He had a heavy burden for a fig
Yet no burden for the lives he destroyed.
He claimed, "Science!"
Did science save the world?

Embers of civilization slowly darken;
Ashes fall as a settled dust.
He stole from the Masonry its cornerstone
And it being awkward, he said, "What is this?"
He plugged the gap with plaster
Which was inlaid with fine artistry.
Of the cosmos, which would replace the Chapel's ceiling
Had the cleaning not been done.

He looks up, and rather than see Michelangelo's 
Frescos carry the full weight of the stars
He looks up, and sees the empty vacuum of space.

Yet, he filled in the gap.
He painted upon it his universe.
Minutes later, the structure
Leaned toward its center.
Its towers wept, its spires sagged
Its walkways and walls bent inward.
The gap broke, revealing the hollowed out space.

Yet, thinking he were wise, he
Told all how the plaster would hold.
It would hold because it seemed true.

Many were in that structure.
Many fell that day.
For great was its fall.
And many perished beneath their burdens.

Always the worst of me...
That is what you dig up.
Yet, my weakest is my strongest
And my strongest comes from God.

My heart is broken and my soul is threshed.
Thou, Assyrian, rake'th me over the coals
Like Hezekiah's kingdom.

A glimmer of hope,
Only you strive to steal it from me.

O, thou Prince,
Who wishes to dig up from among my bones
Things which are simple;
The things which my heart had poured out.
You dig...
And you find my weakest...
Yet, in them are wise thoughts unveiled.

The sun turns back seven degrees
And the hoary frost of winter is over.
Need you punish me?
For what?
Dig, and you shall find the sins of my folkstems.
Dig hard for them, you shall find me guilty
As all men are.

So, leave me...
Leave me in peace
In Jesus' name.

Michelangelo, the cretic beauty of your namesake,
Let me diverge from my folksy wisdom, and sing
Upon this lute the song of your Sistine Chapel.
No, I shall not use my utterances which bring on songs'
Mystic echoes, to my rigid verse and primal
Muse of meters sung without their feet conforming to the
Standards of the ancient lores, spun upon papyrus cloth.

I watch and listen to the sage who says your art was dulled
By the washing of a thousand hands which stripped from
Them their shadow like the cross shall strip away our sin.
And, yet, it is the most precious sight my eyes had ever seen.
For by the sins of careless hands, a sin brought grace to me.
For wrong it was to strip the work its shadowed veil;
Yet not a thing more beautiful had my eyes ever prevailed.
For Christ, our sin, shall wash away, to scrub off our darkened shadow.
And by this washing, because we sinned, we shall be beauty's mallow.

Iamb = .|
Of man---

Trochee = |.
Truth is

Spondee = ||
I AM,

Anapest = ..|
The man sought;

Dactyl = |..
Strange is he

Bacchiac = .|| 
To write free.


Cretic = |.|
He the weak...


Ionic a Minore = ..||
Is it Strong truth 

Ionic a Maiore = ||..
To write or not?

Fourth Paeon = ...|
Is it on form?


Amphibrach .|.
Soon found the

Antipast .||.
empty tomb; the

Choriamb |..|
Grave, was there rolled---

First Epitrite
a Superman .|||

Tribrch ...

risen from

Mollossus |||
Death's cruel touch.

The Faustian Bargain was Faust, who asked
Mephistopheles---a Freemason myth---
To give him the power to interpret
Any Poet, and derive from them their
Knowledge. To interpret perfectly their
Words. Goethe, who wrote Faust, had an intelligence
Quotient of about two-hundred twenty.
What I derive from Goethe is that his smarts
Felt like they were a curse from the Devil.
For knowing meanings with certainty, and
Not being able to convince others
Because they are unable to perceive
It, might seem like the power came from some
Ancient and arcane force of shrewd evil.
It is a discovery we have yet
To make, even in this, our modern age.
Yet, the curse of knowledge saved Faust from hell
And just perhaps, this curse will  save us, too.

I would fall in love with you so easily.
If the two of us were to meet one another on the street
If we were to both be single---and there is the problem
Because beautiful girls like you aren't single for long---
Our reverence toward God
Our broken history.

Yet, I am ugly. Just foul words
As you express your best upon the sheet
I express my worst.

I give you my poetry, and you read it.
You like the ones I hate.
The ones I hate most about myself.
Your mind is like mine
And as a woman, that is rare to find
One who is wise.

Even the things I would disagree with
I find are noble in your hands.
Such things as feminism make me angry
But when you speak of it
I remember it had its elegance.
And I understand you are a warrior
But so am I.

I stay away from you on purpose.
I do not come near your portal
For if I did, I would find one with like mind.
I do not know if it is the same with you.

Yet, I am ugly.
I am putrid.
However, embark on a journey with me
And I might fall in love.
Right now I am not.
Right now I am jaded.
I am selfish.
I am cruel.
I am angry.
Embittered by the world around me.

I do not want you for sex.
I want you for your company.
For, even the foulest thoughts in other women
Are noble in you.

For, you have a battle to fight
And I grant you excelsior on those battles.
As my nation crumbles
As my freedoms wane...
I am a glowing ember sodden by the lacquer 
Of too much kerosene.
Which, that kerosene smothers even my ember.
Yet, do not quench it---
The God I worship would never.

Yet, your friendship and amatoral touch
Is my deepest prayer.

The capacity to know something
Is, possibly,
The hallmark of true genius.

The capacity to be skeptical 
Is, possibly,
The hallmark of true intelligence.

The capacity to believe or refute everything
Is, possibly,.
The hallmark of true mediocrity.

The capacity to interpolate 
Is, possibly,
The hallmark of true ignorance.

The capacity to ignore
Is, possibly.
The hallmark of true stupidity.

Homosexuality killed free speech.

All stand in opposition.
All know their opinions are
The correct one.

They sit, talk about the flue
While the savior, the politician
From the left, contemplates
World War III.

I've lost all my zeal. Al of
My desire to warn.
I am impotent; my voice
Is not heard.

No, it is heard.
But it is ignored.

A Poem in Iambic Tetrameter

The truth is ne'er as strong in wise
As lies to speak in quickened fire;---
For specious words which lies surmise
Are stronger than the spoken truth.
But words well thought, in clever fay
Do shine on minds who mull away
A day's eve in one single thought.