Babel

We built the tower

To hear the secrets of God.

Though, if asked, we couldn’t have said so.

Our land was silent dreams.

Just away from darkness, we traveled,

Following traces of sun like a flower.

And we were real, like steel or magic,

Stealing through twilight’s symphony,

Building stone stairs and rising on language wings.

We were thieves, standing in the shadows,

Measuring the darkled hours in heartbeats

While inside prayers crashed against the walls.

Never wanting a gift of what could be taken,

We hungered and skulked, seeking the power of rebellion.

All of our land was the spoken word.

Every stone minded, Life swirling in the dust.

From this we rose,

Seekers of horizons,

Never dreaming of the consequences of thought and mortar.

Love's Prayer

a bit of grace

a little more time

to see her face

hold her hand in mine

all i ask is for the time

to complete my task

hold her heart in mine

just a quick blessing

is all i need

i fear time is pressing

forgive my greed

just a while

to hear her laugh

see her smile

she's all i have

all i'll ever need

let our happiness last

forgive my greed

all i can say

don't let it end

in Your name i pray

dear Lord, amen.

The Riddle of Sand

I: Angel of Broken Stones

“So heavy the burden I bring with me from the past,

I doubt that I should make these vows for the future.”

                                                     – The Tale of Genji

I am the eater of days,

Father of the Indefinite roads of Time,

Consuming hourglass moments and sundial liquor.

As I let the ages run down a throat

Dry with ancestors dust and the heat of being,

I swallow sand and time,

Drinking dust

Drinking dust

Tasting in it steel and blood,

Diamonds and lead-

Sweet sepulcher wine.

I bring a song of kings and battles                                              

Sung in the voice of the outer world,

War and warriors all fall forgotten, water upon the sand

While my wings beat

And stir the other side of the light.

I am the arbiter of dreams,

Sender of the dark sundrinkers

That sail through the cold, impotent ashes

Left after the living fire of the Childe of Night

Turned the men of dust into the dust of men.

We seek the jewels of the desert, the roses of the sand.

A Prayer Of My Faded Childhood

I ask that I may

Thrive under the sun, while it shines;

The halcyon days of youth fade swiftly,

Never to be found again,

Lost forever to the swirling mists.

Let the light of early days shine upon

The melancholy greys of age and responsibility.

Dear God, I beg You, release me from

This yoke and let me run free,

Free into the wilds, the moors, the jungles

Of my infancy and my innocence.

Lord grant me surcease from knowledge

And deeds.

That is my prayer.

Spirituality: House of Worship

"Tu as pris mon cœur, ma sœur, mon épouse, tu as pris mon cœurpar un de tes yeux, avec une chaîne de ton cou." KJV, Song of Solomon 4:9

I am Nox’s son, Father/Brother/god
That brings the revelation of flesh,
All the manna of our souls falling through the air,
All your curses moving me on,
As I pulse in the rhythm of your Angel-sweet body
Entering your temple in awe
And in ecstasy.


We are the congregation lascivious, rocking in hunger,
Writing our prayers in friction
As we speak in tongues that dance as they taste
And testify at the top of our lungs.
We bow our heads in rapture
From the give and response of
Physical hymns.


I am the cardinal in pantherskin, preacher/predator,
Sermonizing as I prey;
Every verse written in fluids primal
And quoted from the holy book of our bodies,
Anointed in our own oils,
My rod comforting you,
Your body Communion sweet.


We are the Choir of the dark, sinsinging,
Harmonizing, in the clapping of our soma,
While mouths drip the holy waters of our passion:
Sweet, musky wine and hot salty lyrics,
Psalms that bounce off the walls
As we duet the mantra of desire.
Percussion in the House of Worship.


I am the Thunder, nightskinned lightning,
Bringing the storm of ecstasy,
The rain that falls from your thighs,
My voice booms as I strike deep
And electrify the flower in your temple,
Making it bloom
Making you shout.


We are the Church of the Erotic, holy and profane,
Righteous in Our Name, sinners in our blood,
Making an offering of all our passions,
Calling God with our psyches,
Bodies pulsing with the infinite beat
Of the Heart in the heart of hearts,
Cumming soulward and seeking Heaven.


Amen.

Epitaphs of a Fallen Man

I am

The lucent shadow,

Covering nothing in my darkness,

Warming nothing with my light;

I am

The mute jongleur,

Singing my song in no voice,

Covering my ears from my own silence;

I am

The anesthetic desire,

Filling empty hearts with naught,

Emptying soulward and dying in love;

I am

The unbelieving philosopher,

Shouting from the foot of card-towers of Babel

That there is no God and He exists in all things;

I am

The esoteric parasite,

Feeding eternally of my own materiel,

Never filling a need never named;

I am

Hammurabi abased,

Alexander conquered,

The legacy of Judas

And the uncertainty of Jesus.

I am the fallen man.

And here I rot, even worms must eat.

Evolutions (1)

I met him at the place

where the lines of force converge,

he was singing psalms to the moon.

And his voice was like snowfall by starlight,

silent except in the heart

of my dreams.

“this is my song,” he said, “the song of my days

and of the spaces within and between.”

“Do I know you?” I asked.

“Do you know yourself?” he replied, “are

you a man standing on the path, or are

you the path, or just a blade of grass

beside the path?”.

I didn’t understand but I listened.

“If a child speaks to god who answers?

If god speaks to a child, who listens?

You have come here, following

lines of force, but do you know

who made them?”

“I am a seeker of knowledge,” I replied.

He laughed and it was the sound

of sun’s fire, “but knowledge need

not be sought, it is everywhere

do you seek also the certain night

that follows the day?

Knowledge is the shadow cast by your life

across the sphere of existence,

as certain and as sure as nightfall.”

I thought for a moment as he waited for my reply,            

“I am hungry for life,” I said “and

seek a greater understanding of truth.”

This time his smile was like sun on ice

as he sat under the ash tree beside the path,

“truth is a wave that carries throughout existence.

it is both fundamental and relative.  it is true

that we met here, but did I meet you on your path

or did you meet me on mine?

This is the beginning of understanding.”

Pharaoh

Know me,                   

I stand astride existence,

legs akimbo,

verbstick swinging to the rhythm of Life.

So fundamental,

so systematic;

as pure as the sweat running across my chest,

as pure as the desire burning in my eyes.

I am the nourisher,

bringer of the wine that God provides,

of the meat the brings the sweetness forth,

and I prepare a banquet in your honor.

Eat all that you wish.

Be eaten all that you wish.

Tasting the waters of all your days,

I reach forth my regard,

bathing in the delta of your Nile,

drinking the liquor of our sweat.

                                                                                                                       

Know me,

King I am to those deep, hidden feelings

that make your temple pulse,

the longing that throbs prayers between your thighs

as all your lips cry out Hosannahs.

I bring the heat of stars to our embrace,

every breath the word of the Gods,

tongue reaching out to you and tasting Life

as my Word reaches your center and swells.

We are the cloak of night,

we are the garment Love wears to warm itself,

welcoming each other to the kismet storm;

witnessing the birth of vision

from the eastern side of the Sun.

Know me,

I am the God between your knees

dancing in the music of moisture,

tongue-blessing your righteousness.

These are the Elysian fields, the Halls of everlasting

Where I dwell in luscious agony.

I found Eternity in you arms.

Praise me; let me bind my wisdom into your soul-

fire air water into earth to make flesh.

We bring the rain that makes the desert bloom,

waking the Prophet’s rose.

My soul soars, intoxicated by mead

made from the honey of your need,

as I take all that you offer,

give all that I am

as we are created anew in wonder and in Love,

knowing the map of Creation imprinted on our bodies.

                                                                                   

Come, follow me;

Come follow Me

and I will teach you the Art of Friction,

the power of a King’s lust

and how to dream the reality of desire and make it dance.

Know me,

I am the Architect of your heart;

Know me,

I am the dancing pulse between your legs;

I was made to Love you;

I am the Pharaoh of your desire.

Spirituality: Shiva’s Supplication

I awoke this morning

From a dream which is the reality of you.

I have thought you across this Universe

With Gravity and stars like words;

I who destroy atmospheres, dissolve in Yours.

I wrap Myself in incense,

Burning this jasmine to draw You near to Me.

Though I have Power, though I am Power,

I am powerless against Your density.

This lust is systematic.

I am God, yet I worship You.

I kneel before You in ecstacy

Pulse racing as I raise My head

To give My supplications.

This is communion sweet;

Your honey-flesh is spiced with exoticness,

Sweeter than starlight,

Hotter than stars themselves.

I stand, free of all adornment

Feeling Your essence surround Me,

My face wet with Your first blessing.                      

I take You slowly from vertical.

Your temple welcoming Me,

Knowing I am praise-full for You,

Knowing I am ready to worship.

I float in Your mathematics,

At the dawn of understanding.

And as My wisdom deepens,

Your rhythm undoes me, pulls forth My                   

Prayers like magnetism

And You receive them like wine.                                                           

This lust is systematic.

Your knowledge is so fundamental,

So pure.

In the thousand years ‘til tomorrow,

I lose Myself in Your eyes, flashing

Above lips red and full,

Moist with secrets.

October thoughts

October is one of my favorite months.  It's generally, depending upon what part of the country I may be in, not too cold, not too rainy, but cool enough to dress like an adult. (I still believe that shorts, while they have a place, should mostly be worn by women and children.) We always called it "gettin' right for the weather" and I still look forward to it.  Plus October is the beginning of the death of the year, so to speak, and that has it's own attractions creatively and psychologically.

Maybe it's a holdover from years of "hallowe'en indoctrination" as an American, but October brings with it a certain taste of death.  For Al Davis and Steve Jobs more than a taste this year.  Culturally this is when we are allowed, even encouraged to seek out darker impulses, physical or spiritual. Americans don't really deal with death well, individually or collectively.  We tend to either romanticize or demonize our dead. But we lack a cohesive mythology as a nation, so "national" deaths become political. On second thought, I take that back. Politics is the national religion of America.