For the sake of argument

I wonder from time to time and moment to second and age to age

I wander through the days of dying and living and breathing the scent

Of unplugged humanity and unwashed divinity and ever goes the higher rent

As we flit from a day to an hour and return only to crumple the page

It is not too late for any, say we, though this is justly called "optimism"

By the scribes of the eons who note in their volumes as becoming the sage

That the numberless multitudes climbing the tower of babel in rage

Have been found wanting sufficient force to engage in the art of schism.

We heed the sirens of ideology and despise the mass of childhood unwashed

Of its crimes against thought and reason in the heady brew of delight

Stumbling down from the heavens into a garden of logic and night

Where the darkness of spaces unlit and unheard and debauched

Writhe in corridors where the Word is not spoken by the armies of fright

For they know nothing save their place in the vast whirling scheme

And they forget why to dance and they forget when to dream

But know only their size and miserably clutch for the strength of a mite.

Take the murderer, they say, take the body he strews and wife he leaves

View the blood he sheds and the wife he weds in an age where none are risen

And ask whether he might despite the beauty of his crime be forgiven

And return to sit at the kitchen table of eternity and listen to the creaking eaves

Of the cosmos as they bend under the weight of a grace more dreadful yet

Than the weight of the sin or the weight of the crayon relieved

To have accomplished its task and recorded the tale none believed

That the child witness as the father returns having accomplished the rest.

Are they so small indeed?  Are they so wanting in the vigor of eternal things

That they cower before the mass of a space dank and cold

With thoughts of men whose nature is to discover and behold

In awe, nor finding the place they seek and the joy that it brings?

A voice in the whispering and a song in the clamoring and a WORD

That denies the murderer his just wages of death and sings

O life out of death O dust of your breath how it rings

The sinner lies sobbing in rapturous joy.  He has heard.

For the end of all things

Take your crayon, my darling child,

Take it and observe

The world that runs in currents wild

And no master serves

In landscapes drawn by hand so mild.

Take the globe between your thumbs

Now give it a good squeeze

Listen to the beating drums

That no man learns to please

And longs for whence he never comes.

Take the city of your youth

And watch it burn in flame

Take upon yourself the truth

That bears no earthly name

And let your heart succumb to ruth.

Take this little crayon, my dear,

And - swiftly, lest it fade!

Set it to the paper, here,

And ply your childish trade

Among the people born of fear.

Give the paper here, my son,

And show me how you draw

The lines that run from moon to sun

And rustle in the thaw

That once in hearts of man begun.

Give unto the world a line

That tears from heart to soul

And builds again what is not thine

For making music whole

And telling of unearthly time.

Give a shout of prophecy

Give all your moments hence

Give of the things which go unseen

Give and destroy the fence

Forgive and be set free.

For the time of waiting

The grease coat shining on a rusty pan,

The crumb in a corner of the house of man,

The ember gleam in a corpse's eye

That by a tremulous pathway lies,

The droppings pale on an ancient post;

Are these fit matters for the Lord of Hosts?

A drop of blood on a reeking knife,

A drop in the eye of a forsaken wife,

A drop of sweat on the coachman's whip,

A drop of honey on the murderer's lip;

All drop through space and time, and kneel

Before the Lord of the fiery wheel.

The whistle of a man with buttons brass,

The shrieks of an indignant glass

That cries for blood as wine is spilt,

The rustle of a child's quilt

Whose father stole a breath today,

And with his breath shall debts repay.

A bit of color bleeds with crying shrill,

A bit of water is enough to kill,

A bit of air bursts forth from below,

A bit of sky might begin to snow,

A bitter world cries to be saved,

And a man of sorrows defied the grave.

Weep not for blood of innocence,

Weep not, though suffering long,

Weep not for spilling of incense,

For fragrance lingers long.

Weep not that man purveys a wrong,

Weep not that music is dead;

Weep for the joyous, burning song

He might have sung instead.

Ceci n'est pas une blog

Hey!  I started a blog.  This statement probably doesn't cause you mind-shattering exhilaration, but I'm rather excited.  (Well, until the semester starts, and my lofty ambitions of posting every week-ish are mercilessly crushed by Real Life.  We won't think about that just yet.)  I'm going to make a wild guess that if you’re reading this right now, you probably already know me, so I don't think introductions are necessary.  If by some astounding chance you happened on this blog without knowing me, I'll probably get around to an "about" section one of these days.  Wouldn't that be something!

Anyway, what I'm going to try to do here is share some of the stuff that I've been thinking about with regard to life and eternity.  If this sounds laughably over-ambitious, that's probably because it is . . . but hey, it sounded cool.  When I come up with something that seems more or less worthwhile, I'll throw it up here and see if it sticks.  Feel free to comment with scathing criticisms, flaming invective, or cat videos (and as always, keep it civil, kids).

So, there you go.  This should be interesting . . .