up
With my laser gun.
I knew about the war.
I fought in the war.
I flung into the sky
With all bright, great zeal.
There, the winged Father of Lights
Stood.
My report card…
It was marked with red
Very little green.
Full of falsehoods,
Heresies, delinquencies,
As every season of my life
Flashed like a page of a report card.
It soon became apparent…
I hadn’t reached heaven.
Because that gun was in my hand.
It was the storm-trooper gun from my childhood.
I was ready to play real war.
Christians, turn the other cheek.
Jesus’ parables.
Our notion of right and wrong
Stem from Him, and Him alone.
In the West, we, even believing we do not,
Follow His command.
Even in rebellion, our rebellion
Is because of something He said.
Our hatred of Gays our hatred of “Cisgenders”
It comes from Christ’s teachings Who said
“Be Kind.”
Everyone has taken a foothold on that
Christian and Atheist alike.
Only Christians seem to satisfy it
And behave the way Christ taught…
Much to the Atheist’s despair.
Goethe, of course.
All of our conspiracy theories,
All of our fascination with the Occult…
Hawthorn, Twain and Freemasonry
The idea of selling a soul
To obtain the prize in life.
How we all think about it,
Ruminate on it,
Believe it to be the case
That Satan does, in fact
Steal souls, and that there is no way around it.
All of our celebrities are either gods
Or they are abominations.
They are either objects of ridicule
Baals to be thrown down.
Or they are the very idol we follow…
With regard, the religion of the West
Is to sell out, or sell to naught.
Of course, Milton’s Paradise Lost
Permeates our culture.
The most British thing
Is how we all secretly
Empathize with Satan—
Not me, I use the Royal We,—
Though I am not Royal
I do have to live with everyone else’s mistakes—
How we cannot at all understand
But rather are bemused by wisdom
And will even sympathize with the devil.
Completely missing the crux of the great work
That Satan was a murderer
Whose sole mission is to destroy us
And convince us with wisdom it is moral to do.
But, still, Westerners never read Paradise Lost;
We’re still convinced we can make an argument
To prove God exists… therefore we forget
That God is good, and that’s why we worship Him.
Satan, through persuasion, has made the most foul crimes acceptable.
So when Americans do read Milton, they get persuaded by Beelzebub.
I do know he made most convincing argument.
A fifth is Thus Spake Zarathustra.
We are all preoccupied with power.
With fortune. With our will’s strength
Over all of the opponents’—
Those opponents the very people we know.
Over the psychopathic tendency
To not give a care about
Others, but rather our lives were solely
About exploiting those weaker than us.
Then… on the flip…
I’ve heard Nietzsche called the Philosopher of Joy.
What joy is there in declaring God is dead
When He merely died?
Precisely, the American wants their life here…
In the process they lose it.
They forget Christ made us hope in the afterlife
So our lives here would be filled with less suffering.
As all the atheist did was bash kindhearted theologians
While trying to repress the urge of the conscience.
Afterward it is Grimm Fairy Tales.
Disney… of course. But need I go to the whole principle
Of Grimm Fairy Tales
Which is the power of the will
And the power of choice.
How our entire society is obsessed with choices
And volition…
Much like the Grimms were when writing the tales.
For we are a culture obsessed with choice
With conquering evils with vengeance and force.
Wanting to overthrow and destroy
All evil in the world,
To bring swift rebuke to the criminal
And to live autonomous through the will.
But we forget that the path is chosen
By character—so, we conversely
Pretend like we never believed in Fairy Tales
Because most of us find we are the actual villains in the stories.
And as a sixth,
I have to confess,
Is Harry Potter.
Just the casuistry
Of the populace to believe
Rowling didn’t want her books interpreted.
She didn’t want them taught in schools…
Therefore, Voldemort is not Hitler
Because to our minds Voldemort doesn’t need to be understood.
The defiance of a meaning,
The Postmodern frack fest
That is Harry Potter,
Where the Audience got to make up the story
While Rowling wrote it.
Neither nor really understanding
One another…
For Harry Potter itself is not influential.
Just the casuistry it created.
And it wasn’t the author’s fault.
It was the populace not understanding what they read.
Rather, they defied Rowling to make a point.
But one snuck in there, nonetheless.
Here’s why we need books.
This is culture now, with video games instead of books.
This is me.
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.