Tag: The

The Sheep Gate, in Hexameter

A man has found every moral there is, softly thinking strong forms

Of man’s greatest aspirations, lofty,—so found a god through them.

For, morals can be discovered by all, some like calculus solved

Ever so meticulously and long; others like addition

Were found by merely adding one plus one—that would be golden rules.

However, why is there only one name, which will save a man’s life?

 

Because one name, Jesus Christ, had found them, every moral we know

And had preached it to the whole of the earth, every moral we know.

Some say He borrowed from everyone else;—others that He was wrong.

Rightly, if He did borrow all morals;—how did He find them all?

He found war, and told all men not to fight; for He would fight for us.

He told men to obey authorities;—He told men when not to.

If there is not one name under heaven, then all our knowledge is

Scattered abroad in thousands of thinkers, whom we will never find.

This is why there is only one sheep’s gate;—yes, just one name that saves.

Because the smartest among us couldn’t, no they could not even

Figure the sum of half our moral truths;—thus, we must procure faith

In that humble LORD of the Sabbaoth—Jesus Christ is His name.

The Two Servants of God

There were two men.

One of the men murdered

One of the men committed adultery

One of the men blasphemed unto death

One of the men had made fraudulent oaths.

The other did none of this

But rather had unbelief.

 

The first man,

Seeing he had been pardoned for all of his sin

Decided that it was good.

So, he lived his days securely

Never in fear of judgment.

He spent his days cheerfully

Giving to the poor and receiving nothing in return.

He builded houses and churches and places of rest

For the poor, and thanked God every day

That his blasphemies, oaths, murders and adulteries all were forgiven.

For, he was happy that he was permitted to do his good deeds in the name of the

Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

 

The second man

He did not see a reason to be pardoned from his sins.

He decided that he was good.

So, he lived his days securely

Never in fear of human justice.

He spent his days cheerfully

Not giving much to the poor, but rather expected every borrowed thing to be returned in measure,

As was the custom.

He did not thank God, but rather thanked himself

For all of the provisions he had stored up for himself.

He was happy, and decided that he did good deeds enough,

Sufficient that he had never thought he had sinned.

 

It came to a time when both men died,

The righteous man with the hypocrite.

 

The Father asked the first man,

“What had you done?”

The man replied,

“Nothing father.”

The LORD said,

“Well done good and faithful servant.”

 

The Father asked the second man,

“What had you done?”

The man replied,

“Oh, Father, I made a fortune, and blessed myself upon the Earth.”

The LORD said,

“What had you done with your sustenance?”

The man said,

“Well, I spent it for my stomach.”

The Father said,

“What of the poor?”

The man said,

“I’ve given some to the poor.”

The Father said,

“Yet, I have another man who had just died today.

“He had given much to the poor, more than his ten percent.

“Though, he had never made much, nor blessed himself

“On the earth, he was neither rich, nor satisfied with his life

“Except in his giving.”

The man then said,

“Well, what must I do to be saved?”

The LORD said,

“Be gone, I never knew you, you proud and wicked servant.”

The Modern Reichstag

A thousand writers lay before me

Their thoughts contained in the jars

Of wood pulp, ink and glue.

Numerous thoughts lay before me…

Seneca, Livy, Horace

There in used copies at the bookstore.

Where are they sold now,

New, in those beautiful Penguin and Oxford bindings?

I don’t see them on the shelves at my local book store.

 

Rather, I get one more rejection letter in the mail

Because I don’t sell a detergent.

I don’t sell deodorant.

I don’t sell left or right politiks.

Soon, that large library will wane

And what will be put in its place

Is the cacophonous voices

Of Fox News Analysts,

CNN and MSNBC commentators,

Politicians and the few Celebrity intellectuals.

No serious works of philosophy, religion,

Art or political science.

 

A thousand voices,

All shut up by populist opinions.

Slowly, we deteriorate,

Until the Reichstag is performed by the almighty dollar.

It’s performed, because all ethics are “Too emotional.”

All philosophy is “Merely speculation.”

Technocratic, we burn our books with our own opinions.

They don’t sell, so are thrown into the flame.

 

I read the famous poets.

None of them wrote like me.

None with the modern story telling element—

The clear language and imagery,

The thematic elements of our modern fantasies.

Why I couldn’t be squeezed into that little space

On the bookshelf I saw,

Why, even though there are thousands of famous writers,

Some I have never even laid eyes upon,

Why cannot I be a part of this tradition?

Rather, we burn Seneca with Bill O’Reilly, Glenn Beck and Rachel Maddow;

Piers Morgan, Anderson Cooper and Milo Yiannopoulos;

We bury Pride and Prejudice with Stephen King, Stephanie Meyers

And George R. R. Martin; Fifty Shades of Gray, Hunger Games

And Divergent.

We praise poets like Ezra Pound—

Never reading the word salad of his

Which no man living can decipher;

I’m not even sure it’s meant to mean anything.

Then, of course, there is E. E. Cummings.

Garbage.

Does anyone read Wordsworth, Byron, Keats or Longfellow?

Essayists, of course, are college students

As Shane Dawson writes like he’s submitting a high school essay

And it prints and sells millions.

Emerson, Thoreau, Montaigne;—

Much more interesting… if they were given a shot.

Yet, I have to search the used book stores for Emerson and Montaigne.

They’re both slowly going out of fashion.

Both kindred souls…

Both so similar in their styles.

Plutarch I found, after some digging.

Herodotus tells me about Ancient Babylon,

Yet somehow the idiots online do not believe historians mentioned it.

A rich source of historical analysis,

Filled with Babylon, Persia, Media, Assyria, Egypt, Mesopotamia,

A Greek historian.

Yet… sadly there is online materials that would “prove”

These empires never existed.

Yale lectures that would even insinuate that they never did.

They find a “Sumerian” empire, and automatically say,

“Well there was no Babylon.”

Wholly forgetting that cultures call themselves by different names

Than other cultures. Germany in America is Deutschland in Germany.

Some idiot a long time from now might speciously believe

Germany never existed because they dug up German artifacts.

 

We’re dealing with a stupid generation

Because books aren’t read,

But podcasts are listened to.

There is not a touchstone to the past

Therefore, anything can be made up about it in the present.

And, my writing has touched the past.

But, they can find no place for it in that empty slot on the shelves.

Because, as it still remains,

I get rejected for having a racist character.

Wholly disposed, that the generation I was writing about

Was saturated by racism, and it was about their only sin most of them.

If we could excuse them of it, and wonder at how they were so far superior

To what we have today…

Perhaps we will have a more educated tomorrow

That doesn’t—as every movie seems to do—

Imprint their own values on the past.

Frankly, every movie you watch about history

Is ensconced in its present’s vices.

The best way to know what history was like

Was to read what was written at that time period.

Often, you’d find the most degenerate scoundrel

Had a heart of gold when compared to our modern man.

And that I find by reading history;

Watching history;

Experiencing history in what are called books.

But, today we’d like to invent it for ourselves

To shape it to our modern way of thinking.

 

Why can’t I be on those shelves

To represent modern man

As he truly is?

 

 

Let All the Magic Flow/ Into a Little Crazy Book I Know

Let all the magic flow

Into a little crazy book I know.

Let my mind’s greatest fears

Relieve our listeners and reader’s leers.

 

Oh, how crazy is the thought

Of a magic witch hunt in the spot

Where my ears had seen

Such delusional nonsense to preen.

 

Oh, make it so, that this little delusional book I know

Takes up all the magic in the land.

Let my books be fair and grand

To help our peoples of the land.

Let them see and read and fuss

And be thrilled by my stories’ rust.

 

Oh, please absolve me from the sin

Of looking at those pages grim.

Send all the magic into that book

Of fairies, orcs and goblin spooks.

 

I say, it is all a lie

Simple fairy tales are meant to scry

Into our hopes, our dreams our failings.

They are not meant to cause our railings.

Forget me not! Read my tales

As words that help heal our fails.

 

Let all the magic flow into there

A little book, a little tear

A little wrinkle of failing ail.

For a desperate monster is this

Book of lies and lustful tricks.

 

Stay away, let the magic stay…

Please, let my tales be light and gay.

Not to be believed, but rather a farce

To help the subconscious defecate

Its deepest fears in the dark.

 

For magic is delusional thoughts

Magical thinkings make the brain rot.

Let my books be nice and hearty

Not a magical word spoken tardy.

Let my words be simple tales

Which help my readers feel, so frail

That our sins need washed and bleached

Let the magic go into another book

Not mine, which are so meek.

What Hurts the Most is Seeing the Thing You Want

What hurts the most is seeing the thing you want

And not feeling like the moment to grab it is at hand.

Some strange distance is between us…

The girl at the ____________ register

Myself.

Sure, I can talk to her about Yawning.

I can tell her about my theories on time.

What becomes difficult, however,

Is working up the nerve to flirt.

I don’t want to

Because the situation is wildly inappropriate.

I don’t like flirting.

I want a steady conversation.

 

As a youth, there were those I played with

And it just clicked.

Rare were those encounters,

Where I just clicked with someone else.

The play was fun…

They got me, I got them.

There was an ease of knowing them

Like I had known them my entire life.

All sincerely cliche lines,

But we still all know the feeling.

Precious it is, it’s how I met all of my best friends.

 

Why one of them wasn’t a woman;

There’s always been a strange fear of them for me.

A fear of obtaining them;—

I have that fear of getting to close to them

On the chance that they would find out what I was really like

And walk away.

 

But on rare moments, I could be just myself

And similarly find myself at ease with them.

I suppose I want conversation more than anything.

I want agreement, even if I’m dead wrong.

I want resistance on moral truths;—

Not intellectual ones.

I feel there is a strange chasm between me and the woman at the ____________.

Perhaps if we met at the book store.

Perhaps if we met anywhere but there.

But then again, I am quite unimpressive.

 

A woman wrote a poem about Echo and Narcissus.

I felt like Narcissus.

Perhaps I am becoming him…

However, I don’t like peering into the mirror

To look at myself. I am hideous.

Rather, I have been taught to love myself by therapy…

I would like the _____________ employee to unlearn me

Of all those tricks.

 

Therapy seems to colden and deaden you to the harsh realities of life.

It seems to put up walls,

It says, “Don’t trust anyone.”

And soon enough, you live, can wipe your own ass,

Can eat and live off of work.

Just, something is missing in life,

The more important part.

But I have the pressure of family

Telling me all life is about wiping myself.

Wiping my mouth, my butt, putting soap on my hands

And cleaning out the nether regions.

As if that is the only joy of life.

That, and doing labor I am not willing to do

To serve a purposed end of what exactly?

Did I forfeit my happy life from two crimes in youth?

If so, maybe I don’t want to take care of myself

If this writing cannot earn me enough to win bread.

 

So… I twirl about two desires

Being an author and being in love.

I want to be an author for the purpose of wiping myself.

I want to be in love for the purpose of having something beside

Hygiene to live for.

If you could understand my families indoctrination,

Life is all about cologne, toilet paper,

And eating. Pleasures to be derived

From the excess of bodily functions and their expressions.

Of course, I became angry at one of them in particular

When they said, “Let the TV raise your kids.”

It had never been their philosophy of life…

One of the things I appreciated most was how they nurtured me

And cared about me when nobody else seemed to.

But, life is all about liquids.

It’s all about dopamine.

Meanwhile I stand quite helpless

Not wanting my life to resemble it.

The girl behind the ____________ counter could have fixed it…

But, truthfully, was there a chance at bonding?

None whatsoever.

She had a job to do.

I had a job to do.

Anything extraneous beyond that

Would get her in trouble.

As, that exact life is what I despise.

We could have been soul mates

And the de facto laws of business

Kept us apart.

Somewhere, I’m looking for a life

Where you just meet the girl in your tribe

And fall in love with her because you don’t know any better,

Marry her, and then grow up and have children.

You’re never taught to covet beauty,

So even when someone more beautiful arrives

It’s not this immediate lust and gravitation.

You simply don’t know any better because there is no sexual desire

Except for the one person you found it with…

That woman you met in your village.

Yet, there were old maids then, too.

So, I have no surmise,

Except to say that I didn’t want to flirt

Because I felt a boundary.

When I find the right woman

I want there to be no boundaries.

Rather, if she shows up at two AM,

Or I do, we’ll be none the callous for sleep.

 

In laymen’s terms

I want a friend I can have sex with.

I think that’s what everyone desires in a mate

As there is nothing else in this life worth obtaining.

Success, glory, honor,—

It seems too much like wiping myself.

Rather, when I’m old,

Maybe my desire is for there to still be someone left to wipe me.

The Intelligent Learn How to be Stupid

The intelligent learn how to be stupid.

I used to pretend to be stupid,

In order to fit in, in order to survive.

Sentences with clear meaning

Fall over the heads of readers and listeners,

So, instead of using reason,

Just say, “That stupid because science.”

No matter how much logic or facts are packed into a sentence,

No matter how much research,

No matter how much evidence for the things unseen,

Or the substance of things hoped for,

Men lie, men steal, men learn the art of dumbing down

Their arguments to mere Rhetoric and Sophistry,

Getting it confused with logic.

 

How frustrating it is,

To listen to people go on and about

All the different myriads of stuff.

If presented with a cogent argument

They deny, deny, deny.

They even use tactics to win an argument.

Imagine if courts were all about winning,

Not proving innocence or guilt.

But, since egos are on the line,

People’s records of “Being tough on crime,”

Innocent people go to jail.

Precisely because of this bias and fundamental flaw

In the way we engage in communication.

It’s not to draw from men their wisdom

But to convince men that we are right.

 

How do you convince people of God’s existence today?

By simply presenting them with the case.

But, they would rather believe in no God,

Because it’s easier.

Deluded, but easier.

They call me a “Flat Earther,”

When I am nothing of the sort.

I say, rightly, we ought to believe in Evolution

And Earth as a Sphere.

The fact remains that I have never seen whether either existed.

I have faith that scientists are not lying to me.

Now you must have faith that I am not lying to you.

There is a God, and the reason why is because there is right and wrong.

There is communication.

There is truth.

There is good.

There is evil.

There is love, joy and peace.

Some might say, “How does that prove that God exists?”

How does Pi get calculated?

I would ask that to anyone who has never done it before.

Simply put, you just measure a circle’s circumference.

These things I present are the measurements used for God.

That there is righteousness and goodness.

You might say, “Well, didn’t God permit crimes?”

I would simply say, “Against nations filled with murderers,

“Pedophiles and cannibals.”

Given into that context, you’d have to be crazy

Not to see why they were destroyed.

 

Thus, when we refine an argument to its most crystal points

It’s most refined kernel,

All of the nuance of truth disappears.

When it disappears,

Men rely on the most primitive facts to discover moral judgment.

Rightly, the Cross is a rock of offense because the LORD had commanded

Wars, yet what do those critics do?

They simplify all arguments to a Sophistic draught

Of nothing, so that there cannot be justice.

And justice is formed by the comprehension of words and their intentions.

Thus, if one were to ask,

“Why ought not the intelligent learn how to communicate with the stupid?”

The reason why is that justice and mercy are at stake.

Should I say it to my friend,

Whom I argued with last night,

I would say this,

 

“Friend, there is a whole body of knowledge you’ve never seen.

“There is much you do not even know.

“I know, quite well, what you mean by “science”.

“But, do you know what I mean about justice?

“Science, unhinged from Word,

“Would become so disgusting and terrible for men and mankind,

“That without Word or its comprehension,

“There’d be no justice.

“Justice is found in the Word,

“The ability to judge the complexities of thought and motivations.

“Without that, I’m afraid science would be more like a prison

“And less like a wing.”

 

I doubt he would understand it.

As, why would he?

He is stubborn,

That simply in the word’s meanings

That is how you know it is truth.

What do you do with deaf ears?

Can you teach them to hear?

As meaning is integral,

And is the sole truth I am teaching.

Not facts, not actualities.

Simply that it can be understood

With the proper amount of time and effort.

And with that, it proves a whole world

Inaccessible to most of our modern men.

For intelligence, when it stoops to the lowest depths

In order to catch the ear with a rhetorical persuasion,

Is the most foul use for it.

Bring the low high,

Do not let the high be humiliated.

 

My Revolution

My revolution is with words.

To hold the people we elect accountable.

If a gun is fired in my name,

I spit on you.

 

We need a revolution with words.

We need to wage it with our words

With our bombs and ammunition.

Not with insults, nor petty name calling.

Just with cold hard reason.

It works.

It can take the most hardened idiot

And make them a little wiser.

And an idiot made wiser is one less idiot.

 

I’m a believer in Green Day’s revolution,

Waged with words, not bombs or Gloria.

If I wanted anything, it would be this:

For the country to stop fighting among itself

And to realize that there are shady things happening underneath the surface.

 

I, like Warner Brothers,

Give your revolution in words, not bombs.

Because if we patriots are censored,

Then men die, and line up in piles high.

 

Literature is a purge of our aggression,

And a cry for peace.

No war was ever started by a fact.

Rather, it was the forbidding of hearing that fact,

And covering it up so the populations could laud it as heroic,

That is how every war was started.

In My Dreams of Forgiveness

In my dreams

I see two very different people.

I see myself.

And I see someone else.

 

The someone else

Breathes fire and flies

But everyone loves him.

They call him, “Super Boy.”

He makes love with every virgin.

He fights in every battle.

He is a killer—

I’ve seen it.

It is someone else’s life that I see.

 

Facing up to my past,

Being selfish toward my mother,

Being cruel,

I was not very nice.

Those were my sins, though.

Having to look at all the people I’ve wronged,

All of the animals,

And to see that some of them will never forgive me,

It is a hard feeling.

 

It is a hard feeling,

But it’s even harder

To see them love

And forgive

The monster but not me.

To call me a “Traitor”

When I saw her unconditionally love that other man.

It’s the quintessential truth of Christianity:

A repentant man is despised

While

A flagrant man is lauded.

 

But, those who really matter do

In fact,

Forgive.