Some Plan...

Dreams, slumbering thoughts, imagination,
sometimes I can't discern them.
More pertinent,
it doesn't seem to matter,
since all seem clear in their content.
For reason is not itself temporal,
so it matters little where or when they occur,
so long as they are clear in structure.

My Angels and Dust and Rings,
some warped mix
of divinity, mortality, and oaths--
that which I can only talk around,
but not directly.

Imagine leaf clusters, sunbeams, and strange wildlife.
If only I put pieces together right,
some secret unlocked.
The trees might bend to reveal worn trail,
outlined in wild flowers,
patches of light leading me onward.
What is it I'm supposed to do here?
View it properly?
I believe I see the full beauty,
and yet something is lacking.

Imagine standing in front of a workshop table:
bolts, nuts, nails, and a claw hammer lay,
cold and motionless.
Buckles, frames, and measuring tapes,
some mix of scrap and real parts,
and I'm to play engineer.
What gadget is it you want me to make?
Where is the blueprint?
I intuit it's within me,
but see it not.

Imagine the home of a classicist.
Renaissance art and wine glasses,
fading sheet music covers the ground,
edges burned or worn off--
leading to the long dead hearth.
I am discussing with the owner.
The dialogue is challenging,
rewarding, yet it doesn't end,
even after conclusion.
What is it I'm supposed to ask?
His forward stature tells of his waiting
for a question I don't know about.

It doesn't seem to be enough to want,
whatever this secret is.
Not enough to merely desire you.
I have to ask the right question,
although I want to,
I can't.
I don't know what it is.

King of the Anthill

Frustrated.
Small things push me to snap.
Inane details.
What color flowers?
One napkin or two?
"Someone" cares,
but I do not.
Nor do I think they should.

Never satisfied.
Perfectionist,
not in way others understand.
Doesn't entail silly things.
I laugh at absurdity.
Doctor demands thought,
and shortest route.

Impatience makes me inconsistent.
Prepare cage for beast,
whip goes to raging animal.
I shall not return to fury.
No bridge from work to fun,
none I see.
Their spirits worry me,
can't be entertained,
with that lurking.

Spoke with business ethics man,
over turkey dinner.
Wrote a book.
How prestigious -- I smile.
What model you take?
"Philosophers can't make decisions,"
so smug,
"different answers for different models."
So you have right answer?
"Umm."
As if making decision,
somehow better than not,
what of good and evil?
Better to do nothing,
then do wrong.
You forget your religion,
in your business.
As do I,
shown in this writing.

Easy to take joy,
in ministry with others like self.
When not,
and remain aware of reality,
there is none.
Not there to discuss beliefs,
there for free meal ticket.
Don't forget,
we are fathers and mothers,
feeding sons and daughters,
they are beautiful,
and have goodness,
if only they awakened,
they could grow.
But for now I sit feeding them,
talking to closed ears.

But worse,
language barrier.
If only spoke clear,
in their tongue as mine,
real connexion born.
Progress made.
Alas, I cannot.
So I grind my teeth,
mind panics,
heart hurts.
Nothing I can do,
but small, inane details.
Feel worthless,
for think I'm worthless.

Creeping desire,
to destroy something,
out of fury.
Wish to do what I did,
hit bag,
till knuckles bleed,
and meat grinds,
skin peels, grit teeth.
Exhale deep and raspy,
eyes furrowed,
I wish to think no more now.
In hopes emotion is the result,
and thinking is condition.
As if modus tollens will save me.
Negate result, negate condition.
Knowing it is not result,
not a "then" from an "if,"
but mere concomitant.
Deep breath,
holding till long drawn out exhale.
It all goes back inside, subdued.
No where for bag,
makes me more infuriated.

No sense,
hurt one way does not remove another,
merely moves attention.
Try to tie down,
this irrationality.

I can do nothing.
And that's the lesson here.

Sorry, we just closed.

I can't see why some want to dream,
when this world so fascinates me.

I recall a fall day ago,
when my clothes smelled of smoke.
Dusk was an all night affair,
and I had a feeling to share.

The bags under my eyes,
a sign of my want to be wise.
A hopeful romantic in disguise,
long driveway goodbyes.
And I, never knew what I wanted to be.

Friend was a strange concept to me,
because all I needed was a family tree.
And I guess that never really changed.

All I needed for sanity,
was to hear I wasn't alone,
that thinking was a part of humanity,
and emotion wasn't the only way,
to talk about the unknown.

The secrets that live in my soul,
are modes of which I see the Dove--
all the little things I extol,
and the strange way I express my love.
But I care not for their array,
of singing and dancing and emotional display,
for I shall never betray,
what the Lord has worked within me.

My greatest fear is not to die alone,
but that who I am I cannot atone,
with another, so I'll live in solitude,
so with regret it will conclude.
For I have faith that he hath it in me,
so what is this life in comparison--
with what shall be?

Frustration is my hunger pain,
wisdom is my sweet honey
panic I cannot seem to maintain,
for reasons I have many.
I swim in love's pools in the morn,
sit in justice's rays by day,
and at night do I forlorn--
how I went astray.

What I'm not saying is how I cope,
what I mean by the star that grants me hope.
It's a small thing that I love, a token,
for the deepest secrets go unspoken.
Those of which not to speak I have swore,
so I wish to speak no more.

Stabat Mater

Stabat mater,
tears make trails
across dusty cheeks.
Leading way to the mount's edge,
of what is a grieving face.
Crystallizing into marble--
forever on the verge,
of a sorrowful fall.

Thy son hath made us whole,
through faith,
and we shall be sanctified,
in times hereafter,
as thou art now, and have been.
He falls so we should no more,
Blessed are those, who sorrow for him.

Mine own trail through deep roots,
slashing away their hold,
through the night they fight to lids,
and upon the dawn,
fall with purity,
from lid to chin without resistance.
The only blue I have left in this world--
is that for the next.

How shall we stand and watch?
Behold, he carries his own death.
Falling.
Until a man helps carry his burden,
as we should for another.
And a woman wipes sweat from his brow,
as we should for one another.
And yet still we shall fall.
And though mothers and wives and daughters
should comfort and guide us,
still we fall,
and are beaten,
with seeming mercilessness.

Now he is stripped of all outer appearances,
and so we watch,
some part telling us to turn,
another unable to.
For fear of losing what it is we love,
and fear of seeing it destroyed.
Though fear should turn to dust soon,
we know not what it is that happens.

We, oh ignorant and disgusting men,
having rebelled against our Host.
Nefarious minds make for my tears,
and I beg there be another way.
But we are one,
and are fallen,
so mercy has come to make justice--
yet still I weep.
For worthy we are not,
though you come to make it otherwise.
The need makes me writhe in pain,
at my own kind,
at my own self.

Wounds are made,
and death slow.
Till life has left,
and body is taken down.
Stabat Mater Dolorosa,
son in hand,
in mourning,
as I am now.

I see the past,
as never before,
and in thinking,
my emotions open,
as a valve long rusted.
Its fresh waters,
run through years of grime,
built up on hard jaws,
cheeks solidified by the night,
who remain strong,
though eyes do not.