I know what a fallacy is.

Do you know what a fact is?

 

In logic, there’d be an infinite regress of deductions

Without evidence.

 

On this evidence I base my belief in God.

Morals. Because men can’t create them.

Language. Because two people do find truth without knowing each other.

Miracles. Because impossible things do happen.

Evil. Because it exists. You don’t get to determine what it is or isn’t.

Good. Because it exists. You also don’t get to determine what it is or isn’t.

Pleasure. Because it exists. But it is the root of all evil, and how you obtain it is paramount to who you are as a human being.

Judgment. There must be something that holds bad people accountable, and rewards good people.

Chance. Evil people can live their whole lives, and be happy. Good people can live their whole lives, and be miserable. Often this is the case. Someone must hold them accountable.

Nature. Orion has a sling. Cassiopeia looks like a virgin. The Summer Triangle has a cross, an arrow that points to that cross, and an old man pointing to the arrow. Birds fly. Fish breath under water. Animals can look exactly like a leaf—if you think natural selection can do that, you’re crazy.

Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Gentleness, Self Control, Faithfulness, Goodness: This is good.

What harms someone cannot be determined by you, because often you hurt people without even realizing it.

 

It’s obvious to me that this all proves God’s existence. Where is it, now that the culture does not believe in Him?

 

There are no morals. Moral relativism.

Language is incomprehensible. Because you’re a fool.

Miracles don’t exist. Because you’re blind.

Evil is relative.

So is Good.

Pleasure is all that matters in life.

There is no judgment.

Chance determined everything. So what prevents you from being evil?

Nature will be gone some day, so you’ll never see it as a proof.

Love, Joy and Peace are just chemicals. Kindness is weakness. Gentleness is weakness. Self Control is arrogant. Faithfulness is imprudent. Goodness doesn’t exist.

Harm… There are a lot of things that you say, “Won’t hurt anyone.” They do.

 

I’ve tasted your values. It’s disgusting.

 

Fallow the earthen vessels of

Our words; the potter’s clay which turn

To the hand of our smooth wheel’s ink.

 

I, I can make the plane good-smoothed;

I can layer ceramic sheen;

I can inlay the prism paints

To have the bird, tree and wood-house.

 

I can smooth so there are no prints

Of my fingers upon planed clay.

I can make exactly an inch

Of my thumb for each flowered rim.

 

I can paint the portrait of the

Lady of the house, and fire the

Kiln to the perfect heat-degree

So to lay smoothest enamel.

 

I can make the earthen, red jar

With warbs and wobbles on each side.

I can make the water pots, peach

Like the skin of Caucasian men.

 

I can so make the Doyle plates

Though my heart does not want to make

Them, the most popular design

Made by machines more than a man.

 

I can make them funny, so mar

The clay I use, that ink blackened,—

So to make white plates with rivets

That every man will go to use.

 

I can make gold inlayed leaf, shaved

Twenty-four carat purity.

I can, too, measure with my thumbs

To make a perfect cone so deep.

 

I can make a bowl, a plate; so

Even know how to shape with tools.

 

Yet, the potter’s wheel is so strange

And often so very cruel.

If I made a thousand vessels

But none were put to use.

My doe, White Doe of Rylestone

Whoever “They” are,

Will not… no, they refuse,

To let me eat from this, my labor.

 

Come swiftly, to this land of Inishkea.

 

I would much rather till the soil

Than, as Longfellow said,

Turn the potter’s wheel.

 

I am tired.

I love to write.

It is a joy of mine.

One of the few joys here in Inishkea.

 

My face is not beautiful.

My body is fat.

My hands are soft.

I am not manly.

 

But, my hope is in you.

 

I would make my face beautiful

And thin my body to an iron-flesh core,

I would have my calloused hands,

And I would become manly

 

If you came to the land of Inishkea.

I don’t pretend to be a theologian.

Maybe I am.

I don’t pretend to be a philosopher.

Maybe I am.

I don’t pretend to be a journalist.

I know I’m not.

I don’t pretend to use perfect grammar.

I definitely don’t.

 

An unlearned man could

Find some ecclesiastical truth.

A man who got a B in philosophy

Could rediscover truth.

A person who doesn’t report on the news

Could find something newsworthy.

A man who makes a few dozen spelling or grammar mistakes

Could possibly be a good writer.

 

A lot of faux intellectuals have posited their claims

Into the meanings of scripture.

A lot of men who don’t know what Existentialism or Platonism are

Could have said, and gotten successful, with their brands of philosophy.

A lot of news journalists could have missed

The blatant facts, and never put them together.

And I know there have been writers who don’t use punctuation.

 

I hope one day to join the conversation

But as a still, little voice

And not a Fabius Maximus on a megaphone.

I see Ralph Waldo’s Humble-Bee

As it drifts from coasts to seas

Wiser than the wisest seer

With no callous, vapid fear.

 

It is worker, with great buzz

It flies all day without a fuss.

To be this welcome humble-bee

Poet, not rebel, to draw honey

From every choice Bulbell

From every draping honeysuckle

From the tulips, and the trees

Sweet fruit and cherry berries.

 

For to draw from this I would adorn

Epicurean wisdom in its form.

For wise, oh wise, humble-bee

Drawing forth your sweet honey.

To be a humble-bee I confess

Would be something of the best.

To draw from each wise scholar found

A wise enchantment, no chaff unsound.

 

For is this not the humble-bee

Flying, wiser than you or me?

A poet, lauded for his fame

Working with silent, cheery claim

Upon every bulbous flower stock;

The humble-bee would feed the flock

Of scholars reckless, proud and few

In a time which comes so new.

 

To collect all wisdom,

None profane,

To ever see a thing

Ere what’s atop a flower stem.

Beautiful golds, whites and reds

Violets and blues and crimson bread

Of nectar to put in hexagonal beds

To make into honey, so sweet and soft.

So the next generation’s wisdom is not lost.

When I work

I get a feeling of satisfaction.

I see the job is getting done.

I am happy that I can do the job.

 

Then, another sees it

And decides to compete with me.

I undoubtedly fail.

 

I would enjoy scooping the horse poop

Out of the stables.

I would undoubtedly get sore

Within a few hours of doing it.

I would fail miserably.

 

Then, I wouldn’t feel worth the dollar I was given.

I would feel useless, and not worth the money paid for the task.

Then I’d slow down,

And another person would come

He or she would do a better job than I could.

 

I’d feel even less worth my dollar.

I’d get depressed.

I’d quit the job because

I would feel that there is no place for me there.

 

As it would turn out

All I needed might just be practice.

Practice, but the fact that I would feel worthless

I wouldn’t be able to get the practice in.

 

Only because it would be a competition.

Only because I would get weak and sore.

Only because I know that I am not doing

A satisfactory job.

 

This is why I write.