“History flows in its direction—

Those who stand in its way

Are artifacts.” — A Postmodernist

 

How many men does history leave behind?

A good and prosperous nation

Which it did its best to break;

Praises the Cur Kairos

Who is allied with the serfs

Who, after having been made free,

Wish to place themselves back in shackles.

In the hell built for the rich

The idle rich, and the angry rich

Do their dance in the river styx.

 

How I can see it,

But the translator cannot.

In fact, nobody has ever found it before.

 

Probably because a poet knows their poetry.

And we know why it’s written.

 

While Plato lambasted us for not being credible

I found poetry is not our catalog of factoids

But rather the history of our moral knowledge.

I have an IQ of 157.

It’s humbling to see

How I don’t even come close

To the top crust of geniuses.

 

The lowest on a list I found was 170.

 

I love poetry…

 

My claim to fame might be

A high reading comprehension and retention.

 

Lol.

 

I can devour Chaucer like it’s

James Paterson.

 

A difficult text to me is

Ezra Pound’s Cantos,

 

But that’s only because I think it

Intentionally tried to talk in gibberish.

I’m still trying to crack that nut,

But I think it’s a Postmodern Work

Meant to draw out the subconscious’ story.

My words are war

Though my heart is peace.

I speak war,

So I may bring peace.

 

I see violence on the battlefields,

I see red fields of sward.

Anger rests in my bosom

As men sweetly reminisce on war

And violence.

 

For me, I speak words of warfare

Speak my foul breath.

Yet, there would be brother against brother.

I will die for him

Rather than this country.

Should I die of starvation

In solitary confinement in the Gulag,

Sent there for shaking hands,

Then I will allow myself to die.

 

I have nothing to fight for in this world.

I have nothing to live for

But to die, there is my gain.

I am the Last Blackbird.

I am a Mockingbird.

I am a Bluebird.

Word supplies the axioms

Which mathematics cannot provide.

Not by logic, but by idealizations.

And in an age where we value mathematics

Over poetry, we severely limit our own possibilities.

Oddly, I was reading one of my poems

And aggravated by it, filled with angst,

Annoyance, grumbling, distress,

Then, there was a line, “It’s only a poem.”

And, like that it was as if I woke up

From a dream.

I hope it has this effect on everyone who reads it.

 

My fairyland might be nightmares,

But I give the reader the satisfaction of it only being a dream.

 

His best, after years of toil,

Was mediocre.

 

The prodigy,

At the age of sixteen,

Could write better poems,

Albeit rife with thou and thy

At all the wrong grammatical places.

 

He would spend years,

Rewriting his poems,

Five, ten, fifteen drafts

And no sooner make a poem

Of average quality.

 

The prodigy,

In a matter of three days

Wrote a poem triumphantly

More exquisite, rich and deep

Than any poem he had ever toiled masterfully over

For his seventy-five years of life.

 

He, however,

Was paid to write his mediocre poems.

The prodigy,

Like all great sages in an illiterate age,

Was not. Except to pass down knowledge

To the generations after him.

 

Certainly, both were remembered

For a very long time.

Certainly, both gained their treasure.

 

However, it was unfortunate

That time had displaced the better of the two.

I felt the stars,

I felt Euclid’s air;—

I remember

So many, too many of them to count.

Heartfelt, it is good.

But, when we remove it from reason

Reason became blind.

 

It’d be impossible for me to say I don’t understand the atheist.

It’d be impossible for me to say I don’t understand their unbelief.

Sometimes I listen to them,

And see they have found the inebriation of an idea

And they romanticize it.

They protect that feeling, for fear that it was not good.

 

At the end of the day, unbelief is just that.

It is finding, and creating, for yourself a religious experience

Out of some emotion one has found.

Maybe I do it, too.

Until, at some point, we recognize what is good.

Then the inebriation of that idea is found empty.

It is just our romanticizing it…

For the sin we had committed,

It must give our life the meaning we want.

There is something that feels good…

Be it friendship,

Be it acceptance,

But it is a pretension

On our part to turn it into our reason to stop believing.

 

Truly, I can understand it.

I listen to all the logical formulae,

All of the arguments, the temper tantrums.

I understand them, from having been one of them.

If only for a few months of my life.

I understand it— And truthfully,

Given my situation—near as bad as it can get to some people—

I would rather be here, than in the abyss that is atheism.

When I stared out into the void,

I could never see empty space.

There was always God staring back at me.

I could never say He didn’t exist,

And even in my deepest atheism,

I was praying to God about it.

 

It’s hard to say why I believe,

Other than that I can sense that there is a God…

And, after clinging to my Bible in Sunday School class,

And reading it, I had found it to be Jesus.

Because if it’s not,

Then God is a liar, who never showed himself,

Never taught us how to live.

Christ, He died for the right path.

What God is a martyr?

 

I’ll be frank…

I don’t understand why Jesus had to die.

At the best of my understanding,

It is inspiring to me that God Himself would die.

Why I must offer His soul for a substitution,

Why I must believe in Him—

It won’t ever make sense to me.

Yet, as right as rain,

I know only One God ever did truly show Himself.

And Godlike in his ability to heal, and cast out demons,

And forgive sins…

I truly want to live with Him as my example.

As imperfect as I am,

As many times as I’ve been discouraged,

I know that God showed Himself.

The fact is there was a tomb, and it’s undisputed.

And with that, it’s good enough for me to believe.

For, Christ set a perfect moral law

And told us to love one another.

Whatever Christian argument and formulae they tell me

Telling me it’s not about being a good person,

That God is not great because He empowered us to be good people…

I’ve seen the other religions.

I’ve seen God’s Spirit in them, as well as me.

But, at the end of the day, their God might be Jesus

And it might be Christians who are wrong.

Maybe men had found God,

A people who had not searched for Him,

And I’m open to that suggestion.

I say that without blaspheming.

For, I know that Jesus is the only path to salvation.

Just Who is He?

He is the Son of God,

And we must worship Him:

I’m just in doubt about who truly knows Him.

 

But, the final revelation is that God is Christ.

Who He saves is up to Him.

I only know that there is Sin—

And if they elevate her to the top of the pantheon,

I hope that the Jew’s Religion overcasts it,

And that the Fame Yahweh had in Greece and Persia

Carries on to our current time.

Lest, we sleep the sleep of perdition…

Not I, but multitudes.