The Deep - Auld Lang Syne

There's a shadow upon the deep
and a face gazing up at night
a beast without photon
primordial wrath wrapped up tight
a muzzle forced around its temper
like a bit in the mule's mouth
fight squelched to wisp and whimper.
A tempestuous sea, laid to rest,
the mythic tumult, put into a bowl-
one from which I drink mockingly at meal time,
no power left but a harnessed vitality.
but saving such sacred sangre,
we drink from chalice.

Depths imprisoned in the beyond
withheld until the wayward wicked
dig their own pitted graves.
The fate of the Sinner's Shovel
is to face the Deep.
Every person meets their works' end.
The man digging the pit,
finds it is his own grave.
But the man who listens and hears,
taking what is given with thanksgiving,
sees his works are folly.

A time will come when all scream
"Let loose the vault!"
and rain down floods of justice.
By the same water
some obtain life,
others death--
for it rains on the just and unjust alike.
But not all are affected the same.
And the terror of the seas,
hide tanned, toothless, without blood nor life,
nor reality,
is without power to regulate them.

#Switch.it_up_kid (music, memory);

Beer and memories taste like
a mouthful of blood and knuckles--
both sweet an rancid like
decomposing leftovers--
the rush to finish the dead like
a hasty but heart-felt eulogy--
sounding as a broken bell like
a town which once thrived--
only citizens wander as phantoms like
a poorly written history book--
devoid of chronologic or conclusion like
my mind's grasp of the past.

Edit.doc(1.1.11), gut;

But first...
I've got all this nonsense ringing in my ears.
If not in reality, at least in my mind,
and that's enough to trouble up the waters.
Auld Lang Syne.
To be remembered or forgotten?
I don't know.

Confession Booth: 3AM

Salutations, I write in good faith and in the spirit of repentance. Not to dwell on sins of years gone by so as to drown my soul in sorrow, but to recall in what vices I took pleasure in, and the great pains I went through to get out, by the saving hand of the Lord, who reigns as one God, now and forever. If you read this I hope it be some source of comfort and hope in what saving things can be done in your life. I write of others not to cast them aside nor judge, but only to portray events as best I remember to portray the way in which they effected me, in some cases how God used them to get through to me, or hopes that have remained for them with good intent.

I drew dagger upon myself, thrusting it into my own chest, both hands firmly clasping the handle. I did it drawing strength upon what I thought to be love. It wasn't until the object of my affection placed her hands upon my own, offering to help me finish my suicide that I resisted. Not until then did I look down upon the blade, to see what destruction I had wrought upon myself. It wasn't until then, God, that you used her to show me that I was bleeding. And so you taught me guilt.

For until then I was a wretch. I lavishly bathed in my vice. Feeding a hunger without bounds, with no regard to spiritual food. But upon turning my eye inward, I read the inscription upon the blade, Lust. And at once I became aware of my wound, aware of my ignorance to you, and a great pain fell upon me unlike anything I had ever known.

I yearned to be stronger, and struggled day and night to remove the desire from me. But my body ached and writhed with disease, it yearned for affliction, self-mutilation. But time and time again I failed, sometimes moments after an hour long guilt spell. Yet I tried by my own strength, determined my will would choose reason over appetites. A fool I was, to believe I might command a will so mighty, a will that doesn't overstretch the boundary of reason. My heart cried out to have a will that matched the intellect like yours Lord. I wanted more than anything to be good. This didn't necessitate anything more than a proper education in my mind at that time. And I saw not the contradiction in placing you Lord as the ultimate Good of which I wanted, yet also believing that to do good is what I ultimately wanted. And while I learned much in form of argumentation, my mind ever growing, my soul as a whole was dying, for I did not let my intellect to champion the brute that flesh can be. I abandoned the Church, and so found myself falling further from you.

I took pride in my ability to refute any argument I heard using Scriptural premises, introducing doubt and skepticism into the formation. Even worse, at times I was a sophist, arguing validly against their own argument, but knowing of an argument that would refute my own. I knew what was right from an argument I had quietly produced within my own mind, but because someone else could not produce it to me, I ignored it. I acted by what others could persuade me of, and kept truth locked up.

But the object of my affection loosed her hands when she saw how I writhed in pain. At first she was determined to help me finish the impalement, regardless of my squirming. But when it was clear I would not give in to death, she removed her hands from hilt, and even came to tell me not to give in to my own self-inflicted decimation when she saw the desire to coming upon me. I however, proud of my intelligence, continued to believe my will would prevail. And so there came to be a game whereby sometimes I pushed the dagger back in and she would pull it out, other times she pushed it in, and I was screaming to remove it. At last, I reckoned falsely that our affection for one another was based solely on this sick game, so I withdrew altogether, in order to work out my lust before myself with God as my benefactor and witness.

My parents, God bless them, whose biggest problem in youth was money, came to see it as the chief way to give my brother and I what we needed. It is not the money they see is all powerful, merely a means to many good things. What irony, in that both left the Church at such a young age only to raise a son who received everything he "needed" and wanted, only to be left hollow. I love them both dearly, and without their backbreaking efforts working, I would not have had some instruction in Biblical writings at such a young age, nor known my great mentors and friends, philosophy would not have taught me of love and God, and I cannot imagine what I would be now. If only they could see how God used them to shape me, they might realize God is already in their lives, calling vehemently to them. But I pray for them without ceasing, that I might articulate that the Church is not an edifice, nor is it a secular social club, it is not a place of self-help, it is not a do-gooders organization. How I wish I could dispel all the myths they have about the Church, that I might with but a few words explain to them what it is you have given me. For faith without works is dead, and deeds without faith is empty. And faith is only worked out in community, for alone we miss things and our limited intellect cripples our reason. Alone we would have no Scripture and your promises are made to communities. So whereby the promise is made to community, so too will the fulfillment come to community. And as every good community has well educated and intentional citizens, so too does the Church have such individual believers, but outside the Church the individual becomes the one lost sheep. And when the sheep lays down where it deems comfortable, ignoring shepherd and herd, what can be done other than to wait with patience, for the shepherd does not give up searching until he returns with the one back to the ninety-nine.

So I am left with begging and groveling, and hope by supplication that you will work in them wherever they are, through the things they have done or known, to make them desire to know You more. How do you explain to a blind man the magnificence of color? How do you express the joy of love to one who has never loved? We cannot. So we rest in good faith that you will search our hearts, for they lay open and known to you alone in fullness, and we hope that you will respond to the honesty of prayerful tears.

And for my brother, he finds his way into all my prayers, his name always spoken out loud during the prayers of the people. He is open to you Lord, but I sense much fear in him. It is a fear of where he will be though, how he will do. I pray always that you will use someone to show him the proper object of fear is you Lord, so that he might take a first step out of the wilderness and towards wisdom. But such fear does not look like the fear which haunts him so. It hurts me to see him infected with it. I know its song well, for when I was eighteen to nineteen it kept me paralyzed, and it was only by your unseen hand that I ended up where I needed to be. I know not where he is now, but I admit at the time I thought I was everywhere other than where I needed to be, so too he might be where you best place him. If I can be counted upon the righteous Lord, if even for a minute, by whatever deeds through faith might be looked upon as good, please let them grant me this prayer, that you will pull him into Truth.

It was through finding another attractive nuisance that I came to conquer my weakness, for through another I was able to see the damage that I did to myself, of the disgraces I committed, and grew to loathe lust. I would not give its fanciful thoughts a minute of the day, for they were to me immediately repulsive and damaging to myself and to the Body. And as I found myself in the Church once again I had others which might hoist me up, and help bear my burden when I was weary, through prayer giving to me one that was lighter and given freely. And although I found them in certain things to be lacking in wisdom, they most certainly had a will turned towards whatever they believed to be of you God. In them I learned my will was not and never would have the necessary strength to overcome my sickness. So I let go of the burden, placed it in the recesses of my mind, and dawned a new yoke, taking only to focus on it. And in time my own yoke was removed altogether, and I was allowed to stay with the lighter one. So my life knew a joy if but for a while.

Alas, the object of my affection wanted nothing of me. For I believed if one could come to show affection for me when I was with so much vice, then surely without it I would have more to offer. And that in coming closer to God, that all things would be as I so desired, as my desires had come to be for what I saw as a beauty in righteousness as God made them to be. So I stood shocked; God had pulled the blade out, my will accepting by motivation of one who helped me, the blind, to see. Now that I saw with such clarity, and began learning to walk again, I was left to wander alone. And though my heart remained for you, it did not cease to break in some ways and cause me great daily pains. I again was faced with my natural inclination to live with you, and avoid my fellow man.

Looking back on such manners, you have been ever generous in the gifts you have given me. I can think of no instance where I have not been afforded the opportunity to date every attractive nuisance I've laid eyes upon. In my earlier days, due to shyness, I never learned that it was a possibility until too much time had passed and I had not acted. And later, when I grew into some confidence and with patience I managed to date anyone that I wished if I remained patient. I don't tell you this lord to boast of some quality I believe myself to have. Rather I thank you for whatever it is, for I know by myself I am full of vice and qualities which are unattractive to say the least. I know not why this has been the case, and in my youth I prayed to you solely to get out of trouble and to help me get some girl I desired. I don't believe you made these things happen, but by some gift you have given me the ability to make the situations possible.

And how I abused them so. I lusted like creature. After I was done I would not speak to them, for their face became the face of my shame. To look upon them was to look within my own soul. The horror I saw inside was too much for me, so I cast them aside as if to run from myself. There was of course the one exception to this prior to my battle with all this, the one who gripped the handle with me. I purged myself of such evil lusts, found an angel, and thought myself on cloud nine. But just as I returned from a venture I returned to discover I was not good enough for her. There was nothing seen in me as beauty. So I rushed away and filled my life with study, for every moment I spent not reading was a moment with myself. And in those moments I couldn't bare my own mind. I wished it void. But as I cannot do this, I sought to overfill it with other things, until at last she might spill over and be forgotten.

You cradled me back to health though God. Despite my steadfast attempts to shut myself off to the world you would not let me. You put people in my life that dragged me along to things in which I could express my true thoughts without reserve and know I was safe. We enjoyed the company of one another and I thank you for them, and pray you use me for whatever they need too. Allow me to bear their burden in whatever way might be proper.

And as always I fell for some new attractive nuisance, pleased by exchange of witty banter and cuteness. So I for the first time in my life, defined a date as getting to know someone rather than a sure thing. And in doing so hurt another. For while through experience and wisdom you have given me, I have become entirely blunt and honest in such ordeals, and openly laid my cards on the table in a calm manner, as if I was speaking about the weather. And it was in this that some conflict arose concerning our "hands" which forbid me to pursue. And though I ask, "Why must I always submit Lord? Can't I have some leeway this time?" you know I am a jester at heart, and though I find my leash doesn't allow to go to all places and do all things, I still believe it constrains me to what is for my own good. Still, I find myself flirtatious, and though I know I ought stop, I have a difficult time doing so, for possibility has always been my cruel mistress. And if 'women' are the one bit of knowledge I hold to by empirical means, then so I find myself acting in a way consistent with such a belief. But alas, it is entirely possible now, but not with a matter of definition and right conscience and word towards belief in definition. For this matter I remain vague for it has yet to be resolved in its entirety in my mind, though I have acted in a way contrary to this.

And yet I receive messages from the past, which kindles a painful flame within me, eating my insides by viral memory, multiplying and replicating till I must shake my conscious violently to rid it of the sickness. For what would not spill over is mixed with what newness has been placed in, and the concoction makes me morally reprehensible to myself.

And secretly I wonder about celibacy. It is something entirely fearful to me. And all agree it is something you are called to. Discerning this is my difficulty. For some say in a most absurd fashion that it is discerned by what you feel. But there have been many a man set aside his hopes of a wife to serve you and found his life altogether rewarding and righteous. Others seek to make it a discipline required by all who seek the priesthood. I know I desire such things greatly, and my fear is sign of not wanting to admit possibility, for fear of actuality.

But for where I am at. I do not know what to do when my flirtatious nature rears up, unbeknownst to me until halfway through a conversation. What proper use is there for such things? I am not a charming man in and of itself. I am not an eloquent craftsman of speeches whom people love to listen to. Men and women and child don't gather around to hear my stories. But sometimes I have a certain behavior that attempts to charm those of the opposite sex and it likes to turn itself on when I'm not vigil.

Though I can say I desire marriage, desire is not enough to discern, nor make any claim that is said to be wise. For I do not seek a happiness that I define by my own desire then attribute to you, or search out Scripture to justify it. Rather I study and submit to the nobility of the words which you placed onto the oracles' tongues. And in doing so my beliefs about the world, nature, politics, relations, arts, ethics, and so forth change rapidly, but I do not falter or flutter like a flag in the wind. I rather stand strong on a rock, from which the waters of life spew forth, and I am quick to drink what newness they have to offer me, though they all be from what is unmoving. And so I experience stability and rejuvenation simultaneously.

There was a time when I did not. A time when I rested on assumption unknown to me, so I believed myself an educated and brilliant man, for I made no such concessions to things without proper justification. I was like a child observing a puppet show. I enjoyed the play and the characters, unable to see the strings, the sources by which the puppets stood and performed their dance and song. And though you remained in my mind as one such source, I had put you aside under a different cause of things than those that I dealt with in politics and philosophy. You were within those realms a wild card, to be brought in case of emergency, in case I was losing an argument and quickly needed a red herring. I used your name in ways unbecoming to what is due to you God. For that I am ever regretful, having treated you in such a way, as a means to an end, for some argument, more often than not fallacious in my youth, on some petty issue.

And of your name I did many other horrible things. For in my youth I was keen to lie to avoid the belt. Anything to avoid punishment for my misdeeds. I wanted nothing more than to do as I please and get away with my hide. If I could do so by trick turn of word, the more I reveled in my cleverness after having gotten away. But the oath was a strange twist of nobleness and corruption with me. I would lie often unless I began a statement with "I promise" or "I swear" because I was not about to let my yes be yes and my no be no when there were things to be had otherwise. And it was horrible that such qualifiers were needed for me to be honest, for I was not a lover of Truth at that time, though shoots were apparently sprouting. This promising signified a respect and honor for Truth which then I would not be able to explain. It was in dire moments when others did not believe my promises that I would swear by your name, as if on pains of death that I spoke not falsely. By the same strange twist, in one sense it showed a disrespect and looseness with your name, and by another an acknowledgment of you as somehow connected to Truth and life.

I must resign for now if I am to have any energy for the work that is required of me tomorrow. It is also the feast day of your beloved Apostle Luke, the Evangelist. The Church will no doubt be rejoicing what wonders and goodness you worked through him in life and after through his writings. And morning prayer is a great good in my life, though the time is not. There is much more to be said, that can be said, and some of this I have already laid before you and asked forgiveness, but I know through my baptism in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost that I have been forgiven of them all, spoken or not, for I have had a turning of a new conscience towards you, and so have categorically dismissed all that is proper to the name sin. Still, I feel closer to you, and believe there is more instruction and good to be had in deliberating on what those things are, so that I might become more astounded by what I have been forgiven of, and be more amazed at how far I have fled from my wanton ways, guided by you through the wilderness. For just as Christ was baptized and immediately tossed into the wilderness, where he was both ministered to and tempted, so have I been.

May the Peace of the Lord Be with You,
Gregory Blake

Green Nautilus

Green nautilus with the crest,
ocean depth, pearl is left
but what lies below, in a chest
like a tomb, life bereft
in a void, darkness set,
without gest, in half is cleft.

Out spill a soup of suds,
bubbled blood, microbe mud,
effervescent pack rising through ether like-
spirits to another land, out space, out of time,
till they must submit at top,
where they pop, forced to stop,
so it goes, so it goes
that we stop by what we know
though it hurts, though we squeal,
so too I submit to spin
to cathedral wheel.

Green nautilus with the crest,
shiny shell, polished smile,
Both always out to sea,
but I e'merge far too quick,
shoulda' stayed just a click,
please don't think ill of me,
so it goes, so it goes,
what a miss we compose.

Trains

Tracks run through my eardrums
like pins dropping on the floor
one by one
picking up in frequency, in decibels
approaching till the sound of metal
and whistles and steam and coal burning
fill my imagination.
A watch opens
and then a man writes down the time

a line leading off from somewhere to elsewhere
only passing through like,
like a glance in a hallway,
iris embers burn like comets,
a fiery entrance,
but quickly fade,
leaving behind but a wisp of smoke
and a whistle
coulda' woulda' shoulda'
train train
runnin' in muh brain

Poets' Memory: Preface

Consolidated favorite of my own written poems.

Age span of works is roughly 19-22. The 19-20's are especially embarrassing -- remember you put them there for memory, not necessarily to be lauded.

They have been categorized by topic, revealed by subtitle of entry.

They are not necessarily chronological.

Interestingly enough there seem to be many more poems from your younger days than from now.

By no means is this an all inclusive list of all your poetry.

Need to find them all as posted on internet, in notebooks, old papers stored away, etc. and make one book to keep on me.

Poets' Memory: Words a Slumber

Drift Through My Dreams
Nightlocks and padmares, synthetic mixtures,
Sickness from feminists, needing a tincture.
Gliding from hill to hill on neon machine,
These are the things that drift through my dreams.

Voracious hunters and yet to be lovers,
Regions and lands I've yet to discover.
Faceless horrors with dried up angel wings,
These are the things that drift through my dreams.

Lies and deceit from beloved family members,
Old friendships that never go out like embers.
And at the end I wake up when the world screams,
These are the things that drift through my dreams.

When Fenrir takes chase
And my machine crashes,
I am meal for the wolf of lore.
Consigning myself to the ashes,
I remember, "Tis a dream, and nothing more."

---

A Theme Without a Reason
A memory without a mind,
already gave it away
A memory in exile.
What a funny thing to say.

A dream without imagination,
washed grey by the flood.
A dream of untimely death,
retold with someone else's blood.

A rose without a color.
A face without a shape.
A solution without a care,
explain my dreams of late.

A park without amusement.
A house becomes a puzzle.
Arms and legs lost,
to sneering man with muzzle.

A mob boss with a vengeance.
From shock I seem to float,
as my brother goes to kill her,
from behind they slit his throat.

A town without a history,
fallen from the start.
Locals can't let go,
to let the souls depart.

A man slipped and fell
A girl tried to do her part.
But he still sat bleeding,
so I stabbed him in the heart.

---

A Zombie Ate My Dog
I saw a zombie the other day,
or at least I thought it might be.
Perhaps you could look at this,
And tell me if you agree.

He ate my dog with joy,
this vile creature of dark blight.
But all the while all I could think --
Zombies eat humans, right?

Why you eat my dog?
You wretched beast of hunger,
be gone from my yard at once!
Don’t shit on my lawn dogmonger.

I pick up my phone in anger,
"Yeah...yeah...he ate my pet."
We’ll send a car right away.
I was still too upset.

I paced back and forth,
until I’d had enough.
Stepped out my front door;
he didn’t look so tough.

I stood in my yard, watching silently.
He didn’t look much a threat.
So I crept up behind him.
Shadowed him with my silhouette.

At last I pounced this fiend,
slapped him on the neck.
He bit me on the forearm,
and I gave him a body check.

We crashed to the ground.
He bit and latched onto my wrist.
I tried to explain and apologize,
but he pet me with my fist.

He scratched my chest fiercely--
I poked him in his eye.
All the while he shit on me,
I screamed, "Why won’t you die!"

Choked him with my intestine,
that had spilled out my gut.
He picked up something by its leg,
It was my now half-eaten mutt.

Before I saw it coming,
He slapped me in the head--
Ate me slowly and with care,
till I was full dead.

Now I venture outward,
eating dogs is our trend.
And when owner comes to save them,
we make a new special friend.

Poets' Memory: Imaginary Things

Tango de Belita
Lace the night with notes,
summer's evening song.
Too swift is nightingale,
shall not lay in wait for long--
to be caged inside black bars,
como una melodía nocturna

Mist cries from scarlet eyes,
crimson petals bursting,
stepping feverously--yet
tears drop slow but with fury
and like pearls doth reflect,
mi flor de la luna.

Duh dum, dee dum, dee duh.
Watching from afar,
movement like mirages
as don quixote's tale:
imagines windmills to be dragons,
so he now sees florid bouquet,
though mystery be her veil,
su alma es olcultada en el baile.

Bloom like red carnation,
speak out like white though.
Dance in the wind for me,
and when finished--
fall as if morning snow.
Burn like fire at dawn.
Love like twighlight hour.
Cánteme el tango de Belita.

---

Lucid Cheshire
Can't trap the Lucid Cheshire:
The gritty teeth, bloodied shnozz,
He's the world's best supplier
For the Madness Law.

The cuckooswash sat on a poad
Gawking at what Alice had brought.
She curtsied polite, head upright,
"The Lucid Cheshire will be taught."

She lie in the garden to ensap
When Chesire came in full skip reverse,
Caggling at the Mad Hatter and Hare.
Vixen-Lily pulled out of her purse.

Took off his head, "Greetings," he said.
The elixir did infect --
What have you done? Quick make a pun!
And thus her mate was checked.

"Why should I save a Cheshire?" asked Alice.
"Because it's sanity that I will fear!"
"Put this in to sign your madness is mine,"
And since - a silver ring adorns his ear.

---

Foretaste
Poetry to my soul
A foundation made of gold
Tantalize with your eyes
You can't seem to disguise
That absorbing feeling
Your heart is what she's stealing.

Darker silky hair
Tossed about without a care
Sweet cherry lips,
Can't deny a sip
Flower in the wind,
Anchor against the sin

Keep your hand steady
Don't treat this as if it's petty
Jumping too ahead,
Listen to what is said.
Lest this turn into a race
Master of the foretaste.

---

The Seer
The stars are with me at night
Willows weep again in vain
My smoke swirls out of sight
Like a claw grasping in pain
I look at the stars over the water
They stare vacantly back at me
This lake holds all my past cigars
But nothing more will be

The moon is there to direct our fairs
Refereeing our silly games
To remind that it's play time again
Yet my mind thinks only of names
People call constantly, but I do not wish to hear
Their petty voices pierce my silent night
As I act out my role as seer
Giving good advice to myself, but not without a fight

It is the beginning of a lovely time
Yet it already feels like the end
I'm but a dozen for a measly dime
The mind that will not mend
I'd give up if I didn't see the good
Otherwise I would.

---

Angels and Dust and Rings
wine blue waters ring out like melodic bell
with thunder seeded clouds waiting to rupture
and by amber glow does fireflight shine
watch crescent waves slice sea like sickle

all the while fortunes do sirens sing
like nostalgic memories we let lids lie
to better envision the winged world
like thief, enters and leaves without notice
and whose words cannibalize our humanity
those untaken cry tears of ink for the dead
in hopes of passing pains of lesson by pen

salted souls ebb back to the sea
drawn back by beckon of Delphinius
both tide and men listen equitably
sand and blood left ashore
shrouded hand and face,
mirror dares not gaze upon scars
buckles and belts hold pieces together
of what once was a man

the sands of time have fallen out
and now the time no more
instead we play with pearly dice,
wrapping knuckles till they bleed
and neither rules nor rook nor
hearsay can say what we play today
it makes no sense but sense we do
for it begets a rule
a rule to which no sense is made
in the world as my tool
silly tool it may be, but silliness is me
when what we see are the strangest things
but angels and dust and rings

a promise here, a handshake there
a touch, a glance, a taste
of loony things with boots for words
shined brilliant and passed about
sunset now the light goes down
(and so they always say)
the boot loses lock and luster
so followers trek away

---

Cruel Tales
I wait for it readily
My dreams in guise
Why won't they come to me
Pour the sand into my eyes
Watch carefully
Both minds fighting for its love
Promises never kept
Surreptitiously
Tricking me while I slept
With the things never to be
Both hurt and soothe
Why not hand me both? How I need them both -

On those cold shores I lie
Unable to move or cry out loud
Descending silently
A dark angel in shroud
And kisses me softly
What am I to do?
Before the embrace can come
Awake to heart anew
Breaks without those cold, dark shores

Restlessly gliding through life
Dreams consume me
Grant wishes, nightmarish wife
If only a way I plea
For these cruel tales
Without any end in sight
Could be wrought with details
Manifest tonight
Come down to be my seer
If our worlds can collide
Then don't leave me alone to drown here

On those cold shores I lie
Unable to move or cry out loud
Descending silently
A dark angel in shroud
And kisses me softly
What am I to do?
Before the embrace can come
Awake to heart anew
Breaks without those cold, dark shores

And here I stand amongst
The terror rips my minds' seams
Choosing eternity of angst
Over the dream
The winged one I love
Who's touch breathes life into me
And the hand I'd rather shove
Then feel the desire by the sea
Why won't it leave me alone
If reality would only die
I could live this lie

Poets' Memory: Dark Nights of the Soul

Like A Memory
Like a memory long since passed,
romanticized and remodeled-
it plays again by perfect cast,
and forever - dream is coddled.

Like a scar from broken deal,
for the idle mind does pick it anew-
allowing evil to enter broken seal
as self-destruction doth ensue.

Like a flicker in a torrent,
surrounding silence still-
for the storm shall not warrant,
such a misguided will.

Like a lust for nothingness,
what is not can never be-
but desire is there none-the-less,
and takes from us its fee.

Like a wave upon the rock,
turning jagged edges round-
heard only by those on the dock,
though it hardly makes a sound.

Like a poem without reason,
we read what we want to hear-
deemed guilty of such literary treason,
without author, the art shall disappear.

---

Blossom or Rend
How fortunate I am to hear
The cliches so spoken oft to me
Dragon's Breathe stale to the tip
Of a tongue so vile, like a whip
Slash and burn all you love
Fit the noose like a glove

Years pass by in the wind
Vortex swirls to self-implode
Scars to come will never mend
Clutch onto your illusory node
Comfort yourself late at night
In the darkness lose the sight

Daybreak comes, tears pass away
Light to heal your worried mind
Any doubts put fast to bay
A slow rot ferments to bind
Root out the vegetation you accept
Find a secret to life best kept

Do not console with the light
Look deep inside your own soul
Blossom in the dead of night
Face your fears, take control
Become a master of your own fate
Know what is, and know what ain't

Watch as I take my only tool
Hand breaks through this mirage
To take what all thought untouchable
Those willing to learn, the entourage
Behold the molding of elements unseen
Flowingly controlled by the marine

So much one cannot command
But further more you fail to attempt
This world is too fake to understand
Don't fight or be consumed with contempt
Responsible only for your own actions
Do not apologize for others' reactions

Only we exist within this guise
Respect all's self-legislation
Human kind are the stars to rise
Within the empty space of isolation
To control another is to demean
The importance of Man into a machine

Label yourself accordingly, single-file
The fading jester too easily beguiles
The weak into a sense of pride
A silly practice that only divides:

Those that work only to survive
Expecting reverance for their ability in saving
Others who work so they may thrive
Pride in their ability to fulfill their craving

One is like an animal hording for a feast
While the other but a savage beast
What could such a life come to show
Honoring work for an empty quid pro quo

Laughing at absurdities is what I prefer
Than listening to those who clearly err
Please forgive my zealotous fervor
The passionate rants of this world's observer

People may come, they certainly will go
Only we can decide how it must end
Do not place yourself on a plateau
For it to be born from the earth you will rend
Rock will shear, your heart will tear
In the finale, left with nothing but despair

---

Prayer of the Cosmos
infinite world, stretching on and on
things rise and fall...
ever change--ing,
will it start? will it end?

can i find, efficient cause
or final way
why this rather than no--thing?
what's it mean? what's outside?

echo voice to justify
but silence reveals
all evade full explana--tion
do you see? do you know?

waves crash upon the mind
feel the drow--ning
sinking in, deeper still
nothing yet? feeling wet?

place my hand on many things
explain one by one
question re--mains
why are these? why right now?

launch from pad into space
look on planet from afar
for my face
who's this man? who're you?

continue on from moon to moon
still I find no man
he's long gone
where's his smile? where's his warmth?

long at last, I reach the end
to find the end of space
now I'm face-to-face with the beginning
is this it? now I rest?

find myself on other side,
of the world
can't escape this circular map
let me pass, let me pass

so I've seen all there is
understand every thing
but not everything
what is it in the first place?

sail into port, my boat to tether
preparing for weather
since I know,
what will be

walk inside, to order a drink
sit stoicly, whilst tv's flash
in bar stool I sink
beaten horrendously

then it strikes me
necessity, necessity...
'truth taking of facts,' I sing
'of beings and things'

so flow my thoughts
like river bends
blockades broken down
row my boat, down the stream

now I fall to my knees
in tearful plea
In nomine Patris, et Filii,
et Spiritus Sancti
Amen

---

Cosmos
Starry chaos...
I love your glow.
And if I should travel
then you should know...

Blast from the past--
like a cone of light,
across comet trails,
further than your sight,
leaving stardust tails
across your starry night.

Lone wanderer,
cowboy pioneer,
searching sailor,
I shall have no fear.

Jump from orbit to port,
without much a care.
Stolen cargo to be picked up,
a man to drop dead there,
forgot what it means to be lost,
just another modern day Faust.

Cosmological, technological,
and when I find what I'm lookin' for
I'll see it's eschatological, perhaps alogical,
and then maybe I'll complete this score.

Burning up in the blackness of space,
singing along to my song.
Fools--even in void they race,
headin' no-where too long,
but I ain't in a hurry,
I just float on.

---

Arcane
olden days, the olden ways, arcane in nature still
desire for the wise path, though he cannot find the will
moons long dead and suns burnt down, long, long ago
in a world of toil and blood where writers romanticize the crow
a man with eccentric ways, asked of older days, a simple question
to what time or place did older, better ways slide into regression
where the dawn of time, the birth of man, held some nobility
before justice, the good, and love were reduced to vile utility

how strange the man, how peculiar his ways, outmoded at their best
from speech, to stance, his food, his drink, he seemed to be depressed
off in a land of ancient dreams where men wore honesty on their sleeves
but once awake a glance reveals a world left empty by wretched thieves
so now he prefers a darkened room with just himself and chair
inside a world only seen through the windows behind a vacant stare
rotting slowly in a haze, unable to let out a shout, a sign, a breath
to show some life, but its too late, a single tear marks his death

---

Pride
Fiery salamander, gifted of the tongue
Your father hung, take a gander
At why his words, savvy-sensed
Made them wince, those of the herd.

Their self-worth, spoilt before it's time
Heart shrouded in grime, it's hell on earth
Fault of the finite, the incessant vainglory
Death will strip you of worry, the final cold claw.

Ancient Athens, Shining Sparta, & Reputable Rome
They all fall, lets wrap this up, I'm coming home.

---

Poem of People

"The boredom that now belates my bookish ball deeply bothers this buffoon. Being of which is this burlesque beat. I broach to you a man bolting and bounding back-and-beyond in a state of mental blues. For surely a brood of people as being in this nation's body could bolster enough brains to spend a bit of time to brainstorm on their so-called beliefs. Tis a burden or a blessing? This world is bursting to the brim with beaus and bunglers and neither man nor beast to bite into the banality that is civilization's bunkum and bull.

My babbling must end, so allow me to bequeath you with one final barb to bring this broad biases to the bottom line...no more booby breeding."

-Blake

---

A Tribute to the Tipton
Here's to Blake Tipton
Who can spit out nine million words when it's something vulgar
Yet can't speak more than a mouthful in a normal conversation.
A man who prides himself on stripping down other's values,
When his own change so frequently as to not exist.
Here's to Blake Tipton
Who tries so hard to master his own passions and emotions
That he forgets how to express them when he wants to.
A man who has learned comfort in independence and solitude,
So he no longer needs friends and relationships.
Here's to Blake Tipton
Who justifies the world with his reason
Only to destroy what little beauty lies within life.
A man so sure about everything
That he knows nothing.
Here's to Blake Tipton...

---

In A Land of Shelves
The storms reign here for all days to come
Gray spreads making all things numb
Nothing lives in the munchkin town where it snows;
A town forbidden, except for the crow

Walk down the yellow bricks
All but travellers in the River Styx
A scarecrow strewn across the field
A metal guise forever sealed.
Vultures swoop the furred carrion
Welcome to the realm of the barbarian

Poppies float majestically in the sky
An emerald castle in the wry
Simian gargoyles rape the land
Oz has long since been banded

There is no hope here for you and me
The wing of the witch, a veil on all you see
From the tower she watches through a ball,
Of glass and crystal, to see it All.
Pick up that scythe, lets start to hack.
So many wrongs, we've all lost track.

Virtue, honor, glory, talent, and skill,
Things all used with the Good Will.
Now gone, for they lived for themselves
In a single blow they're put on the shelves.

---

The Dock
I'm sitting on the dock again
Bullfrogs and crickets talking
I can see the end of the world
And everything above
The stars beyond

Weeping willows say to the left
The breeze passes through me
And brilliant ash hovers
Avoiding the water below
The dark waters
That hold part of my being

My feet rest on these old boards
Ivy grows over the palm trees to my sides
Pulling them to the ground
The fish splash water under me
As the ash hits the water they strike
Believing food is there for them

This hoody reeks of smoke
Built from many a night
Including tonight
Those sad and lonely nights
Where I forged myself
Full of anger and hatred
Cynical of the world around me
Though I loved where I was

Contempt for being content
My home
Where I learned to be
Rather than inside
Doing homework
For the next day

I love my parents
And appreciate all they've done
However.
As a person,
I raised myself
I am who I am
For my own thought processes
Hours of contemplation
For solutions
Might be why we clash so often

But now when I visit
I don't step foot on it
For fear of a trap
Not wanting to release me
Do I need it anymore?
Am I fearful of a final lesson?
Why am I personifying a dock?

---

My Design
I don’t claim to be your morality
I just want to live by the sea
Don’t give me back what I’ve said,
All that matters is what’s here and ahead

I don’t claim to be the one,
Nor know what I’m supposed to do.
I’m not here to cry and run,
I’m just a man looking for you.

So tired of games and preparation,
For things I won’t bring up in meditation.
I’m blind and ignorant but willing to learn,
If I could only find friends with the same concern.

I’d be happy as a ditch digger or clerk
With nothing to my name but me.
Sleeping on a floor can’t take my smirk
Because my spirit is always free.

I’d never tell anyone, but I can read your mind.
And am getting good at reading mine.
Somehow you are the key so I can find
How I work: my thoughts, feelings, my design.

---

My Words are like a...
[Insert favorite hyphe song, sing along now]
My mind's so confused like a nutjob ward,
pieces layin' about like a scrabble board.
Every question is yes and no, this and that -
always wanting more like a greedy little rat.
I mix all the ideas up like a master chef,
but all my concoctions are tone deaf.
No rhyme nor reason, aesthetics take over,
I want parts and a whole like an Irish clover.

I'm organizing everything like a coin sorter,
Taking brick and mortar,
reconstructing the world,
But my mind becomes twirled, swirled, unfurled.
It's a healthy challenge and makes me happy,
like an old 50's show, it's always sappy.
The sweet flavor from the tears of a tree I mean,
keeps me awake and aware like life's caffeine.

So many assumptions, presumptions, what to do?
Stuck with intuitions, useless missions, why pursue?
I'm wrapped in gold, my soul is sold.
And it'll only get worse as I grow old.
A mercenary whose job is necessary,
a canary to carry the word to bury the contrary.
My dissatisfaction is my life's joy
like a sadomasochist playing with its toy.

My finesse is to caress those in distress,
but alas I digress, I'm not here to impress.
I profess I've had little success,
but change for it's own sake can be regress
like an Obama speech that preaches progress.
Ow, I'm mean, I'm mean, sorry my Queen.
But people eat it up like fine cuisine,
when I submerge from such ideas like a submarine.
In that way I stay clean and pristine,
avoid the smoke screen, stay keen, and find the unseen.

---

Am I a Reflection?
what man do I appear to be?
I see myself
from outisde
memories in 3rd person
my memories always are
as if watching movie

am I the escapist
eating apple and drinking tea
headphones on
wrapped in own world
pondering silently
or writing furiously
blank expression
the cold stare
never making eye contact
some strange man
off in his own world
ignorant others exist
and even if he did know
cared for others things still

am I the thief
racoon eyed bandit
long nights
longer mornings
worried of the world,
stealing my time
a yawn with apathetic brow
wandering eyes
nonchalant tone
and a knack for the morbid

am I the jester
charismatic and energetic
breaking ice with words
twinkle in the eye
assuming all have the same confidence
so some laugh, others hurt
but jokes continue
like jack-n-the-box
pop out everytime
and always on cue

am I the guardian
eyes ablaze
stentorian roar
veins pumping
all the rage and fury
to defend some innocent
is it even just,
how do I know innocence
perhaps I am the weak,
idiot lackey
taken advantage of for protection

am I a reflection
where my origin
origin of idea
personality, &c.
perhaps some bare thing,
to which other things,
may express themselves

am I my own mystery person?
or is this all, silly game
I create someone
other than self
when I try to look outside-in
in this manner
in trying to reflect,
I create mirror
instead of seeing thing at start

Poets' Memory: Tokyo Rose

Affliction
I wish I could fly;
I wish I knew how.
My volition is heightened,
I hope enlightened.
I awake from stone--
rejuvenation.
Venture into unknown,
lose concentration.

Something melodic,
notes soak in the walls.
Piano on the air
plays everywhere.
Enchanted by her Nocturne;
deadly addiction.
Bitter-sweet, I will yearn--
for her affliction.


From Rain and Jade
Rolling winds shape her hair
And from starlit eyes I cannot tear,
My own away from this ensnared stare--
From Rain and Jade, she was made.

Be it destiny, doom, freedom, or fate-
Carved by craftsmen from marble slate
And from her slumber I cannot wait--
From Rain and Jade, she was made.

What is this thing between you and I?
How can it exist after we say goodbye?
The intangible world I cannot deny--
From Rain and Jade, she was made.

What is this Connexion I cannot name?
Alas! Alas! I cry in vain.
What's it mean when I explain--
From Rain and Jade, she was made.

From rain we can begin anew.
Within the soul does jade imbue
Ability to Love through and through—
From Rain and Jade, she was made.



Twilight
What stars and fires can be seen far below,
a vastness lies await in serene shadow.
Little wisps of worlds skitter to and fro.
Lucidity is the starry night's Van Gogh.

Clear as night, star can be found--
within the eye of queen's own crown.
Shrouds her heart in blackness abound--
but masque reveals a heart to pound.

At last, at last, the time anigh,
like a comet in the sky,
like a flower in the rye,
never forever is the goodbye.

Recrudesce upon new world's frontier--
like stargazed lovers on ocean's pier,
know the waves and moon as they appear,
but the night's events have yet to premiere.

So silver man & dawn create new domain
A world where both can be contained
The witching hour will this day remain
Until twilight comes over life to reign.


Noble, Noble Pufferfish
Noble, noble puffer fish
Your swollen lips and changeling eyes,
your cantankerous mood and swollen glands
For we as men of reason and science now know
that thy poison doth originate in thy ovaries
How expected I chuckle
And as a footnote write down sometimes from the liver too.

Oh puffer fish, noble puffer fish
And I, as a fool, are allured to the cause--
of your aposematism, bright lights, vivid colors
not having learned these are no-no's
I place my hand on the hot oven anyway

Oh puffer fish, noble puffer fish
your cheeks so swollen,
and your threats ring out for all to hear
but you are weak and just blowing hot air
or water, as the case may be.
I know your real nature, oh tetraodontidae
and have grown immune to your toxin

Oh puffer fish, noble puffer fish
your textrodotoxin is weakened
and will only succeed in making me
lightheaded, intoxicated, and with numb lips
but nothing a day won't help me recover from

---

Crown and Limericks
There once was a boy from the bay
Who sat eating his curds and weigh
His fork to the right
And always polite
How fake he is they used to say
There once was a girl from Nantucket
Whose mouth spilled out shit from a bucket
Always with the tears
Except when with a beer
Can't reason with her, so fuck it
There once was a ghost from a small town
Who laughed and joked like a clown
Never serious
Always delirious
I guess that's why he's renown
There once was a visit from the ghost
Who haunted the boy from the coast
He laughed outright
At the boy at night
Who's own manners he did boast
There once was a dream of the past
For the girl who could make nothing last
Stirring up a fight
Told her she's right
Then giggled at her lack of a mast
There once was a boy from nothing
He wished only to make himself something
Forgot all his fright
Learned not to fight
And now he laughs with ghost chastising

---

Ode to an Ornament
We used to laugh and smile
Always together, even if for a while
Then it happened, neither knows
Turned each other into foes
Raw emotions ever reigned
Fighting on, feelings feigned
Why do we continue with this bout?
Please don't cry, no need to pout
It's all over now, no room for doubt
There may have been a flame
Now it's a wisp, no need to claim
Who did what or how or when
I walk off with an empty grin
No satisfaction or haughty smirk
Just a common face seems to work

Why do we continue with this bout?
Please don't cry, no need to pout
It's all over now, no room for doubt
Wasted time! We both cry aloud
Knowing otherwise - just a shroud
Hide the feelings that still linger
Fresh in the mind, touching fingers
Touch to feel, feel to affectionate kiss
A beautifully orchestrated - near miss
Why do we continue with this bout?
Please don't cry, no need to pout
It's all over now, no room for doubt
Once willingly given it can no longer exist
Any feelings will always have that twist
Don't call or write, stop torturing me
No more bothering, it's not to be
Like a beautiful ornament, see its gown?
Easy to put up, hard to take down.

---

The Silver Man That Plays At Night
The silver man that plays at night
Lives the life uncertain.
When he's done - for he never learns,
Dawn's rosy fingers doth burn him.
But the silver man's tears go unwept
His form wanes away
Just another sunrise in his life,
His destroyed by the day.
And what of dawn? Why she's no one.
Assimilating here and there
Embraces the emptiness of her life
Wasting away without a care.
And in the twilight, two collide
Swaying to and fro
And in the abyss of nothingness
A moderation is born.

Poets' Memory: The Sea

Lullaby for the Lost

Upon dark waters' furious storm
lies in wait, void and without form,
in the deep sleeps the Kraken of Nought,
to devour your world if you be caught.

If you should know how to swim away,
then from woeful end you can belay --
but if at once, you, should he eat,
know he cannot make you incomplete.

For if you should stand in abyss alone,
surrounded by dark, fearful unknown,
does not mean you are forever lost
even though from escape you may exhaust.

Although we fear that we will drown,
have hope that some way will be found.
For if you stand, then you exist--
by presence have negated the lone abyss.

From clap-trapped jaws you shall emerge
into the arms of others to converge
all trying on their eternal quest
to discover what in life is best

And so you can rest from false surmise,
sleep now my sweet, close your wearied eyes.
And the Kraken of Nought may take his leave
back into his world of make believe.

---

Blue Bottle Pier

Some men get wore down by the world's toil and strife,
Others are beaten by the heart ache of life.
A few have shameful regrets they'd never tell another man;
Fewer still were broken before they ever began.
No matter the reason why they don't want to confide,
Their worries and follies and tears are welcome inside
At the Blue Bottle Pier down by the ocean's shore,
Where the moonlight stops at the old saloon door.

It's always cheerful at the Sharkpen Grin:
Hot meals and beds welcome all sorts of men.
And Sailor's Delight has all night jumpin' and jivin'
to the sound of the guitar and the fiddle and violin.
But there ain't no place for those who're barely survivin'--
Except for the one at the end of the beach
That no one except the wandering ever reach.

The Blue Bottle Pier, where the sun never rises--
Where the flotsam and jetsam come to take off disguises--
Where bartender nor patrons ever chastises,
For each knows his fault and others see it in each's eye.
And all think they've congregated each night to die,
But each feels better when he pays his tab and waves goodbye.
So the next night he wanders through the sand and moonlight maze,
Past the crash of the waves and the star's hovering gaze
To sit by the glow of other broken men trying to fix their ways.

Now I got a bottle of jack and this dark bar den,
And a tooth pick hangs from the corner of my chin.
And the shadow on my face tells of the hopelessness settin' in.
Nobody says a thing but "How's it goin' man?"
Everyone knows why anyone shows up here;
Pour themself a shot and swing their hands silently in cheer.
This ain't a place to laugh, joke, fight, or jeer--
Always open for the broken, it's The Blue Bottle Pier.

---

The Jaded Coral

The clouds ahead covered the moon, most translucently
Clear as ever for those who endeavor, an eternal guarantee
For some captain, duke, count, admiral, or even a marquis
A light for those who wish to discover - how to be set free

An ancient ship from days of old floated fairly nigh
As if to come just in sight to whisper so that I'd reply
I'll wait and listen til the end, to hear it's final goodbye
Take my command into stride with a fair, "Aye, Aye."

Out upon the lavender sky, it rocks with all the waves
Amidst the darkest heart of waters it takes something to the grave
The secret lying in its mast, a shipwright who did engrave
A way to freedom in every board, to save every man the slave

I sat in wait, long all night, digging into the sand
A hole I dug fiercely, watching it ever expand
Blinded by a sudden flash, a name shone through my hand
Here was what I had looked for, time to make a stand

With nothing but myself to witness the story of the ship
I paced about the darken'd shore recording this very script
On sandy parchment with a conch I wrote with fearsome grip
The only evidence that will ever be, of the Jaded Coral's crypt

Out upon the lavender sky, it rocks with all the waves
Amidst the darkest heart of waters it takes something to the grave
The secret lying in its mast, a shipwright who did engrave
A way to freedom in every board, to save every man the slave

The longer I sat there to watch, the larger the ship became
Until, at least it seemed, as if I were there the same
The crew scurried furiously, the Cap'n did proclaim
Every man to his post, we'll beat the sea at its game

But choppy waves tumbled in, and the wind cared not to blow
And those not careful were cast aside into the ocean far below
With a mighty roar the Captain yelled, "Grab an oar and row!"
Nowhere did they move that night, caught in the lunar woe

Out upon the lavender sky, it rocks with all the waves
Amidst the darkest heart of waters it takes something to the grave
The secret lying in its mast, a shipwright who did engrave
A way to freedom in every board, to save every man the slave

When the moonlight hits the sea, but not up on the shore
The barnacles speak to the fish - in a rapturous rapport
Beckoning the sails to the bottom until forever more
With only foam to show, it melts to the ocean floor

And those who watch the sinking of the fabled Jaded Coral
Can see the sailors squabble, fight, and scream in eternal quarrel
As the Cap'n fades away he recites the sea's final moral
The mariner's time to chip in, and so goes down the choral

Out upon the lavender sky, it rocks with all the waves
Amidst the darkest heart of waters it takes something to the grave
The secret lying in its mast, a shipwright who did engrave
A way to freedom in every board, to save every man the slave

---

The Crooked Eel

Captain, kind Captain,
Tell us a tale -- of
Booty, blood, buccaneers,
Sea serpents, and oceanic fears.
Tell us of beautiful nights,
Lovely sights, and the easy life.
Show us the way and teach us right,
And let your imagination be our sight tonight.

Fine are your words but finer still,
is the Tale of the Crooked Eel.
Keep on drinking boys and listen up,
For the tale I tell is about your cup.

Ocean horizon covered by the mist
And squalls push whitecaps forth.
Sandy empires failingly resist,
Borealis flying East by North
With his nightcaps and sheets,
Maliciously stirs up an unholy treat.
Lightning bolt strikes like quill to paper,
Slowly releasing a putrid vapor,
With electric ink the bottle obtains a seal.
And those who know how it’s made,
Call it the Crooked Eel.

And if you dare to drink it --
The shock will fill your soul,
With deep regret, you will submit
And allow fate to take its toll.

The sun sets down, twilight is now.
The moon comes out, worry fills your brow.
From your rack you lie so still,
Now in the air comes a sudden chill.
All light vanishes from out the door
No need to fight, nor ignore,
The whispers heard up from the deck;
It rustles and scrapes across your neck.
At night they come to feed off your fear,
The corner shadows from which they appear.
When at last you’ve had enough,
Question, "Who’s there?" sounding tough,
Snatches you down to Davy Jones’ Locker.
That’s why the Crooked Eel is such a shocker.

But perhaps you’ve all heard too much,
Men don’t believe in myth and such.

Oh Captain, our Captain, that seems but a part,
Tell us the ending before for bed we depart.

Alas, my children, don’t you see,
The Locker is no place for man to be.
A drowning force without the death,
Dragged screaming without a single breathe.
A dark place, the ocean’s bottom level,
Full of serpents, locked in with blue sea devils.

And in exchange for each soul, each man,
Ale Master receives a renewed lifespan.
But a moment of immoral deed,
Can give him what we all really need.

Now drink hardy boys if it’s all the same;
Everyone cheer and finish your brew.
Tonight they come for your lives to claim,
For the Crooked Eel I’ve given every man, my crew.

Because I Am A Fool...

I launch myself into my punching bag. With every several punches I leap back, switch footing, and jump back into the oncoming enemy, adjusting myself carefully to ensure first blow. There is grunting, panting, and a popping noise with melodic frequency. I never know when to stop a song.

I play it over and over until there is nothing enjoyable in the melody anymore. It sits on repeat, one, two, three times. It drags on and on, far past the point of enjoyment, and into pain. And then my knuckles bleed.

The skin comes off with glazing blows, repetitious hits tear at the finger joints. After I stop I take four giant breathes, exhaling slowly, and go about my activities. The skin is pink like puppy paws for a few days, vibrant with color, reactive to every touch. Eventually they scab over and begin to itch.

And then I find myself scratching the itches. But I'm careful not to injure them further, contemplating all my actions so as to ensure no further damage. Eventually they become red with hardened blood like the scales of a dragon. I note how similar Acario is to his brothers, he models them in many ways.

I find papers in my hand, commentary on Song of Songs as allegory, interpreted by so many patristic authors. Some of their ideas destroy the metaphor, others build it up. I'm not in the down at my hands.

I believe they are ready for another go at the punching bag because they have become so hardened from their last experience. Yet only after a few hits I am bleeding again. Doesn't take much does it?

I reopen the wounds on my own accord -- because I am a fool.

Day 3

DDS - Day 3

I've spent most of the afternoon studying Greek. I've got the alphabet about down but I tire now. I am excited to already begin practicing recitation of Matthew 1:1-17. It shall begin on Friday. By Christmas time I should be able to discuss the Christmas story in Koine Greek.

Dinner consisted of a baguette, which I split between myself and my roommates. Desert was watermelon, which we shared out in the open field outside our apartment on a picnic table whilst discussing times of doubting faith. It is good that we can laugh about the days events, discuss theology of suffering, and share a meal together. I enjoy them very much as brother and sister.

More books arrived today. I'm quickly amounting a second library. My classes are as follows:

• Old Testament
• Church History: Early to Medieval
• Koine Greek
• Music in Liturgy

My favorite will probably be Church History, I am most excited about Koine Greek, and am intrigued to see what Music in Liturgy will concern, especially since it is highly focused on the Episcopal liturgy and uses their hymnals, and respective companions. One cost $200. What the hell.

I am both a night owl and an early bird at this point. I have gone to bed in a range of 2:00 to 4:00 am and have managed to get up every morning around early to mid 7:00 range in time for morning prayer.

Morning prayer is a great activity in my life. It is often liturgical in nature, giving me beauty and content in music. I have realized how much contemporary music has lost a sense of timing when they play. There is no subtlety, no layering of notes, no structure in the singing. It is altogether lacking in techne, and listening to practicing choirs with professional music worshipers makes this apparent. This doesn't go to say that God is necessarily more available due to this, merely that these individuals have well developed talents, worked out in time and strife, tried in the fires of experience, and are pinnacles of what Christian arts ought to aspire to. Just because God is available, regardless of the quality of music, doesn't mean we ought not to work towards higher arts.

Classes in the afternoon are non-existent. Chapel occurs at 11:25 which will soon become another great thing in my life. I have many times of concentration available, much spiritual formation both in classes, individual time, as well as communal time.

Ignatius of Antioch makes great arguments for why Christology, or a right understanding of Christ via reason, is necessary for proper discipleship. For how are we to be disciples, to be martyrs when the time comes for us to bear our own crosses, if we know not what Christ did, or for what reason do we do a thing? I love him for this. However, his one argument concerning his proof of Christ's having really suffered and really having a body is circular, ending with a quite hysterical rhetoric device, 'Why else would I throw myself to the beasts?' as if this proves his point. Of course those he seeks to respond to, followers of Docetism, which held Christ's body was but apparition, could merely ask, "That is a good question Ignatius. Why are you going to?" Ignatius would be back at the beginning of the question, and trying to prove Christ really died with a physical body in order to justify his position, but this was contingent on Christ having had a physical body. Circular, see? The phrase is so funny I've been repeating it to my roommates all day and found it quite operative in a number of situations.

Interview went well with Duke International House, if all goes well and they'll overlook my not being on Work-Study I believe I definitely have the job. At least one of two interviewers whispered to me before I left, "You're refreshing. I'll be pulling for you." God willing, I might have a job driving international students to the social services office and DMV, as well as coordinating a conversation partner program...again. And all the other nitty gritty job duties like filing paperwork, answering some phones, and so forth. Both of the interviewing women seemed to like me very much, and were impressed with my prior experience in the field. God is Good, yes?

The apartment above me runs a Chinese home church. I believe they are followers of Witness Lee (Li?), which I haven't done much research on yet. We can hear them singing hymns to the tune of Yellow Submarine everyday at 7:15, well until school started. Now it's a once a week thing. But for a while, we enjoyed Chinese singing with our dinners.

I purchased a box of cigarettes but am now out. My late night smokes will necessarily cease, short of me pulling out the hookah, though I do not wish to do so by my lonesome. Although I have the notion neither of my roommates are into any form of smoking.

I've been going to Saint Phillip's here in Durham on East Main Street. I've yet to explore other churches yet but they seem warm enough, old enough to be Episcopalian, they have several active ministries, and a wonderful gated garden outside where one can volunteer at. They seem entirely in step with the "orthodoxy with progressive ethic" that is common here at Duke. It is refreshing. It is not a political agenda justified through religion, rather a religion justifying political actions, which I saw much of in my Old Testament class.

Within Genesis itself we discussed the notion of "helper," as Eve is discussed, using intercontextual references within other books to extrapolate the concept of helper as a responsible custodian. It is clear this responsibility entails work. This destroys the concept of there being no work in Eden, but rather that the consequences of the fall were not work, but toil. At the same time it is said that God settled adam (human), which in Hebrew is to give rest and peace. There is a strange need for both rest and work, though not toil. This custodian or helper concept was used much to describe the Hebrew kings of old, who, when honored in the books, are said to be righteous or walk in God's ways because they took care of the needy, the poor, clothed the naked, shepherded the sheep, sought the lost, and so forth. Those kinds who were wicked were said to be the opposite; those shepherds who fed themselves, rather than the flock.

Interestingly enough, there were four major strands of Judaism that I at least know of: Pharisees, Sadducees, Zealots, and the Apocalypticists. The tribes of Israel first became well established between 1300-1050 BC in which they have what we know as the "religion of Israel" (Placher). There is often a distinction between this religion of Israel and Judaism, when in 400, after the prophets having lost sight and much of running through the cycle of enslavement and freedom, the priest Ezra established the Law as the center to keeping the tribes alive. This special focus is what characterizes the difference in the religion of Israel and Judaism according to some historians. It was in this time that the four branches became popularized. The Pharisees concerned themselves with keeping the Law, the Sadducees with the rituals of the Temple, the Zealots with plots to raise Israel back to power through politio-militaristic means, and the Apocalypticists claimed right to an ancient text which provided them interpretation of the Torah, specifically focusing on this returning king, son of man, anointed one, and so on -- predicting some form of an apocalypse. This final strand was, from what I gather, a minority. And although most people weren't formal members of any, these strands were highly influential. Through Christ's ministry this Apocalyptic view took precedence in what became the Jewish-Christians. How interesting.

Also of interesting note is the myth of Christian witch hunts as performed by the Romans. There is no text to suggest so, they're actions were often to attack a leader, but never overt, massive persecutions. Pliny the Young wrote asking what Rome's policy was concerning this sect, commenting he'd never been to any execution of one before. Again, Ignatius was arrested, and his followers came to visit him in the prisons, he even urged them not interfere for he saw this as his time of martyrdom, his time to bear his cross -- but if they came to see him, and witch hunts were the fad, then why not arrest them as well? There simply doesn't seem to be any historical precedence for such theories. The persecutions were by and large, unofficial and only done against some leader, often based on false perceptions of ideologies, particularly that Christians were incestual since they're lovers were also brothers or sisters in Christ, homosexuals for greeting one another with a kiss, and/or cannibals for having partaken in the flesh and blood of this Jesus Christ character. Interestingly enough, while Pliny dissolves these accusations, he deems them worthy of execution due to their obstinacy to follow Roman custom. The Roman virtue of pietas bound politics and religion together so tightly together, fancying gods founded Rome, but not denying other gods, that the Romans had a sort of forced universal toleration, in which you may worship whatever god you please, so long as you don't deny the Romans. This does not mean they were out forcing everyone to actively worship Zeus or Apollo, simply that they had no issue with people worshipping other gods so long as they remained politically active in the community, come to the games, the parades, and so forth, for these are to worship the gods in a way. To worship the gods is to acknowledge Rome, to acknowledge Rome is to worship the gods. Christians in rejecting the meats of livestock sacrificed to idols, denying to join such festivities, were essentially marked as seditious.

There was a sense of respect the Romans had for antiquity, for what was ancient and lasting was tried and true. Thus, the Jews had a special place of respect, for while they were a little crazy, their continuity of culture had lasted. As Dr. J. Smith, my professor put it, "To the Romans, the Jews might have been crazy, but they were ancient crazy, so it was okay." The Christians fell under this categorical umbrella of protection until the non-Christian Jew majority ousted the Christian-Jewish sector as "not being Jewish." The Romans thus see a new, progressive religion, not tried in true, which violates pietas, making them worthy of punishment by the state and the gods. Even then though, it was not a massive, ongoing persecution, but as prior said, local and unofficial in most cases.

My dreams are brutish. They no longer need dark, haunted themes to leave me shaken, stirred, or sick feeling, they now take on a whole new motif. What is light and cheerful, becomes painful upon dawn. But if I cram enough information down my throat I will not have time to dwell on such things. Time does not cure all things, but time well spent makes the possibility of certain pains impossible. We do not overcome, we forget. And so long as we move in the polar position to the source, there is no time to remember. Unless you sleep. Perhaps I would make a better wrong-a-gong-gong than a night owl and early bird when this becomes a problem.

Overall, I am quite content upon entering a spiritual community which understands the place of reason and discourse in discerning what it is we shall believe, what it is we should worship, what it is we ought to feel. Such academic investigations are "humble yet daring," and I have yearned for them for sometime now.

- D.E. Machina

And Lo

I am beast, writhing in my cage
feeding off urges
always urging
do this, take this, want this
but alas, these shackles!
For I am enslaved to righteousness
and am victim to what cannot be undone.
Look now, I am in need of water,
but will be the blinded devout
what beauty guides me to drink
of the fresh springs of life in this desert,
what manna can be found on this dry hill.
But what price am I to pay?
Perhaps I am the gatherer of too much,
or partake more than my share,
for though I reach with barren hands,
to drink, to eat,
I am scarred, and my eyes are plucked out.
Now I am the blinded devout.
And though I come to drink of the waters,
beauty holds back my hand,
to say, I do not wish to give you water
so I cannot partake of my fill
Thus, even though I might drink of hands
a cup would give plenty,
give it form and hold much more,
than these broken, bleeding hands can
So I sip and stagger back out into the wastelands
And dream of a day Yahweh,
when you will take me out of this land,
and lay me down in green pastures.
Now the beast has no taste
and though he occasionally rears up in rebellion
the blind cannot follow what they cannot see
and are not often motivated by what they cannot experience.



"And lo, the beast looked upon the face of beauty, and beauty stayed his hand. And from that day forward, he was as one dead."

An American Tale

In the beginning was the West. And it was ruthless and was all about some vigilante justice. Now a trio had come to this 'ole town right outside El Paso back in the day, it was like 18-hundred-n'somethin' years ago. So anyway, this fella' Jesus walks in with his posse, Joseph Smith and the Champion Verger.

So this Jesus is all decked out in cowboy gear; he's got the hat, the holsters, and the piece of hay danglin' from his grizzled jaw -- his eyes shaded by the brim of his dusted hat. He rolls from town to town, orderin' drinks at the bars, just a boozin', and man was he a lady killer! Why he'd tip up his hat and shoot a woman a glance and if she didn't drop what she was doin' and come to wait on him hand and foot.

Now old Joseph Smith, José we call'd him , he was a son-of-a-gun, known for rappin' a man or two upside the head with these stones he curried in his pockets. Better yet he was quickly identified by his stovepipe hat, which gave him an air of sophistication, but rumor of his mean streak made his manner that much more frightening, like one of them dogs that looks civilized cuz of it's collar but might turn on ya' any minute.

On Jesus' left hand was the Champion Verger. Why that sucker carried a big mace atop his shoulder everywhere he went, justa' shakin' that thing like a rattler on a hot summer day, claimin' he was makin' a path for the cowboy called Jesus everywhere they went. Sometimes he'd just swing it round and round with a sinister smile -- you could tell he was always just wantin' somebody to fight 'im. But man oh man was he an ugly sum-b! I mean he look like somethin' the dog been keepin' under the porch.

Anyway...so these three men came rollin' through the Wild West back in like 632 AD and cleaned up the whole lot of them varmints. Afterwards, the people cheered and loved 'em for it. Then the people wanted them to lead so hell if they didn't go write the American Constitution right after. Well, Jesus and Champion Verger did, old José became known as "Blister" -- damned if that boy didn't always show up till after the work was done. And he always had him a mouthful of whale fat, and that shit got thicker and thicker the more he chewed on it. He startin' talkin' a whole mess about goin' on more adventures but them other boys knew they was'a gettin' too old for adventure. Anyways. So they finish up the constitution and make three branches in honor of them three boys and three parts to the flag, and daggum if we don't all still celebrate that there trio every 4th of July and 25th of December, which are times when Jesus and posse took America from them rebel rousers and hippies, respeck'tivly, of course.

But I'll be damned if as much as I laugh and enjoy at talkin' in my native tongue and pokin' a little fun at my own heritage, if it don't still end on a bad note. And I'd be lyin' like a no legged dog if I said there was somethin' I could do to appease it all. It don't matter what I do cuz it's all about as useful as a front pocket on a shirt. I can write and get to shootin' shit with friends and it don't do no good. I still feel like I been ate by a billy goat and shift off a cliff. I can sit here by my lonesome or be busier than a long-tailed cat in a room of rockin' chairs but when that neon moon pours that sand over my eyes, hell if I don't wake up with the same dreams.

Wrong-A-Gong-Gongs

I am the wr-wr-wrong-a-gong-gong,
resounding and requite.
And when I'm done making pointless noise--
I make some more into the night.

Wrong-a-gong-gongs don't sleep,
they stay up for days on end.
They bong and gong in vain and gest,
And never comprehend.

Wrong-a-gong-gongs like mystery,
faith and mountains too!
Doesn't matter since life is nothing,
which they express with much ado.

Wrong-a-gong-gongs like time alone,
but time with others better still!
They have no taste for what can be known,
and can fake fellowship with skill.

Wrong-a-gong-gongs try to think,
to run, to eat, or write.
They do naught but bong and gong,
making empty noise by day and night.

The Tale to End Tales

"He's been asking for the shot all day," the nurse explained to the doctor. Erastus sat in a chair, staring out the window. He leaned his head carefully to the side and held eye contact with the doctor, as if pleading, before turning his head back to the window. The doctor walked over.

"Erastus," the doctor knelt next to him, "you just got up bud. You're not even fully awake yet. You've been walking around yawning and now you want to go back already?" The doctor sat staring at Erastus. His eyes gazed outward, like stone, his body unmoving. He could have been a gargoyle watching over the grounds. The doctor rose up and walked back to the nurse and began whispering. When they finished the doctor perked up and looked back in Erastus' direction, "We're going to prescribe some sunshine and community activities for you. You've been looking outside all day, we're going to send you out for some fun."

So Erastus went out. He met two others in the same ward as he, as well as some twenty and five. They conversed and sang and all became great friends. Erastus' quickly became renown as a bit of a comic, having made everyone laugh for hours while he talked on everything and nothing. And he would laugh right along with them. Eventually he told them he had to resign for the evening to get his room in order.

The doctor prepared for a check-up before lights out, having overheard Erastus' desire to set up his room. As the doctor walked down the tiled hallway he stopped within the door. Erastus had torn up his collages, astrology pieces lie scattered across the floor. There were boxes of his things pushed into the corners of his room, bags torn, his possessions filled the room. He was again in the chair, staring out the window, eyes sunken and still. The doctor realized Erastus had never been looking outside.

"Well Erastus, how was your day?"
"I want the shot."
"Why do you want it so badly? You looked like you enjoyed yourself."
"I didn't."
"I saw you laughing and singing and you met many people. You were smiling all day."
"A guise. I want the shot."
"Why don't we just talk for a little bit."
"I don't wish to talk."
"What about a story? You always have a story for me."
"Fine. I'll give you a story. Then I want to go back to sleep."
"If that's the way you want it Erastus, I can have it arranged."
"Good."

Erastus climbed out of his chair and pushed stuff out of the way, making his way for the bed. The doctor followed suit and sat across from him so as to listen.

n the beginning were the oceans, and their crests rose up with righteousness. The rivers ran with peace and the inhabitants were numbered as the sands, walking amongst one another with clean tongues and hands. An island in the northern lands.

Giant pillars, wider around than twenty and five men might wrap their hands around, held up a magnificent sky roof, painted so long ago and held up so high, that no one remembered what the pictures depicted nor could anyone see them. The myth goes that there were stories and promises painted upon them, and that the roof itself was a project from an ancient commander of the people.

"And there's some shaking of pillars and some pastures ravaged, the waters rock and rage before going dry, the people frightened of floods and the roof coming down upon them try foolishly to break out of their chains--" Erastus stopped his mad rant for a moment, taking a slight breathe.
"Fuck all this," Erastus continued, "Just put me to sleep."
"I wish I could Erastus," whispered the doctor, "but my shift just ended."
"You said you would have it arranged."
"I lied. Looks like you'll have to be doing the whispering this time, and I the sleeping."
The doctor got up to leave.
"Don't leave me," Erastus whispered.
"Sorry bud, looks like you're on your own for this one."
"But the night..."
"You'll be fine. I have to go now. Besides, there's nothing I can say to help you."

Erastus climbed back into his chair, vacancy came back over his eyes. The doctor shut the door behind him. It was pitch black, save the amber glow of an outside light, creeping in enough to light up Erastus and his chair. Tears. His eyes remained unchanged, his lips did not quiver, not a whimper nor a breath, a weeping statue. And darkness was upon the room.

Clanging Cymbal

The oceans have all fallen.
The siren is now gone.
The sea has long been dried up,
not having taken very long.
The shores are dark and barren,
over horizon, angel has flown,
the bells no more are ringing--
as I hum this song
I AM THE CLANGING CYMBAL--
my philosophy brought to naught.
I'd trade it all for but a piece,
of what she has forgot.

Dreams & The Eucharist

Today I shall meet with one of my priests, Father Robert, to discuss the necessity of blessing the Holy Eucharist and of dreams. The former is a matter of importance concerning knowledge of my faith, the latter concerns a darkness that has haunted me since I was but a child.

I realized recently that I do not have good dreams, all are nightmares in one form of another. I cannot recall a time when something dreadful has not happened in the dimension of my dreams.

God is my ward.

My tastes concerning artwork, music, literature, and even movies has always been on the darker side. As a child I loved the crooked architecture and twisted limbs of A Nightmare Before Christmas. The movie gave me dreadful nightmares. I still recall my mother being trapped in a cage of fiery bars in my Walden Hall playground, Jack was nearby with a chainsaw laughing maniacally, lunging at me everytime I tried to free her. Yet I kept watching the movie. I also watched too many movies, or at least clips, from Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, Child's Play, and the sort. My parents did an excellent job of explaining it was all entertainment and "ketchup for blood," but in one's dreams reason sometimes goes through the door and all one is left with are wild images and emotional reactions. I don't like slasher films now. Not because I'm afraid of them, rather the opposite; I find them to be cliché, poorly written, ridiculous, and overall boring. By the time middle school rolled around and all my peers raved about Scream, which I think mostly was because it made us feel more adult-like, I had no desire to watch it. "More of the same," I thought. So there was a dilineation between what sorts of darker arts that I enjoyed. I wanted mystery, suspense, a twisted nature that wasn't so overt as the slashers provided, something...subtle. Subtlety provides mystery, which preyed upon my desire to know things.

Today it's still one of my favorites. In middle school it was MacBeth and The Giver. I still have a poster I drew for it, the scene in which MacBeth takes dagger in hand to betray and slay King Duncan. The poster was drawn with only a black pen, shadows ran down his face, the whiteness remaining was flesh, a sickness about the eyes, the shadows crept along his face like tentacles instead of well rounded figures. I wrote an additional chapter to "finish" The Giver for an assignment, in which the main character and the girl make their way to a private home where his mentor had stayed, an enclave from the rest of the world out in the wilderness.

In high school it was more dystopias, post-apocalyptic literature, and the sort: Anthem, Mad Max: Beyond the Thunderdome, etc. I began to draw more my senior year as well as philosophize for the first time, though poorly in both fields. My art was dark, twisted treelines, machinations underlying their bark, sometimes exposed. My philosophy was brutish, cynical, I fell for such poor reasoning as provided by Ayn Rand and the sort, though I still believed in God. How odd. Selfish philosophy, though I somehow wanted to hold onto this idea of selflessness. I was an antinomy of sorts.

Undergrad. More of the same, I often visited literature and movies from prior decades, enjoying them more. The end of the world and strong philosophical themes of the graphic novel Watchmen intrigued me for months. I loved Fallout 3, a video game set in post-apocalyptia, where I made the choices of good and evil. I good destroy entire towns, killing everyone, and they weren't bystanders in games like Grand Theft Auto - these were characters with backgrounds, personalities, they had pains, desires, hope. But in such a world I longed to be the beam of light. The entire game I spent helping others, destroying those who sought to kill the innocent, to bring pure waters to the people. I know games are often seen as a child's sport, but in such a vast world, there was character. Though not as well written as a novel, it put me as a character in the story, I determined my actions, my fate, my story. And I enjoyed the Biblical passage provided in the beginning which contained the key to the end of the story:

He said to me: "It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To him who is thirsty I will give to drink without cost from the spring of the water of life.
-Revelations 21:6

I obtained a taste for music which I say has a "haunting quality" to it. I'm still not sure how to pinpoint it.

Post-undergrad/Pre-Grad/Wesley Year/Summer. The nearest I can define this haunting music is by listening to the band Portishead. This is the kind of music I thrive on at night. More Fallout 3, Cat's Cradle for it's apocalyptic theme, Watchmen the movie reignited my love for the story though I was by this time much familiar with the philosophical tradition associated with each character and the fallacies the author made with some, Melmoth the Wanderer for it's Faustian story - a mix of devil deals, madness of the mind, and loss of one's soul.

I am not comfortable with this world. I am a pilgrim, in search of a homeland.

My writing has been shaped in such a way that I find it only possible in two situations, either for therapeutic reasons or when I'm depressed or in a dark mood. The latter is only possible when life is bearing down on me or I deliberately create an atmosphere in my room that is dark. I situations where I have tried to write otherwise it always ends up horribly. Even now I only like writing because this piece is therapeutic. When I am joyful I find I cannot write in any shape, although I long at these times to write creative fiction. But alas, I always find I cannot. The creative juices run dry when it is not either dark or I am emotionally depressed. It's sad really. I long to write a novel, even if it is poor writing, even if only I read it. But the times when I want to, I can't.

Anyway, I do not know the source of my dreams. They are sinister, malicious, I do things that I despise when I awake, or if in third person I watch with horror as "I" do things I find morally reprehensible.

For it is from within from the heart, that evil intentions emerge: fornications, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, malice, deceit, indecency, envy, slander pride, folly. All these evil things come from within and make a person unclean.
-Mark 7:21

For it is not against enemies that we have to struggle, but against the principalities and the ruling forces who are masters of the darkness in this world, the spirits of evil in the heavens.
-Ephesians 6:12

Talk about antinomies. I'm just not in the mood for deep philosophizing right now, just summaries. Descriptive, not argumentative, an English professor might say.

The Eucharist is a wonderful thing. For it is the body and blood of Christ in some sense, though I have not decided in what sense I believe this to be true. In taking it one becomes in communion with God, is forgiven of sins, and is provided strength for future endeavors. Whether my darkest dreams be something more akin to Mark 7:21 or Ephesians 6:12 ultimately doesn't matter, as Communion contains the solution either way. But my taste for knowledge motivates me to discover which, for if I am to ask for forgiveness, if that be the case, I would first need to realize something is wrong with me. Call it conviction, guilt, shame, it's all the same really, it is the recognition of wrong doing. So long as the feeling stems from knowledge of violation of Goodness, then it is a proper emotion. I have acted in accordance with both via conditional propositions littering my prayers, as is my custom. "God, if this....then please...but if that...then please..." Heh, I like to cover all my grounds.

Still, my interest is piqued, and if I am to do something about it, I need prayer and contemplation. I have kept decent track of my dreams, though I have not written them down if the plots were either too simple or uninteresting. Perhaps I need to keep track of them all. Either way I have enough to begin ordering them categorically by subject or motifs, and not just chronologically as I have done traditionally. I seek to find patterns, and will ultimately use something from my childhood to create a manifestation of my dream world in which I can "explore" them. I'm using an old program I used when I was 12 to create a SNES-esque video game with levels/rooms for each dream, hopefully placing categorically similar ones next to each other. So far I've got a few rooms of snowy mountains and trails, a tiny maze, an underground gave, and a series of railroad tracks floating over an open sky, the moon in the background. I'll create little pixeled figures to span across certain ones perhaps, each representing one of my parts: mind, emotions, flesh, and will named Anselm, Erastus, Acario, and Hezekiah respectively. I still seek to know my Spirit, so long as I do not know him, he cannot be named. All are me, Blake. Though Blake is not any one of them. It's all very childish looking, but it's suiting since these dreams have been around for so long.

I have one that has repeated since I was a child. Nothing terribly interesting happens, but I always awake in pain. And I wonder where my mind every got the idea for it. Maybe it will have it's own room. And maybe the Spirit will be locked in stasis, a priest might be a nice figure for him, for I do seek to be of His holy priesthood. And a Eucharist-centric world, an altar in the middle of the world symbolic to my being.

I enjoy making the little world, a homeland for my dreams, perhaps I can be joyful and creative after all.