The Wildberries in Heaven

Through the meadow pass, the heavenly host walk 
Through the golddust ways.
Gleefully, they pluck the wildberries
Searching for the flowers in the tall grains
By the park paths.
They pluck them from the stem
And eat, a living fruit which bears to eternity
The little berry they found, in the flower
In the field like a Chicory, Violet or Daisy;
Its fruit matured, one of the twelve kinds,
And the children meander through the meadow grains
And eat the fruit, by the tall trees
In their perfect shapes.
Many children are made, and they have more room to roam,
"Increase our borders" they will say,
And they shall expand out into heavenly cities
Unoccupied, millennia, eons, down the way
And there, shall move through the opalescent cities;
New colors, as pleasing to the eyes as Green and Blue and Brown
Shall dazzle us, in spectacles of new sight and taste.
The geese and their ganders shall swim in the frothy waters
Of the lakes and cataracts, and fly hither and thither
To come to you, and they shall be milked.
Or the crocodile, too, shall wander to you like a wiggly pup
And shall roll over, and be milked.
And yet, the trees shall wave and clap their hands
And play with you, on the tire swings or the jump ropes
And the gemstones shall litter the walkways.
It shall be beautiful. More beautiful than all of this.

The world revolves around the Rotary Clubs
And Masonic Lodges, the Boy Scouts,
The Basketball Teams, the Fire Fighters
The Church Groups and the Engineers and Lawyers.
An INFP is not one of them.
We are dreamers, and as I looked
Over notes on a poem by Wordsworth
I realized our place is to shape the hopes
Of a generation. We are the artists
And hope is our work, to build
Brighter futures for all to envision with us.
Unfortunately, we are also corrupted
By these very same, and shamed into
Making vulgarities and filth.
I don't know why. 

I search wide, and free, there is no bishop
For 300 miles who can teach me.
They all have women preachers,
Vain laws, Sabbath breaking,
Licentious doctrines, and arrogance
And puffed up near sightedness.
Thus, Christ Himself need be my Bishop.
And Christ my cup, and Christ the flesh of my Eucharist.

Work hard.
Exercise a little.
Love your spouse and neighbor.
Never forget to Forgive.
Eat healthily, and also a little sweet and fat.
Sleep enough that you aren't tired, and rest when you need it.
Serve others with a heart of gold.

Partly cloudy, with thunder clouds,
Grey, and a hazy overcast,
The moist yet cool summer air
Wafts a smell like dirt and tree pheromones.
A spooky ambiance fills the path
And a hazy color, as heavy footsteps
Trod around me. I tread lightly,
Wondering if it is a squirrel or a walnut,
When a Mule Doe wanders onto the path.
It stares at me, and I speak to it,
And it runs away a bit, but follows
Beside me through the trail.
I hear its herd all around me,
As the animals make noises
And the birds, strange noises.

Psychic tension, of postmodern thoughts
Self accusations, grand superficial narratives...
Like Ezra Pound I see my reflection
And put into the narrative my own story.
I see poetry is destroyed, and literature too;
The feminist breakdances at the Olympics
And finally the world sees what I have been saying
If only for a brief moment, and then it goes
Back to its squalor. "Vogue, Vogue, Vogue,
"The markets are God, nonsense is the only sense;
"We must be like Picasso and see everything in all dimensions."
Yet, his most beautiful portrait is simply his lover
In elegant lines.

Do know, I had not cooked a thing
Athena destroyed the world
And allowed me to be plagiarized.
You wanted to save America
By causing the letter to be delayed
But instead it destroyed it.
Good job... your ignorance failed you
Of seeing the times, and half times, and a time;
Accusing me of your own dirty work.
Not very wise, my friend.
Because of your plot and scheme, they won.

If I could say one
Word to both groups it would be
This: You both are in
The same boat. Nobody wants 
You in their land, so they dumped 

You there. It won't make world peace, but's true.

Drinking my Joe in my left hand
I read a man's poem, that I can understand.
So different it is from all the others
It is a happy poem, and deep as ether.
It is like I could have wrote it
But it isn't quite so,
Just a new generation of poets
That I have sown.
No more squalid themes of piss and shit
But of beauty, and love, and the sweet apple pit.
A little bitter, a little poison
Brought to the remedy of joy's enjoyment.
I drink, and I now understand
A new generation of poets to defeat the old ones
That I can't stand.