calling it love (yet involving cultural variances)
it's as if they know—
how to lift their wings
to fly
only to be able to reach
that glorious blue sky
it's when city dreamers
really, really
could dream high
yet trying to go on their
own particular ways—
not even finding relief, sigh!
would you still hold me
until the golden dawn?
tell me what year are we now, again?
we're here, olden.. but then
somehow
we still have
fallen apart, as you joked
again..and..again
—that you bleed—
(unrequited love?)
that's how we
pass the blame to reality
but really, it could just be
an untranslatable word
for perfect love
unconsciously—
misunderstanding
mere affinity—
Subject No. 7
Still, there's time and room
for my religious studies—
Metaphysical
Preacher
—Truly righteous. But...
No better than a mystic
Ah, divine nature...
Sunday morning Gospel
At a southern Baptist church
Praising with the choir
Listening to the Word of God
Where grudges are forgiven
And friendships re-united
We sinners find forgiveness,
Family, and a home
But here I sit
Alone at home
I couldn't be roused
To my own Father's house
I can hear the church bells in the distance
Calling white-washed tombs to repentance
Calling broken souls to be renewed
Calling crushed hopes to stand firm
Yet, here I sit
Looking out the window alone
Listening to their tolling
Refusing to be more
Than an armchair theologian
If my “deeds” are just words
Then they are not worth talking of
If I didn't speak to my Father today
Then why do I expect answers
If we are “the Body”
Why are we so apathetic
So CONSUMED by our own lives
That our faith wastes away
And as these thoughts come to me
I make myself more comfortable
Still refusing to be any more
Then an armchair theologian.
Transcendence (And Body Politic)
Her guises were stripped off
Like paint;
I had wondered where she could
have gotten to—to act like a saint
The earthquakes have multiple meanings, after all:
There are moments of truth.
But our attitudes, in facing them, such are several.
Why should we try to act on certain
situations, just to make us huge?
Her views of change mattered to
me, for lacking subterfuge
'Tis so raw, so fresh,
so debilitatingly godly
When fake media is stressed, let all
disdain blasphemy.
Are we just spirits in human bodies,—
in the physicality?—
For, when— it makes it clear,
our true selves gather up
a multitudes' spirituality!
The bugs of thy code, hidden like a virus
Steals not your data, dates thy compiler
The mem of thy soul, stressed and archaic
Already knows a thou, c, perl, hebraic
The code of thy soul, enough long to rule the world
Willn’t compile if thy seed is a virus
Will not even, case done with the python
‘Tis, ‘tis a problem, the poison of a viper
Living through thy blood, bleeding through thy fingers
Spreads on a zip and it lingers, and it lingers
Can’t know what you want, or what thy code’ll be
If ruby, java, just a virus or php
Remember that the evil has no single, single patience
You should run, not compile, through the code, through those piles
Just remember all these words, these words of the matrix
Now tell: red or blue? Fast, fast! With no waiting
Existence, all trapped in one
Myself, and all that's around me
I discover spirit, reigning supreme
Over landscapes lonely and alive
The ice and snow gloriously rises up
To meet skies drenched in indanthrene
Staring across fenced suburban valleys
Shadowed by painted brush stroked clouds
In these moments, I get that mystical feeling
In times such as these, I seem to transcend
For a fleeting second, all seems to blend
I grasp uselessly at the air, as I start to
Ascend these majestic goldenrod highlands
Holding onto love, with some sort of ancient
Eternal longing, that never seems to cease
Or ever fade away, here at Lower Spring Creek
Imprisoned, rustbelt cities entrap
Souls, careless and untrained
My intent is to revere the flowers and streams
To hold sacred these stars that glow luminous
To honor divinity in billowing cool pastel skies
Submerged, my naked fingers
Explore earth, steeped with richness
My dream is to flow like wind across the prairie
To kneel in jubilation underneath the forest canopy
To seek shelter in the eternal solitude of sappy pine
These eternal truths
These natural laws
Revealed through the simple
Act of observation and silence
Teach us and guide us safely through
The shadowy valley of fear and unknowing
Effortlessly transforming
The first rays of early dawn
Into majestic afternoon sunlight
All this I have learned
By walking a myriad of paths
That led to some transformation
On Lower Rock Run
And at the edge of the forest
I looked out upon mankind
Taking notice as winter days
Began to dwindle and fade
Meditating along snowy fields
Contemplating life and death
Observing simple revelations
Passed down from our elders
Gifted to us freely by the earth
Hinted at by glittering galaxies
Illustrated in fleeting dreams
This I hold to be true
Everything is a circle
It all goes around and comes
Back around
Gently in an infinite arc
In the endless flow of seasons
The revolving pattern of night/day
The orbits of the planets around the sun
The luminous profile of the ancient moon
And the mystical enchanting eyes of an owl
I close my eyes to look inside
An iridescent world constantly
Shifting and forever evolving
Our spirits rotating on a wheel
Of birth, death, and all between
Nothing is random or by chance
Everything so strangely familiar
The inside implodes outward
Startling ghosts still unseen
The otherworld still inaudible
To the untrained human senses
Philosophy subsists
In realms of harsh famine
Words sprouting from parched
Earth left unclaimed
These fractured degrees
Tormented by plagues of discontent
Leaving the masses in a hazy vacuum
Of senseless wonder and disillusionment
Melodies pass through ethereal indigo skies
Cascading into meaningless remnants of broken love