The net is set before, And the Fowler garners his devices. Oh! Steel trap! It is sprung and wound taught. He seethes with venom And with his black veil He shows himself as violet light! He dawns the clergy's robe And stands above Beyond, with his fowler's instrument set. The congregation dances in their red hooves And cloven feet, As the witches draw their enneagrams. They do their dances Ecstatic with the tongues of asps. They bow, they raise They dance to the light of their own fires And they say, "I see." The Black Priest Raises, in the robes of Baptist's flannel They shout their glorious shouts In ecstasies, They gorge and smoke their peace pipes Outside of their Holy Cloisters. They speak of life now, And they speak of prosperity To call forth holy visions to bring them their good Fortune, and their just deserts. He draws his cup, with the pentagon Pits at the back of his church Where he sacrifices the goats. He destroys the content man's life With his counsel he gives to the man's wife Impregnating her with her desire for life. He implants this same desire in his whole flock As the fanatics bear their arms And draw forth their swords Ready to wage the Holy War of Armageddon. He calls forth his armies from the woods Whom he has also impregnated with the desire to live. He speaks of gaining beauty in the wife And of physique and flesh. He sways in his black robes And hood dawned which prevents his face from being seen. He is the Judas Priest Presiding over the Black Sabbaths. He is our modern Preacher Preaching the good work of self content And prosperity, likening this fallen world To the land of milk and honey. He says, "Heaven is a place on earth," And he tells his troop to take it To slurp down the victuals and to feast upon The sea's fats. Prosperity, beauty, contentment, These are his sermons To a lost generation. Saying to them, "Receive your bounty "For you shall provide for yourself! "The poor are a scourge upon the earth "And the rich are the inheritors of the land. "The meek are all sinners "And those who mourn are chief among the blasphemers. "Those who are poor in spirit, they are the filth that we despise "And those who are peace makers, they we hate because we love war." The congregation spins in their pews, And dance to the beats They sing their magical chaunts, They shout their "Hallelujah" To the Jesus of Suburbia. And though they sprout wings The net flung into the air. And only the righteous escaped.
Mr. Emerson, may I just attain What you said about circles. It makes me first get offended. As is true with all wisdom All truth, we resist it at first. We do not like things to be So simple, nor do we appreciate Patterns we ourselves have not attained. Yet, looking at the mountains The trees, my palm, my fingers My gloves, the rocks, My calves, the cow's horns The lizard's ovular body The worms, the fly's which are Shaped like eggs, The grasshoppers which are shaped Like fingers, the bird's Which are shaped almost ovular The frogs, which when scrunched Are like a little oval The bushes which are ovular too... And cats and dogs and horses when they lie down. I do say I see the pattern as well. And I do believe I have a theory on why. Pi---being infinite, as is the infinite measurement of the curve--- Must inherently be the natural order of geometry. So everything, running off, and smoothing over by rain And evolving over time, Naturally must produce a circle. As, Pi is the natural shape, the natural Number of nature, by which all other things are dictated. Surely, it has its subtle imperfections Making each specimen different, But given the natural shape of all things Are likened to a circle--- And what is straight Often we can assume was man made, How men create things in squares And nature its circles--- I do say it's an offensive little thought. That I hadn't attained it first--- Maybe I equal you in genius For giving an explanation as to why--- Is it the infinite reality of Pi Which causes this? That number naturally representing The geometry of a curve Therefore, randomness must Inherently, be shaped into curves. For, the patterns in nature show That all things, built by God, Are as a curve. Men build in squares And God builds with circles. Because men must shape our environment To order, and God must shape His environment To the natural world toward that infinite Shape, that infinite number Pi. And Mr. Emerson I do not plagiarize you Rather, as you said about great poets Writing in an age where there are few, We take all things and make them our own. But, my solemn task is finding in the past Things which ought to be remembered by all For a better future. Another peculiar thought. It seems that man is the only creation Of God's which is like a rectangle. For, the Golden ratio By which men create and shape their world, Is dictated by the rectangular shape of our body. No other creature is dictated by its rectangular Form. None which I know. For, they are either cones, spheroids Or outright shaped like circles. The Human body, when standing upright Exhibits the Golden Ratio;--- That being Five to two. So do trees, so do bushes, But only human bodies seem to be nature's rectangle Which may be why we prefer them in our creations. But this strange ratio has been told to me By a much beloved professor When describing the Acropolis Which is fitted to our human shape;--- Which does appears in nature;--- Perhaps it is nature's rectangle Which we men are formed closer to---- Yes, it is most defined in our human form. For, perhaps these two measurements The measurement of Pi And the measurement of Phi, Perhaps these numbers are scientific Facts, oblong and shaping the world Through their infinite order. Perhaps Pi is nature's curve And Phi is nature's rectangle Both working together In their infinite measurements As if planed and scaled by God Like the Bible said, "Wisdom was with God when he Planed the Scale of the Earth". For, by observing this order, I am confident that God exists. For, these measurements create Upon the earth, and define all Aesthetic Beauty. That, and of course, Fibonacci's sequence; Which repeats itself through all natural shapes. For some reason, these numbers lay down the law Of how our natural world gets shaped by the Eons of textures and winds, and rains. And, certainly, to have such geometric certainty As this---for randomness cannot truly occur in nature According to these principles--- It must be that an architect, by design Created our world. And as certain as these mathematical principles are Which are observed in everything from trees To mountains, to rock formations And even the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, So are the moral principles laid down by Christ As certain. Which, Mr. Emerson, Is my scientific foundation for believing in Him.
The Kingdom of Heaven wages Its war against the Kingdom of Shadows. A sore battle all must Set out to glory's field. Rages That war for all human ages Where the soul must bastion its love And forfeit all of worldlust. It must purge all of its hatred. In my poesy all of my good Wages war with all of my bad. And only by respite in Christ Do we receive our daily food To purge our soul of all its slag. My poetry is this good fight.
The idiot said on national TV Disparaging religion once again, "It is religion that separates us "And maligns the human spirit! "If we just got rid of it, people would have peace." His raging lunatics cry for a third of the earth to be lobotomized. Oh, yes, I read how Prods and Papes Hate each other in Ireland. Eerily, I see a different truth. How Blue and Red hate each other In America, And Democrat and Republican Hate each other. No... there is bitterness enough To be expelled from a man's house Should you consent to the wrong flash of insignia. Or, shall I talk to these idiots About race? How mobs burn down Manhattan Because of skin color And stores are looted because of class struggles? Really, maybe we ought to be adealistic. Then, perhaps we'd have peace But the idiots I referred to Have managed to give Hitlerian mindset To atheists, who assume themselves good atheists Only, throw the unruly Jews--I mean Christians--- Into the Gas Chambers,. Should I ever talk to that idiot I don't think I could speak. He's an excellent rhetorician Who turns a news article about how Hitler was not a Catholic And sources it in a debate To prove that Hitler was. Frankly, I'm about tired of it But in that little microcosm I cannot understand--- Why do Catholics and Protestants hate each other? I liken it to something that isn't religion--- It's just hate, and hate comes in many colors.
One day, alighted upon my fortune There came a weary traveler. She had found a wellspring of tales As seemingly old as time, Yet discovered they were new. "What have I found?" She wondered, as tales abounded Among the language of the Saxon. What were these? Rife with mystical creatures, Yet such was the fortune found That it suddenly appeared To this modern writer's Ancient poesy, That it was discovered And thus enjoyed For as long as time was kept.
One can measure the Sermon on the mount, and like Calculus, measure That Golden Ratio to Calculate and find Jesus.
An Ode on Faith What keeps a man, when Abraham is preached, From imitating him,---in murdering His son?---to, another's life, be the thief? Much the same that allows one, whose reading Of a poet, understand the clever Metaphors, and gives one's knowledge a truth. 'tis what allows a man knowledge; whispers In his ears the meaning of sweetest fruit. There is the literal, which, willing kills, Without concept lays actions bare and bald. The literal reading atheists fill Christian minds, searching deeply for a fault. Yet, we somehow know what a passage means, For that is why faith remains; 'tis unseen. Should man without this ability be, Such man, hell's stone be his foreboding vault.
I stood, with the heavens on my shoulder. If I could get a man to look up The earth should be saved. However, I had committed offenses Against man, and as the preacher Does, I held above me the pillars of the earth. The mountainous daggers above me The sinner's abyss below me. I, I stood with the heavens upon my shoulder. "Look up! Look up! There is a God, "There are His angels, and His Cherubim "And his Seraphim, and His Archangels, "And Messengers, and His Nethanim, "And Cherubs, and those sleeping in the grave. "There is a world beyond our own. "If you'd just look up, "And unburden the heavens from my shoulder "And hold them with me "The earth might be saved." The men stood, saying, "There are no heavens. "There is only the earth. "The stars are falling, "But we do not perceive them. "The heavens are shaking, "But we do not want them to be. "Terrible misfortune has come upon us all "Yet we, we wish to live like we always had. "Believing in great mysteries about ourselves. "For we are too preoccupied with the things of this world "To even look up, and see the stars have fallen. "To even look out, and see the seas are raging "Over their perpetual bounds." I looked upon them. "Men, men, countrymen, "Do you not see that I alone bear the pillars of the Earth? "Do you not see that I alone bear the heavens on my shoulder? "You have taken the Gorgon's head "And have petrified me. "For I can but stand, and ache, and stiffen my nape "Against an unwise generation as yourselves. "You do not see the disasters among you, "You deny the glorious reward on high? "What, what do you seek? "If I alone bear the heavens on my shoulder, "And you do not look up, "It will come crashing down on all flesh, "And I will but be a grain of sand "Weighed in the measure. "It would all fail, "And I will be dead, and you so with me." They say then, "The sky is falling, says the preacher. "Has he not always said this "From days of old? "Has the sky fallen? "No, I say it hasn't." To wit, the preacher gave one last breath One last desperate straight of his back And bore those heavens strong. Then, he collapsed under the weight of the heavens. The men stood in awe, "Has the Christian Preacher fallen under "The weight of his own prophecies? "None of his ill foreboding came true." There came a voice thunderous from heaven, "Love has departed from the earth. "Men, seeking to be like the beasts "Have succumbed to their primordial pleasures. "Thus, your own hell will be by your own hands "That none, for a thousand generations, "Shall know what love is, "Or know what it is to have peace. "None shall know what it is to have joy "Or even know that there is a God. "This preacher has come to be with good men "And gracious women, "Who have all suffered, "But none so bad as the tyranny "Man had created when he said to God, "'Depart, I never knew you.' "Man wishes for God to depart, "God shall depart, and all the good things "With Him, while this preacher sleeps, "And shares in conjugal vows with his Creator."
Shorn the sheep to graze in fields, peridot,
The jeweled sun’s breath upon the burnished cheek;
Kin we were in kith we ran the ramparts
Of our boyish troop, upon the dragon’s gorge.
It reared upon us one silent hour
O’ that brother of the Jeweled Seraphim,
Son of Satan and Scylla, most unwise.
He is a man like any other, plush
With his mischief upon the earth, rosy
Are his cheeks; richer he is than the king.
The Seraphim will bind his sire in
Juddecca’s chains, cast him down to hell. Yet.
That foe Death, only one will vanquish:—Christ.
The winds of the eastern vault bring pleasant
Breeze, to where we once in boyhood’s gay charms
Played with sticks, and serious was our charge
To guard the gates of those ruddy warriors.
The armies salvos over the hills, arms
March out to war, in our memory’s past;
Those games we played as youth, with prop instead
Of cold metal in the scabbard’s tang.
Never was Satan’s sire, that Scylla’s
Bastard, a thought upon our mind, when war
Burgeoned in the hill valleys of our play.
Yet, the silent winds cooled our childhood’s
Games. And the sweet smell of the heather blooms
Rose through the air with the mowed grass; sticks crossed
Their tackles, but not the iron of war.
Brother, I pray you find rest in the green
Lights of Paradise’s grove; so rest sound.
For our swords would cross in amateur play
Yet, now the Bastard has crept through your door.
Raise; raise you Duke
At the last Trumpet’s sound
I wrote an Epic Poem.
I wrote an Epic Novel.
I wrote a novel like Fahrenheit 451.
I wrote a novel like Earnest Hemingway.
I wrote a perfect love poem.
I wrote an important thesis.
I wrote gospel.