Mind Thine Eye

The Eye is a vile thing.

Many shun the tongue,

But I despise the Eye.

The Eye can see light,

But simply rejects it.

The Eye is my existence,

Revolutionizing the world,

Around the selfish origin.

The Eye is nothing,

Without the Other.

The Other ignites the Eye,

But the Eye is too selfish.

It idolizes Itself,

Thus defiling Itself.

The Eye hides in the dark,

Prizing itself high above,

The Other senses.

Only where we close the Eye,

Other senses heighten.

Particularly the ears.

The ears are selfless,

The ears depend on the Other.

The ears do not seek,

The ears do not search,

The ears are patient,

And the ears are kind.

One always offers to lend an ear.

But seldom does one offer,

To share the Eye.

Had Oedipus’s Eye,

Not grown so large,

He might have kept It.

Must our sin equal Oedipus’,

Before we stop and listen?

Easter Sonnet #2

Much like a nuclear winter rages on,

The Modernist sends drought on the small farms.

Like clouds do block that which the sun shines on,

Corporations twist small business men’s arms.

As winter snow kills Land and its plant life,

Production Mass will freeze the local crops.

As warmness fades against the cold and strife,

The Super Markets strangle corner shops.

But when the flowers bloom from winter graves,

So too my Lord ascends to His High Throne.

As melted waters flow from dams in waves,

To greedy men, Christ’s wrath be ever shown.

When grass triumphantly through concrete breaks,

The Land redeemed from Death when Christ awakes.

No Man Stands Behind the Curtain Any Longer

I walk the concrete street.
Black fences enclose me.
Red leaves bleed on the sidewalk.
A dead bird lay trapped between two slabs of asphalt.
Chevrolet guards the corpse.
A foreign Mazda keeps surveillance.
And Billboards exercise a powerful eye.
Fall is in the air and Death peers around the corner.
I continue through the daunting prison.
Several trees cower beneath the synagogue.
Lights are cast from the Church, in panoptic fashion.
Sights, smell, and alluring music gravitate me to the sunny Mosque.
I take my seat, without a look right or left.
Never touching the lifeless, imprisoned bodies next to me.
Here I am to worship as the game starts.
20,000 thousand cheer and chant the liturgy, “Defense, Defense.”
The Gods run their courses and we our sacrifices of $3.50 for a 20 oz. water.
The Gods stand still and our eyes shift to the heavens, the real watchtower.
The Demiurge himself flashes his wonder.
Moses himself writes the stone law.
“Buy! Sell! Circulate money! Consume!”
The Demiurge hangs from the ceiling with four jumbotronic legs.
He finishes, “Yes! It is I!”
The media timeout ends, people return to their fetters to sit, heeding the Gods’ command.
Butter runs down a man’s cheek from his popcorn.
The overweight man grabs his chest.
A heart attack. The man is dead.
No one notices but the insurances companies, who fret losing another premium.
The Gods finish their virtuous battle.
And the inmates walk a bit taller on the way back to their cells.
Winter lurks and the Christmas Gods appear.
The Capitalist Monster takes his throne.
And the bottomless pit drowns the goods of life.

Creation deteriorates to violence unto Death.
And Man has lost his dignity, man has lost his freedom.
I want to die, but I’m dead already.

Untitled

Long have I wandered
The Chaos that thundered.
With my strength I shall band
A disciplined man, newly I stand.
My existence God does fate.
In His Goodness hope I ever to participate.

Ambivalence

Pain fills up my heart.
Like Death into my last drink.
A sip to which there is no antidote.
Love is a double-edged sword.

The Voice in the Desert

“Prepare ye way for the Lord,”
John called in the desert.
Israel, who had no crops,
Israel, who had no rain,
Israel, who had no livelihood,
Israel, who had no health.
The King is coming!
To lead us across the Jordan,
To lead us to the land of Canaan,
To lead us to a land,
Flowing with milk and honey.
Riches beyond
Our wildest beliefs.
Our roads shall be paved with gold!
What great a land
Would allow their roads paved in currency?
It is Jerusalem, the Holy City.
Look at the King’s splendor,
His radiant crown,
His flowing robes,
His traveling court,
His thousands of servants,
His excess wealth,
His captivating music,
His cloud of smoke by day,
His pillar of fire by night,
His faithful Levites,
His gift of everlasting life,
His promise of an omnipotent kingdom.
Although he came in a troph of pigs,
And left damned as pierced to a tree.
However, Christ came.
And now he is gone.
Why, O Israel, do you remain in the desert?
Now, I am John.
Now, I am Elijah.
Now, I am Isaiah.
And I weep as did Jeremiah.
I stand at desert’s end.
And I can see Jerusalem,
I can see across the Jordan,
I can see the land of Canaan,
I can see a land,
Flowing with milk and honey.
Riches beyond
Our wildest beliefs.
It is Jerusalem, the Holy City.
Why, O Israel, do you remain in the desert?
You sought to grow your own crops,
To produce your own rain,
To produce your own livelihood,
To produce your own health.
Instead, you trusted in yourselves.
You trusted in man’s way,
Not the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
You created your own dreams,
You earned your own capital,
You named your own insurance premiums,
But you are still in the desert!
I am John,
I stand at desert’s end,
calling back,
“Ye prepared not the way of the Lord.
The King, in all his glory, has come.
Come join in His feast,
Come taste the milk and honey!”

The Paradigm of all Trolls’ Hate

He never learns his lesson, this story he frequently narrates.
It happens, again and again, as his life circularly rotates.

“I walk an empty soul,
I am the Desert Troll.”

A dry, dusty desert I dawdle,
A fruitless, barren life I coddle.
My life is very best if left alone,
What horrors I could be shown!
Till a foreigner dares to toll,

“I walk an empty soul,
I am the Desert Troll.”

All the sandy venues I roam,
Not an inch, I forget to comb.
Entrance prohibited, no one may,
A rule even the Cacti obey.
Till a dust-weed try to roll,

“I walk an empty soul,
I am the Desert Troll.”

Secretly, for someone I would hope,
The reason for this ugly troll’s trope.
For rain to heal this broken land,
Flowers and fruit out of the sand!
Till one day she did stroll,

“I walk a satisfied soul,
I am the Desert Troll.”

My desolate world she varied,
A barren bowl but now berried.
A flower, that one oft bestows,
And a gift to give her, arose.
Again, my bitter desert her goal,

“I walk an empty soul,
I am the Desert Troll.”

My home under the sun’s rays,
My vined life, alas, frays.
A weathered friend never sways,
That’s why the Cactus stays.
“Leave! I remain a mole.”

“I walk an empty soul,
I am the Desert Troll.”

A dry, dusty desert I dawdle,
A fruitless, barren life I coddle.
My life is very best if left alone,
What horrors I could be shown!
Till a foreigner dares to toll,

“I walk an empty soul,
I am the Desert Troll.”

He never learns his lesson, this story he frequently narrates.
It happens, again and again, as his life circularly rotates.