Pollock's Rotting Canvas

Dim dirge bludgeon the bagpipes with avocado. Alveredo in the moonlight-serpentine-play time.

Curmudgeon unguent and sully the unction blues rambunctions pill swilling loon room of teat tinctured cape vanished gumdrops.

Black loose smashing crumpets on holiday grout skit the yank flanked tarantulas.

Shimmy shimmy shine the spotlight on your way back from the brink of collapsed.

I have no clue where to find out about the spotlight in a river is that it would be great for me and I have the best way for me and you can follow any comments here and there are no longer than the other day I think I am a little while longer than I was lightning fast food restaurants in and out to eat at the same time and we were going for a bit later than that I'm not be the best of.

Your mom is coming to be a little while I was just got home and a half hour for you have the spotlight and I don't think so but it was good and I think you will have to be made in the customers hands and knees and I don't think it's just the same as the moon we can do that to you tomorrow then I have a good day for the spotlight in a few months time and money to tomorrow.

Honestly I'm not sure what time do you know when I'm not be able too many times I was just a little bit ago and it burned out of town so you have any plans tonight or not to be made it was a little bit of an understatement of a little while longer be able too much of the spotlight on my phone and it was good and you have the best of the spotlight in my car and it was a hot dog is the best way for a little bit ago by your place or the best of luck with your family are in a few minutes late to be able to the best way to get out at home.


And rain.

Twisty Bits

False, the words that pour from my lipsAnd true as wax, no wane, can be But I, yes I am but a leaf upon the lawn; Gather me as you go and burn the heap if Yes, you will, your will always in this garden Is and nothing else is but you give substance. (The form I follow trembles anew in shame.) Soft, the eyes that spy my soiled shrines And gold, the bull, I fashioned with these hands Or black. But what is ore or ink to you But sand and smears beaten loose from greater things That you had planned for man but Oh! Not now, something different instead. And my wimpy wrist (the limp) just echoes Writing on the walls of my own heart; I see the ghostly hand that forms order of my chaos. And yet (why yet?) I still do that which I would not that which I would I do not Again and again and again and again. Fire in Jerusalem. The temple burns again; O Sodom, my lowly soul, done in and still Fire over the brows of your people again. Words upon the tongues of the village fool proclaim THAT WHICH IS TO COME IS. GATHER NOW AND KNEEL BEFORE THE KING NOT DEAD BUT RISEN. HE IS COMING SOON. LIKE A THIEF HE WILL RUIN YOU. REPENT AND HEAR YOU DUMB.

Outlast, We, The Rain

Tinkle on the dust, rain-man and rage, riotOn the earth and spill forth fire and steel. Lay down your anger and loose it out; Lend your quiet spittle and clout the winds With noise-some whitewash as we run away And flee your spirit flaying the land. We are tired, Truck along and drown our song in sorrows Found there within the grim silence, reaping Flat notes and dissonance rhythms from the paddle Of our feet as we beat the globe beneath our beaten knees. Run we, run away, and the wall of rain at our backs beckons in as we shout in retributive scowls and damn with eyes closed. And we flee into the dry lands as they die and we dissipate our rage Into the wasted soils beneath our breaking backs. Scoundrel! We are. Everything we hate and then some we become as we tire and slip Along the barren ground unfallen; yet fall what will and bear what pain we can As we tremble in the anguish of worn out people of the way lost. We cannot find Who we were or who we will be or what we came for or why the bleeding heart Beats on and on and on. Has it not bled out dry yet, we wonder and simmer in the sun, Beating upon our backs with the rhythm of days on days of despair.

And eventually the storm overtakes us as we go and cannot go on. The water hits our hair and drips forevermore and then some as we lie down done, Wasted and worn, but wearied not by our carrying on but by the fiercely gentle drips, Pouring from the sky like oil in the beard of Aaron. If but we could stop and realize. We can outlast the nights of rain, the nights of rain outlast us, but end (though endless) If but we could seize what has always been ours, beating, as we run and run away.

Fall Far, My Son

into the weeds we go again, and youare a born whistler, son, my heart you steal everyone knows and every year, still true Aye, it is, you would, wouldn't you, it's who you are and I'm just a falling log, my son I wish you well as well can be, no fear of rodents or of man or dog, but time will tattle if you rise up through the bog, so green and live a little, my little log, I fear for you an axmen comes, as did for me

Notes from Geology Class on 9/11 Two Years Ago

A wavy line represents an unconformable contact.
Three facts I know and scribbled down.
A disconformity is a disappearing act.
I wedge my future self between my scribbles.
Nonconformity must have hot rock overlain by sedimentary rock with an immense time gap.
If you can puzzle the seven layers of meaning hidden here, you're amazing.

Do you?

Do you taste your own lonely teeth,
Licking you lips as you think of mine,
Lonely as well.
Do you hope to suckle my crowns?
Will our canines meet between two feet,
Grounding our hearts, each to each,
And no more sparks.

Will we swap out leashes and jog?
Is the race well won, now underway,
Will you take thine hand in mine,
Do you want to stay and hear me sing,
Or will all things drift, decay?

A 9th Grade Virgin's thoughts on Sex

I found this journal entry in an old notebook from high-school. Once again, prose interjects itself into this poetic blog, but it's too humorous to keep to myself. Behold! My 14 year old self knows everything. Click below to see what I had to say.

On the role of Eros
Love is victory, without defeat. A battle of wills and a vigorous pursuit; man and woman mutual predators. Its consummation is a victory in which there appears to be no losers. What then have these lovers mutually defeated? Perhaps they triumph over the corruption within and have reclaimed that original, primal purpose. It is ordained for man and women to be intimate and fruitful and their mutual recognition of intent leads to the fulfillment of this design. Together they vanquish the perversity of separation.
        And Yet
What value does love offer to the spiritual life: have we not died to this original purpose and been born again in the hope of death? Perhaps Paul is speaking plainly when he wishes that "all were like him...set apart for ministry" and our duty to the body is to be sanctified in chastity. For man and women, marrried and single alike, will be eternally unified in heaven regardless of erotic union.
        On the Contrary
Physical union is a necessary aspect of creation. If all Christians refrained from procreation, who would bear the torch? A deep intimacy between man and woman is an intentional part of design. Our duty as Christians is to seek this restoration inherent in the natural order of creation. Paul does not genuinely wish all were like him. Rather, he is merely consternated due to a lack of empathy similar to how every man and woman wishes that all were just like themselves.
Paul continues that each man and woman is a seperate and distinct manifestation of the complete and unified body of believers and, as such, is set for different roles. He warns that no man should seek celibacy to the degree that he burns with lust. The fire of lust can bring warmth or destruction. We cannot afford to leave it untended, but should seek to be cleansed by the fire in perfect union. One man and one woman; two flesh becoming one.
On Attraction
Why does such temporal admiration and desire cloud my day? How easy it is to desire an unnatural fullfillment for such appropriate admiration. The crowning jewel of creation, inspired with an endowed beauty, demands admiration. Created to be a "helpmate and companion," to know woman as intended is bliss. It is an element of design to pursue that which is beauty.
        And Yet 
Man was intended to be the lover of one. Is it not perversity of spirit that drives such blatant desire? Man should not commit adultery in the recesses of his heart. Would that I were blind and stumbled upon my feet than have eyes wide and stumble in my soul. Perhaps man should ignore the presence of women like the dessert fathers before him; ignore the physical in order to attain the eternal.
        On the Contrary
Man is made to approach the divine beauty just as Eve was made to embody such beauty. For Adam's love awakens the beauty in Eve. Men must rise up and vanquish greed so that we can fully appreciate creations majesty, evident in Eve. This is no small task, but a battle for love that Satan cannot afford to lose. The enemy, without understanding, concedes to the power of Eros.
There is no need for man to tell women that they are beautifull, for it is evident and unmistakable. Men wish to worship the beauty found in Eve and tell her that she is cherished. However, better by far that Eve remain ignorant of this power and, in denying it, remain humble. Most whisper to Eve "I want to marvel in your beauty," but I will walk the road before and, when I come upon Eve, shout to the heavens "Holy is the Lord, whose beauty is made known in this woman!"

On Union
      I know not, let some wiser man still make it clear.

Spring Breaks

Today, the world celebrates itself in a soft glowAs everybody sits ripe in the sun basking. They fold And sit planted upon their cheeks and sit sown In the memory of springtimes past; having each grown from a seed, Needs know and met by sunrays and soft rain thrown In the shade of the apple tree. There in the orchard basking, They glow and reminisce of the once known yearning To hold, be held, and coalesce into new seeds Blown upon the wind and carried where God wills.

Inevitably, our end bears witness to that which we hold to be most true.

Below is something different. Do read and see.

Inevitably, our end bears witness to that which we hold to be most true. A child jumps off a roof with a cape and dies, smeared across the pavement and the city mourns. Lamenting the lost innocence, the people cry out wishing that the child knew the true state of the world, wishing that someone--anyone--had stepped in and challenged the naive, false beliefs of the wistful child with dreams of flight. Another man steps off a bridge to his doom and the city halts. Believing that it is better to die than face the toil of life, he leapt and left behind a wife, a child, and a family distraught that they never knew the scale of his sorrow; distraught that they missed the chance of reminding the man that he was beloved and dear. Each belief inevitably concludes in our actions: the chief end of our thoughts. And the city grieves recognizing the lies that cloud our judgement as each man and woman desperately attempts to pull back the wool from their own eyes; blindly grasping at neuroses felt that cannot be mended alone and so we seek help. The blind leading the blind along in a desperate, vital quest to grasp the truth so that we do not meet our end, inevitably, as a consequence of the falsehoods we thought were true and knew were not. 

The man pulling the trigger in the dark alley drew back the hammer before he ever fondled the gun. He did so in strapping it to his side and walking outside. The man at the party with too much resolve hears not the loud cry, having made up his mind the moment his eyes starting roving the room over. The man who leaps in front of the speeding train and instinctively throws a child out of harms way knows not what he is doing, but chose years before that nothing more than love is worth living for. Such actions bear witness to that which man decides to believe.  

And so great minds have judged the merit of a given philosophy in the character of the living it out. And the contradictions that arise from men speaking one way and behaving another prove they either lie or do not truly believe what they claim to know. Because if they truly believed, they would have behaved differently. Any claim that fear or chance shapes man's action denies the reality that every physical act is preceded by a chemical process within the house of will, the brain. 

And yet we are an inconstant people who doubt and are constantly remaking our minds on every possible subject. Weakly do we believe what we claim to know and we praise this flaccid intellection as open-mindedness. For, in this here age, to know anything at all and truly believe it as truth and name it as such is suspect. We reject all knowing in praise of Socrates, thinking that claiming we know nothing at all is a wiser course than holding to any strait and narrow. Because narrowness is damnable and to believe in something so thoroughly you would die for it is unthinkable. 

And those poltergeists that actually stand for something we label ignorant, close-minded, fools; claiming they must have been brain-washed as if the brain is a chainable thing and not utterly free beyond measure and free in a way that it is therefore responsible for its own actions. Instead we like to think we are merely results of our circumstance and, in thinking so, claim that no action of ours was the consequence of anything other than chance. We would rather name ourselves slaves to fate and escape culpability than face the harsh reality that our actions are a direct consequence of what we choose to believe, because such freedom would require us to actually take a stand and claim to believe something. 

And some do stand and proclaim despite this culture. They proclaim competing claims and the world shudders, realizing peace is not an attainable thing unless everyone believed the same thing and, doubting any absolute truth, they believe peace is not then possible and, denying absolute truth, they blame war on strongly held belief in general rather than acknowledging the real contradictions of competing truth claims, all the while denying any real consequences born of our beliefs. 

And I cannot speak for any system of belief other than the one that I have chosen, standing within it close-minded (or shall I say guarded). But I can give you a key to evaluating whether or not what my camp claims to know is really believed and consequently evidenced in our actions. 

We believe that all things are not as they should be. We believe that all that is is but the remnant glory of something made to be beautiful and good, now broken and broken by the choice each and every person makes to believe or not believe (such belief not judged by its profession but by the consequences it bears on the lives of those who truly know it and life it out). We believe that this choice of belief has consequences; that true knowledge results in love and false knowledge results in despair and that we were meant for love, which is only fully arrived at in true belief and that our ability to choose what we believe is the single greatest gift to humanity. 

We believe we have the freedom to choose our own destiny in the mind's ability to believe or not believe and that this freedom is far greater than the slavery of an imposed belief. This freedom meaning we are responsible for our choices (for if belief was imposed upon the mind, we would not be responsible for our actions).

What's more we believe that the consequences of any false beliefs are actions that damn us (having demonstrated we are responsible for our actions in choosing what we believe to be true). We likewise believe that we were not meant for damnation, nor the world for despair, but all fell short in denying the truth and all are therefore worthy of destruction (having perverted a perfect world in every individual choice to not believe in the truth).

And yet, the origin of all things and the giver of freedom has a nature so defined by love that he instinctively created a way to spare our destruction if we would but choose to believe the truth again. And now it truly is as simple as choosing to believe. The rest follows inevitably. 

And we believe that this first mover is beyond our understanding and thus un-nameable, refusing to describe himself in any way other than I AM. And all he asks of you (asking, not imposing) is that you believe HE IS. And if you need further explanation of how it is that you can once again be whole despite your past denial of the truth of who HE IS you can look to the person of Christ, who bore your inevitable destruction upon himself mysteriously and yet conquered the reality of destruction in coming back to life. 

He who is named also the WORD; being a revelation of the unknowable one to us in his physical body just as it is through the medium of language that we communicate truth to one another. And if you need further explanation, you can turn to the words which have been recorded in such a worthy volume that it was merely referred to as 'biblio' (meaning the book) when Latin was spoken as a living language and has since been transliteration as "The Bible" in our current tongue. 

And if this is not enough explanation, you may fill the rest of your days with peering into the mysteries that are gradually revealed through the simple choice to believe in what is true (our focus resting on the truth, it comes gradually into greater focus). And we that set our eyes upon this and truly believe inevitably respond with Love.

For, if we believe all will be destroyed who do not believe this (as a result of their choice to not believe) and still love, we cannot suffer you to live in despair. Instead, we desperately desire that you too would believe and reap the consequences of that choice and so we cannot not share this truth.

And if we do not share this truth shamelessly, it is because our own belief is weak (not truly believing you will be damned without hearing this message) and you should judge us as liars or those who do not care overmuch for your future.

If we do not share the truth, we do not follow after the natural order. We see the child leaping off the roof and do not scream out; we see the man stepping of the bridge and look away; we see your blindness and let you die blind; we see the child in front of a train and do not, instinctively, leap to save the doomed and by our inaction it is clear that we do not really believe what we claim: that all are worthy of destruction without believing in Christ. 

On behalf of my tribe (the remnant that truly believes, not the mob that claims to), I shout the truth. We would have you understand and see as we see. We would have you freely choose to believe and be free. 

Blinding of the Cosmonaut (II)

Deep, deep in outer space.Therein a darkness; I am craven. And down deep inside a hole. You'll find me sinking though I'm frrozen.

Cold, cold the light-dimmed glow. Oh! Oh! Would that I were shriven.

Clear is the heart that knows no goals. Clear is the heart that chooses home. Home, home wherein air swirls. Home, home wherein light snows.

And the frost is the end / of what we know

And the thaw will begin / if we let it show.


I sit alone at the bar and want of no company. I am neither lonesome nor mournful. Content. They say that desire leads to dissatisfaction. I have found that the lack of each is equally true.

We, those who are our own company (and better company than most) Suffer our own, this our style: TO WANT NOTHING. AND OF NOTHING, WE WANT. And yet, this too is a poisonous rhetoric as we decay.

There is no satisfaction here.

Only there.

And only through a single gate.


Where two things diverge in a point,I am the man in the corner, there, Watching the perfect symmetry of two Here in the middle, now assymetrical, I shift. I stand in the golden mean and consider the ancients. I wonder if they had shifted (would they have seen order in all things Or would they have thought it too simple?) There is nothing of beauty in sameness. It is the complement of things that makes the harmony sparkle. Like a wet gem. Like a little variation, of course. There we see the sly man as himself; Not two perfects halves of a whole.

From the Journal

Clarity. Seeking a vision of your face.Obscured. By indelible grace. For I, unholy, would neither glow nor burn. Eviscerated by the sight of the unknown.

And yet stands a ripped veil. In a temple court in the city of sorrow. Consecrated. The holy of holies spreads. My world, yours; my heart, yours.

It was easy to pledge death upon the pyre. Harder by far to follow through.


My new heart stagnant in an old skin. Filled to burst for better or worse.


How do I soak in everlasting waters? I fain be heath, cacti, dying dry. I drink slowly with parched lips Refresh my longing. O, spirit, rise.


A thousand soldiers kneeling, Marching cross the earth Boring towards its center, Blossoming the globe and dirt, Pour forth in seven trumpets, Banners raised for war.


Lord, how full is the analogy of BREATH. for our soul is as a lung void. The hollows, you indwell in my soul, as surely as I breathe you in. But without your breath giving me life, every cell cries out in agony to be filled. For your breath is the basis of our soul fire as surely as we will die if we stop breathing. As we drink in your presence, the wind in the fire breathes a flame and feeds the heart so that our very tongue pours forth your breath--LIFE--again and we draw it back in. Breathe in me that I may breathe you out.


It has been the unmistakable pattern of my life that my weakness in the face of temptation leads into failure, sin worship, and a destroyed sense of who you are or why I should love you. The shame cycles are almost more damaging to my soul that the sin itself. It would be so easy to deny you; how much lighter would the burden be. But I cannot deny you any more than I could deny the sun. 


By way of desolation, we were loved And broke our fallowed ground. Long wayward fled our lonesome trust And yet, the yoke was held. Like calves upon the lush spun land, We (haltered) gleaned forth wisdom. And in the valley, there were spared The doom of this our whoredom. Waste not, my love, in wielded land. Waste not, of desolation. But turn thy gaze upon the sun And chase, dear heart, thy savior.


Gaze fleeing, he ran and fled upon the moor; And all about was a mirey fog. In the belly of The Beast he turned towards the sun, remembering His homeward long-treasured reward and swift there Forgetting he plunged into clouds and floated Upon them with rarely a care of anything else Than tendrils and wisps enwrapping him snared. Struck, fell he lonesome and for a time, Saw clear. Doomed, was he to ever wander Unclear. The man was so lonesome; the fog was so clear.



And we sat in red-tainted lounges with pool tables and foose champions and jazz-lonesome-lovers and craft beer ladled with indiscretion and all the other vibes of lunatic asylums and cognac aether's in the air and a single man sat in the corner pen-rapping his rage into ink driblets on a blank, bleached, bark crafted page. And what was the meaning, but that there was no meaning. None. As we swilled our absinthe lungs.


There is an art to meditation.There is an art to contemplation. Gaze we at our navels and bend, Protruding our bowels for investigation. There is an art to verbal tension.

There is a time for inner thoughts. There is a time for fists on chins. Gaze we down our forearms, hard Squatting on the marble floor. There is a time for words of wit.

There is a place for open hearts. There is a place for ruddied shins. Gaze not upon the quiet wind, Kneeling near the altar stone. There is a place for ink and pen.

And then there is not. And then there we start. Gaze neither in nor outwards, heart Laying prostate on the gentle rug. And then there we are.

Beat, Beat on!

Dark pastels on cheeks/       separate the savvy from the frumpet.

Those who care too much walk between /       the aisles, eyes lined.

Goatee Joe gets a jack and a coke /       and the grey hairs smile loosely.

By our energy, you say, as we /       smoke on the poison growling gray

The jazzman stands in the light as /       we sit in the dark and pray,

Lonely in the crowd, but feeling a part /       of the scene--I am cultured.

We hunger into the crowd and blend in, /       melting the grove like limestone on acid.

French mustache on a Moravian chin, Bearded like wine aged in the cellar With a southern chap-hat brimming In dark snatches of stagelights.


Between the sentiment and the meaning;Between the ear, the ear, and the eyes Resides a place wherein our slinking slime Of a wrinkly torch lies sleeping and primed.

Poised for inevitable action, reaction, So trained to string carrots and carts Along in chemical trains and ploys, Aimed at writing our parts.

Dr. Mousecheese would have you believe in the mind. He would grant you residual, individual choice. He would trade your animation for intellection. He would deny you a will with his wrinkles.

Why do we slather our conscience with oil? Lighting ethers afire with electric minds. Venerable storm-clouds detracting our vice as we wisely consider our poise:

Stranded, leaning against the bar. We wank loose our violence of life. And droop swilling poisons of mind. Why do we lonesome-long noise wash our tenders in strangers?

Why do we rip out the spine?

Bodies flounder on the carpet and burn Running against man made polymer. Writhing we lose our minds to each other. (OR DO WE, WHERE FORTH DO THEY VENTURE?)