THESE BLESSED RAINS (Originally published in Nomad's Choir)

Sky is crying
its raindrop tears
reflect my solemn eyes
upon the pond
of all selflessness.

These blessed rains,
surge through my veins,
my earth-sunken toes
retap their roots again,
in the absence of Disunity,
my fathomable finite essence
nourished, rehydrated & found,
at once unbound
of the encumbering gauze
of worldly inflictions,
now standing,
a human tree,
awaiting to be sunken
back beneath yet above it all,
nestled within the womb
of the Omniscient Benevolence,
to sprout up in due time,
a new creation,
wielding fruits
to overflowing.

SECTOR (Penned in twenties)

Beaches and once barren, desolate Earth
dessicate and desolate
but if in the womb of God,
surrogate Father of a Humankind
plagued by bias and the insidious Bigotry
of Subjectivity, Relativity-
all so transparently veiled in corrosive cynicism.

Yes, don't get me wrong,
there are just as many occassions for song,
as there are for weeping,
but if we never dream while awake,
we are always,
sleeping.

FAMOUS LAST WORDS (Penned in twenties)

Voltaire once said,
Thereupon his death bed,
"I would renounce the devil,"
"And eagerly bring level,"
"The wayward heart of every rebel,"
"But I ponder I must refrain,"
"In blissful disdain,"
"For though I am a man weak in Death,"
"In Life I was quite keen to see,"
"Inborn as is the breath,"
"That now, especially,"
"' Tis not the time for making a new enemy."

-inspired by a quote that was credited to the French Renaissance writer, historian & philosopher Francois-Marie Arouet (known by his pen-name Voltaire) upon his death bed, when a priest asked him if he would like to confess of his earthly sins and renounce the devil

LOOK BEYOND THE DESPAIR, FOR HOPE DOES LIE THERE (Penned as a teen-I began as a poet/writer composing devoutly Christian verse)

In this troubled world in which we live today,
There seems to be for much to pray,
And oftentimes one is forced to deal,
With daily horrors that prove all too real,
Yet in the midst of one's struggle to cope,
Beyond all despair does lie hope,
For Hope & Despair are both derived from a similar intensity of emotion,
Only differing when being put into motion,
So, before the darkness of Despair casts its self-defeating shadows upon you,
Just remember the Lord's promise and how it still reigns true,
For when you begin, in Despair to cry,
All you must do is look up to the sky,
And reach out and receive the Lord's gracious & healing Light,
For only then can the mortal human Spirit truly take flight,
And although at this moment the tears may continue to fall,
These are made of Joy & Salvation, so stand tall,
Do not allow the weighty mass of Sorrow weigh down your heart's wings, nor the chaotic rumble of inner turmoil drown out your true voice,
Instead look for comfort, hope & security as the angels of God's mercy & amazing grace sing & then rejoice,
For even though this world seems ready to fall apart,
This does not apply to what lies within your heart,
For God made each and every one of His children strong,
And to His Light & Love only do we rightfully belong,
So whenever you begin to feel as if this life is simply too much to bear,

Look to the Heavens and beyond the Despair, for Hope does lie there.

LEGACY (Penned in 20's)

Before I became human,
I was a Poet.
I would swim the streets at Night,
scavenging for Treasure
in those places Most Low which most often called Home,
reaching Fullness Of Enrichment only after I had exchanged all that I had to give.
But, however Noble it may sound, there were no true Vows of Poverty or Chastity taken-
but only the feigned Destitution of a Creature for whom everything was always rich & fully satiating.
For I was a Poet, one of an elite classification of species,
whose sole utility was to speak for for those whom couldn't adequately speak for and by themselves,
Yet in order that we could truly become enabled & ennobled for this Metaphysical feat,
we had to sacrifice ourselves willingly and oft willfully before the Shrine of The Flood-
the Flood of all human highs & lows-The Experience, raw & uncensored, unashamed & unafraid.
In essence, we poets were interpretors of The Wind & The Rain,
keepers of the elusive yet essential,
the soothsayers of oral mediums through which the cryptic codes of the Intangible
could be evenly & justly deciphered.
Although, I, as a Poet was more often than not misunderstood, and even feared & loathed-
cursed in a word-by words-and the Truths which my Works revealed to the Human Heart.
For despite all of our attempts to declare our Citizenship with the World,
we knew we would never fit & would always be few & far between.
Yet, by our nature we were Solitary animals & this alienation did not hinder us in our quest, nonetheless.
We were native & adaptable to Any & All an Inner Landscape or Climate,
however Alone we were in our expansiveness of Mind & Heart.
The Poet is oft romanticized & exalted, yet is also equally Demonized, Pathologized & shunned.

The Poet is all, must become all-thus is the Poet perceived often as a kind of High Priest,
or even a God or a demi-god, crowned in the glory & subtly forging
Omnipotence & Omniscience of The Idea, The Platonian Utopia of Mindstuff as Matter.
As Poet I was:
Muse
Mother
Father
Sister
Brother
Healer
Devil
Demon
God
Archangel
Priest
Priestess
Warrior
Temptress
Martyr
and even Castaway.

And the words which often came to me in the Night,
would greet their beatification
upon entrance into the Temples of both Spirit and Flesh,
all Angels & Demons roused into Dynamism each according to their Intent & my delivery of them,
into countless swooning & hungry human hearts-
hearts hungry for that certain special kind of Hunger, enflamed only by a certain kind of Catalyst.
And often, for those much more renowned of my fellow wordsmiths,
their zealous idolators, teeming with such staunch Idealistic Rage & Fervour,
would often shout these Poet's legacies from dormitory rooftops
or any and all Institutions of Enlightenment & Bohemia everywhere.
And for this purpose only was and is the Poet willing to undergo
all forms of extremity-even depravity-to attain their ends.
For through our words, life can be brought to either epiphanous revivification
or morbid diathesis each and every time one of our works was, or is heard or even silently read.
And perhaps it is also for this reason that we, the Poets,
must spend only the first quarter of our lives as Poets.
For we cannot be both human and a Poet-this goes against our good conscience.
For all throughout history, so many great Poets met their early demise trying to accomplish this.
For though the Poet is hired to best speak for Humanity, we can never fully be, only Human.

Thus, it came to be that eventually, my words, upon their dispersing out into the Atmosphere,
would merely evanesce, and so one cool night, I took my last verbose breath.
I knew that it was time.
It was time to save myself from the eventual Damnation of Exaltation,
from the continual cycle of Extremes which only the somewhat still young of mind can survive.
Yes, it was time to pass on my Legacy to someone else-
someone preferably, I thought to myself, whom perhaps has discovered the Gift for that Ultimate Art-
even exalted above wordsmithing itself-
and even exalted above the art of learning how to not only die as a Poet, but how to live as one.
But perhaps even more importantly, the next in line of poetic licensure and legacy
could finally hone that much coveted yet elusive of all refineries:
The Art Of Being Human.

THE LEPER'S LEDGE ( Penned in my twenties)

The sky lets out a warning
and the ground shivers
in apocalyptic suspense.

The faint form of a man appears
just beyond the vertical horizon
of mountain splitting sea.

Rock and Rain,
the things of which Man
is so fearfully and wonderfully made,
a constant duelling of infinite Dualities,
kept stoked by the incendiary
two-fold doctrinal commands
of Existential Liberation & Blissful Veneration
vs. that of all forms of micromacrocosmic management.

Like water to stone,
the things of which Man is made,
psyche to soma,
soma to psyche,
Spirit to Flesh,
Flesh to Spirit,
like baptism to impurification,
a cycle dynamically and concentrically
charged and dynamic,
the endless barrage of stones skipped
over the surface tensions
of an infinite continuum of perfectly still waters.

The diaphanous image
of the man
on the vertical horizon
of mountain splitting sea
upon which we glanced but a moment ago
has dispersed, and left in its place
is the air up there.

We watch all of this from the leper's ledge,
quite homey for supposedly being
the loneliest place on Earth.

For the leper sees reflected here in his surroundings
only his true image,
beatific, majestic & noble,
and so we let him be,
and do not burden him,
with our presence.

BORNE (Penned in twenties)

And He formed You from the dust
of my Earth
where you roamed
my fecund loam for days
searching for Sky where solid ground lay
reticent & rumbling
hot & quick
beneath Your feet.

Yet Your nubile, nescient mind
had grown a thickened membrane
where the shock
of something you named 'longing'
in some quixotic tongue
whetted the parched matter of Your Flesh
at the sight of me
drinking you in,
split-shifting Your sense into the Belief
that truly, nothing did fill the space between Sky & Substrata,
breaking you thus,
into One.

PARAPHRASE

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Doubt,
I shall fear only this-Faithlessness.
For the rod and the staff of any God cannot comfort Thee in the face of this-
Doubt, the Dracul of all Hope and Mortal Transcendence,
always in search of the blood of saints,
that rich liquid gold of the reverent and the noble,
whom hath erected of their Souls,
impenetrable temples of diamond, onyx, lapis lazuli and mother of pearl.

Might I become one of these, Oh, my God,
for only then do Thy rod and Thy staff comfort me,
guiding me to those still waters and greenest pastures,
no matter what very well might lie on the other side,
for they, despite their perilous proximity to the fiercest opposition and open fire,
remain still, the safest dwellings,
where the encompassing skies whisper a Joyous Lament.
For my strength is only my weakness,
but Thine strength restoreth the fatally aggrieved human psyche
with the priceless balms and ointments of the High Noon of Day,
where Reason and devout Circumspection are exalted to their peaks of dynamism,
and the Mind's Eye may gaze upon The Son,
wincing only when those clouds of impending plunder and metaphysical pillage,
wrought by a devastating precipitation,
blind one with the scathing reproach of our archaic cardinal heritage,
which is overcast over the Temple of the Soul's Mind,
to herald the season of that old familiar uninvited dark Guest,
as we struggle to comprehend the Meaning,
in order that we may mean the Struggle,
which so often is what leads to the Struggle's end.

Thus, once more I can see both Cause & Remedy to any ill or anomaly,
each within the things themselves,
and hear sweetly and so clearly resonating throughout
the newfound hospice of Reunification,
the song of True Freedom,
the song of I and Thou, Oh, my God.

DIABOLUS EX MACHINA

In the beginning of the end,
the bureaucratic jungle was declared null & void,
Final Judgement was upon the face of the Earth,
and Man still made God.

In the end of all beginnings,
only the bankrupt and indigent kept all of their winnings,
and the unmeek inherited the Hell of each their own worldly investments,
the blessed being those thrown to the Fire to perish forever-
no Eternity to bear the wear & tear of neither here nor there,
the last great irony pillaging its last life effects out of the minds of all earthborne,
turning the cogs and the wheels of diabolus ex machina,
the wrench of the Great Work's halt,
rendered by those who've come to neither own nor disparage Evil,
but to praise it on low for its many illusions and afflictions,
which had continuously lured so many back to mere upright affectation.

Yet when all was said and done,
God looked out over His creation and still saw,
that it was Good.

POEM FOR THE DECONSTRUCTIONIST

Words tumble out,
so rest assured that there is some light there to catch them.
But is this, that kind of light so cloaked in misty obscurity,
bringing a darkness all its own-
so indescribably dense,
so cumbersome
the soul can't shake,
the mind can't unwind,
for want of a less transformative scourging?
For in the painfully raw, dys-cryptic codex of common communication,
the only thing left to understand,
is what speaks beneath it all-
the incommunicable,
the bearer of that dark light which propels us ever onward
through the time-space miasma.

For this is what we truly live for-
the unutterables,
the mystery of that glorified redemptive kind of sweet inscience,
the things whose prescience exists to us only through and by their unfathomability,
absence of evidence becoming the evidence,
of unshakeable, mute-strickening presence.

ENTERPRISE (Penned in my 20's)

Everything drops like a leaden weight to the epicenter of all Perplexity,
a longing for some kind of exonerating Sublimation.
Even my dreams are foreign to me & I awaken time and again in some solemn stratosphere
where Reason becomes the Loathsome Lie, a figurehead for the Raging's vast Enterprise.
For such sapience and existential impartiality have required of this human heart,
far more than they, themselves have to compensate with.
The human essentia which can neither survive nor fully thrive without the safeguarding
of such damnable and damning dialectics.

How will humankind keep its Spirit alive?
Or will the Spirit, too, become more and more subject to the gross rigours
of artificial sustainment & respiration?
Have we sacrificed the Sanctified & the Sublime at the altar of Secular Science
and its ever multiplicative gods?

Artificial intelligence.
Artificial life support, indeed.

And this is just it!
The deceit which the mortal heart is pressured daily to commit.
And what a tall order indeed-to be all and anything other than that which one unalterably & inescapably is.
The most profound & omnipresent multi-lemma every human entity must decipher-
must reduce to just one or the other, right or wrong, black or white,
at the pricey cost of the righteous actualization of all other possibilities teeming throughout the Infinite Void,
for a fully enriched and truly potentiated experience and existence.
If only we could find a feasible way to reconcile and synthesize that primitive hunger
with our more neoterically prone thirst,
would we perhaps no longer continue to so easily mistake one for the other,
and perhaps finally breach that true Sublimity which will lead us to our noblest & most authentic raison d'etre,
that whispering apprehension we cohabit with daily,
tickling the raw, pink underbelly of the animalian essence,
rousing those icy-hot huffs of ragged respiration,
thus enlivening the dually-instinctual, pulsating organic human engine of human animation, circumnavigation,
relaying to the amygdala with super luminous circuitry,
that old familiar feeling, a dark hovering cloud to which we so often commonly allude,
always brewing up its Venusian rainstorm-
a persistent Voodoo drum thunder-
But first! Yes! First!
That fine flash of electric light, so indescribably white, illuminating all neuronal pathways
if but even for a nanosecond-yet still, more than enough for the ever-eidetically nuanced soul
to be branded with the imprinting of yet another enticingly facile dys-cryptic codex.

At what price, progress?
Or will we just continue to digress in infinite regress?
Have to continually confess in excess for those issues we so often painstakingly fail to address?
Or for how we too often exist and depend on much, much less than a mere guess,
born of what faux noblesse and tedious overdress of specious politesse to which we daily acquiesce,
before the shrine of Egoistic obsess-a false sense of success at best,
which we embrace with far too much agress.

How much longer will we continue to escape the dire consequences of our sins?
We must let the ailing present pass, before we are ever to become ready for rebirth,
reborn into renewed health and vigour.

For this Life is not a test of the reasoning, linear mind.
It is a test of the earthbound Spirit.

NEUROTIC DEPRESSIVE, NOT OTHERWISE SPECIFIED

I don the veil of oblivion fresh, fragrant and warm from the dryer.
Am I the means to your end, Mr. Death Wish,
or the end of your means?
Do you speak with eloquence or in spite of it?
You know, I've an offer to propose just to get you off my back-
an Eternity's supply of Super Bowl tickets for you and a new recruit of your choice
and two brand spankin' new Italian silk upholstered couches-
But that is not all!
You will also receive that much coveted heart of gold,
all ready to hock whenever you're hard up for cash.
But, the Grande Bribe?
The brains of your most coveted Proteges jarred in formeldehyde!

You see, we all have something of bribing value to offer others,
but ironically seemingly nothing for ourselves.
You're not the only one, Mr. Death Wish,, who seeks redemption at the pricey cost
of Salvation, bartered all too eagerly for a place on the chain gang of Blind Obedience & pithy Elitism.
Oh, let us count the ways and let us fill our days with endless Antagonism,
so that we may know one to take one for a scapegoat for the torture we truly feel like
inflicting upon ourselves, for we just cannot bear feeling alone in our idle, petty tyrranies
and pseudo-sadistic pursuits.

Do you really see your reflection in me, Mr. Death Wish?
If so, I am not at all flattered.
Not looking for that kind of enmeshment.
Perhaps I am the one who can grasp you, while I continue to perplex your one-track mind.
How much difference does it make, whether I give or whether I take?
Whether I stay or whether I go?
Whether I truly know what I think I know?
What more is there to prove when there is nothing left to lose or to gain,
as I hover, perched perilously upon the Plateau of Potentia, shivering with scared delight?
How can I speak of the Panic which rises up to meet the sullen earth,
which is blood-soaked from my own self-slaying?
This bent we have towards destruction truly a facade to mask
the fear of committing to that truest internal dictator-amour-propre.

And finally, to lend my wit and candor to your riddle Mr. Death Wish:
How many times can others destroy me?
Innumerable.
How many times can I destroy myself.
Definitive.

A TRAGICOMEDY IN INFINITE ACTS (penned in twenties)

The leagues of the mind converge,
arriving upon disembodied truths,
comprehended but not fully understood-
being so indecipherable to the conundrum-dumbed tongue,
sound and sight passing from their crowned glory
into the densified annals of the absurd.
For this body and its modes of being are truly seasoned
only for the Art and Techne of Comedy,
Tragedy being a concept we invent
to lend ourselves grandiloquence and credibility,
although we are viable and taken only as seriously
as we can manage to become credibly comical.
So it seems that the mastery of all things expedient to this earthly incarnation
which we must procure for ourselves all too often lies in trickery and deception-
Thus, is any of this worth it?
Between Being & Nothingness, indeed.

Hence, it all comes down to need.
And the real tragedy remains to be the trickery insidiously inherent
in the concepts themselves, of Need vs. Want,
when we need to want all too often more than we want to need.
But, if only just the utmost pertinent information could exist...
Ah! But then we would merely invent tragedy on even grander scales,
and may never return home to ourselves.
Then the comedic just might become our God,
and nothing would be left sacred, save the profane, the arcane.

And thus is this perhaps, the funniest poem I have ever written.

FIRST BORN (Penned in twenties)

My dreams are steeped in prophetic doom. I rise from them, doused in pensive lucidity, to beach the ghost shores of shame and nameless indignation. Having long ago learned to fear the inevitability of others' wrathful reciprocity, I must now change or perish. My armour has become too conspicuous, too heavy to bear. We are the death before dying of ourselves, forgetting all too easily and eagerly how to garner Courage instead from the tender hands of reverent Virtue and Heart-Tenderness. Have I the strength to be kind in a world so quick to turn cruel at even the slightest gesture of self-defense? For when everyone brandishes sword and shield the defiant act of self-preservation can transmogrify into a kind of death wish, the stoicism of Cowards and Fools. It seems no longer to be, that the only way to truly survive is to turn the other cheek. What have I become? Where is my faith in the saving graces of Discretion and Humility? To forget the self used to be the basic tenet of saving the self, but now seems the stuff of self-delusion and ignobility, creating within the human will, an even more toxic core than ever before. In the Herculean grip of Loss, Alienation and Loneliness, have I still the resolve of will to kill this sickly beast? Have I still the strength to stand apart, with purity of heart? Just how far have I slipped? Have I fallen so that this devil-mind will never again bid adieu to irreconcilable Rage and Disgust, however just they might be? Will I settle for the cathartic yet disastrous camaraderie of Hatred and Fear, or return, a prodigal orphan of the Hell I have bore, to the arms of my true blood Father, to be loved only as the sweet and simple child I am in His beloved, merciful eyes? I must die to all of this in order that I may live again. Oh, Heavenly Father, if You can bear any more kin, I wish to be born again.

THE ALPHA AND THE OMEGA (Published in Silver Wings Mayflower Pulpit 2001)

Standing upon the beach
in the middle of everywhere
within the vortex of omniscience
tidal wave of revelation-
I, a miniscule mote of Creation
amongst an Infinity of Creations-
even the grains of sand upon which I glance
and make my ephemeral imprint
humble my weary soul.
I have only begun to grasp
the concept of Him-
the round, hard chalices of my bloodied, skinned knees
the callused balls of my well-travailed feet
now surrendering their reverent hollows
to the warm sands of the fathomless Creator
the Alpha and the Omega.
And so the ends of all ends begins
the beginning of all beginnings He sends
upon His gentle breath of Life
the winds.

LAUGH THEN BE STILL (Published in Art Times 2002)

The bigger the leaf lost,
The higher the tree's grief cost,
Now drudging?
How begrudging,
Is thine Fate being to Thee?
Move still,
Rest nil,
Turn your season of all or none pain,
Into laughter's reason to thrall or shun bane.

The more the mind thinks,
The less the heart hears,
For as your blind soul blinks-
Unrest, with glee, will impart fears.
How obnoxious,
Now toxious,
Are thine thoughts being to Thee?
Be in riot,
Of quiet,
Turn the voice of violent illusion's demented fruition,
Into the choice of silent fusion's cemented Intuition.

ALL SEEKS MERELY TO BE (Penned in early twenties)

Still,
choking upon the bittersweet juices
of this Life's fruit,

Yet what is to be savored,
of the delectably flavored
must first through all drought and frost take root.

Still,
are my soul's hands bled and sore
by the thorny stamens
of Love's ever receding rose,

Yet the aloe vera of its mollifying memories
and anointing amenitites, in plenitude still grows.

Still,
in the garden of all omniscience
the Seraph of Beauty is mauled and jaded,

Yet in nearest proximity too, lies the Beast,
irreconcilably invaded.

FOR JOHN FREDERICK NIMS (Accepted to be published in Nomad's Choir)

Early 20th century North American poets,
strange but poignantly familiar voices
preen my weary heart,
an unwanted child orphan of post-modern day,
out of its anachronistic agony
into a time where people resided
within the unadorned, earthen Church
of Tradition & Integrity,
a time where we walked and we talked
with such purity and simplicity,
a redeeming reflection of only the facts felt,
where we were more in touch with the reverent acknowledgement,
that all that was truly worth knowing,
was all that was truly worth saying.

A WAY WITH WORDS: THE POET'S ATONEMENT

Like the serpent was for forbidden fruit,
The devil's advocate I've become,
Bearing a countenance of lachrymose seduction,
Having taken a vow of infernal luxuriance,
The devil's advocate I've become,
Poor, poor dear...
much adherence here.

Like the Fall was for Mortalkind,
The Saviour's Cause I have shunned,
Bearing a soul of eternal pilgrimage,
Having taken a vow of apostasy,
The devil's advocate I've become,
Blind, blind seeker...
Ah! But what an eloquent speaker!

CLAUDIUS' HYMN

Heaven hath no fury like that of a devil born.
When I was born they say the Earth shook with pre-ordained doom,
And God wept with unfettered gloom,
Mortal eyes looked away in digust and shame,
As I reveled in my post-natal fame,
For a fate of Rage and a sickness of mind,
Had already put me in quite a bind,
I am the Eternal Child of Nature's Being, raw and wild,
Come to fruition in one lone soul-
Yet sooner or later, it must blow-
It must blow,
With the force of a wrath justified and true,
For where two rights make infinite wrongs,
Faith in Truth, one must renew,
This heart is deeper than you will ever know,
And if I die drowning within myself,
At least I will have earned, one less foe.

AND ALL THEY GIVE YOU IS THE DAMN ANSWER (Published in Art Times)

The lines of fragmented ardour pierce as crazy rays-
this way and that,
And I am left bereft of much to say,
But anything that will bring,
This geometrically inept mind,
To incalculate understanding.
Yet it all keeps coming to 360 degrees,
a full vicious circle of transience,
Quite moot in its points, configurations and convictions.
For the variables may alternate,
But the solution is always the same,
One which never ceases to elude your figuring as to how you got there.
So, you go to the back of The Book-any old book,
And all they give you,
Is the damn answer,
on yet another 'Why?' axis-
An elusive coordinate,
Survival vs. Thrivance,
this Life and the preserving of it vs. this Life and the Living of it.

A WINNING FILIBUSTER

A ravenous desire,
And a broken will,
Walking on barbed wire,
Another vetoed Bill,
In the House where Discretion caddy-corners the Senate of the Id,
Falling over the edge within a dream within a dream within a dream,
I awaken to the maniacal laughter of the spin-doctor to the Politician of Pain-
A winning filibuster.

I, ONTOLOGICAL

It's not the weight of the world so much, 6 sextillion tons of dead weight.
It's the weight of the self, black hole singularity, infinite live weight.
Even demi-gods eventually fell, gave into the weight of their own worlds.
But truly, the question is posed-
Which is a more reasonable & sound expectation?
An inquiry not altogether moot.
Yet still, both are unaswerable, given the lack of any empirical affirmative and/or negative to be found.
Thus, to which do we owe our devotion, the prostration of ourselves?
If it is said that the outer world is changed first from within the chrysalis of each self,
how has the world gotten off so easily?
How has anyone transcended anything?

We must be gods.

THE WELLSPRING OF LIFE

To not allow the evils that have been done unto you to become of you.

To acknowledge the darkness around you without allowing it into you.

Guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of Life.

To separate your true, god-given, virtuous essence from that "self" which the world and the tasks of survival oftentimes call you to be.

To gain your true strength from tender-heartedness and compassion.

To fight the inhumane with only the humane, always.

To fear most of all, becoming so hardened to the bad at the expense of the good and the just.

To defend yourself and others not with antagonistic posturing, but with protagonistic Surrender & quiet Dignity.

To fight unseen principalities of Destruction & Defeat with foreseen principalities of Resurrection & Victory.

All of this in God's name we pray. Amen.

A SYLLOGISM FOR THE SPIRIT

There is a God.
God is not ill.
God is not broken.
God is not empty.
God is not lost.
God is not imperfect or incomplete.
God is not disenfrachised.


You come from God.
Therefore are you well.
Therefore are you whole.
Therefore are you filled.
Therefore are you found.
Therefore are you perfect.
Therefore are you complete.
Therefore are you Home.

Now, believe in what you are not.

Now, be what you are.

THE UNHOLY TRINITY

Me, myself & I-
The unholy trinity,
An existential vacuum echoing on into Infinity,
Unless both the "I" and the "We",
Can Coexist,
In the unparalleled bliss,
of true Unity.

THE VOID OF A VOID

My well has run dry and I cannot even describe the sheer Terror & Anguish this brings. My whole life is in the balance upon the tip of the pen. I never even imagined that I would lose my desire to create. A part of me that has always been so essential to my well-being is seemingly lost, gone. And I would suffer even the most unimaginable horrors just to get it back-my chi-my life force. Although this horror is, in and of itself near the mark of unimaginability and Despair. There is something in the human soul which clamors for elucidation & expression. It is a need next to none. Does this reside only within the soul of the Artiste or in everyone? Everything is at a standstill as long as the heart remains unstirred. It is a nothingness and existential sense of nullity which even Sartre or Nietszche never touched upon. For between Being & Nothingness lies an even deeper abyss. Perhaps its name is Apathy. Or perhaps it is Mother to Apathy-Ambivalence. We can never escape non-being, but can we ever embrace being? Yet we must, if the Void is ever to have any meaning. Every force produces its equal and opposite reaction and not strictly in the Newtonian and phenomenological sense. Meaning itself derives from the union of opposites. And perhaps this is a gift, for nothing-not even nihility itself-is ever truly meaningless. Although this does not lessen our pain in the face of it. But the presence of the pain, parthenogenically born from our sense of barrenness, futility and emptiness nevertheless suggests a fullness & abundance of Being which is always there, even but if only as images within the ever-envisaging human psyche. Hence, even Nothingness is always, quite Something. And oftentimes, our pain is, in itself, the salve for our pain. For as long as one is feeling, or as long as one is conscious of something-one is Being, one exists, is alive, has substantiality. This is often why we cling to our pain at the fear of never finding relief, or perhaps that we will?  We must have something to hold onto, even if this thing which we cling to is, in actuality, a losing of our grip. To lose always includes a gain and a gain, an equally commensurate loss. This is why the ability to hold onto Joy should be regarded as nothing less than the miraculous display of an inner fortitude and Virtue of Sysyphean task. For it is indeed, a superhuman feat, belonging to the leagues of all ontological argument, where the Idea always presupposes the Actuality. For truly, there is no evidence that Joy is a more valid and noteworthy emotion than that of Sorrow, especially in a world of such fleeting felicity. The doctrines of Nihilism are very seductive, yet still, when we must inhabit a mind and heart which often cannot choose between Equanimity or Struggle. To choose between one Truth or the other which is just as much of a verity-is at the heart of the human condition and the various configuration of trilemma and seemingly endlessly regressive doctrines and Byzantium architecture we must decipher and navigate. The attendant Fear is often so great, that neither nor is secure. For just as soon as we wholly embrace one Truth, its equal yet antimonous opposite becomes all too manifest. And then we are ravaged and lost once again. But this truth is exactly what makes all forms of bigotry thrive. Thus must we learn to embrace it all, although no one person can even know or see it all. This is the true act of Faith, where Ambiguity must become the God we worship daily before the indestructible Shrine Of Exigency. And learning how to persist in this cruel task without becoming totally adrift is a lesson that only the blessed can fully assimilate. For not unlike our love, belief and conviction must be spread just thin enough that it can maintain its clarity of purpose and efficacy, without losing its viscosity. For we can become One only when we embrace it all with equal measures of awe and expectancy. Then we are secure and left with the Ultimate and most essential task of all: Becoming all that we are. Between Being & Nothingness lies a Perfection already operant behind it all. We are complete. We are whole. We are meaning. We are the Universe. Life is in love with us. Will we marry it? Oh, we already have-even in our hours of Despair. Nihility is an illusion. It is all full beyond measure. The only Void which exists is the Void of a Void.

THE DETHRONEMENT (Penned in twenties)

You sit, a false god on your crumbling throne,
Wreaking chaos,
To rival what peace lost-
Oh, at what cost,
Will I continue my prostration before you?

The divinity in me must replace,
What profligacy is riled by your face,
You want me weak,
So you can be strong,
You craftily turn right into wrong,
But now I must sing, my song,
At the altar of my true Lord & Master,
For as my earthly Mother & Father have continually forsaken me-
Only He hath reigned ever after.

And oh, at what infinite and exponential profit,
Will continue, my prostration before Him.

ODE TO AYN RAND: ALL HAIL TO THE INDIVIDUAL!

A certain form of self-centrism is the prerequisite towards reaching an authentic state of altruism. My relation to the whole has no true meaning without first establishing my individuation apart from that whole, as much as my individuality possesses no substantiality outside of the parameters of the collective whole. The purpose of our existence is to discover our individuality whilst synthesizing that very uniqueness of self peaceably with our coexistence with the collective whole outside of the solipsistic microcosm of the individual self. But much like the Idea being the Mother Of All Invention, the Individual is the Mother, in actuality, of all Unity. It all begins at home, to put a different spin on the old adage. Hence, contrary to the traditional ways in which self-centrism is frowned upon in our society, it is, actually, a very virtuous endeavor. Thus, All Hail To The Individual!

MOSAIC (A Poem I Penned In My Twenties)

The stunning mosaic of Fear
easled as higher Art
within the banquet halls of the esurient Heart-
the going price
a damning diminution
of Transcendence, Absolution.

The massive cloak of Apathy
modeled as finest wear
though shockingly bare, there underneath
within the Saturnine Soul
yet also holstering both Sword & Sheath.

The harmonically dissonant opus of Rage
rocking & rattling the glass cage
backed by the shattering soprano scream
of a mind all too in tune
to the cruelly evasive Cathartic Dream-
a refrain ending none too soon.

-added by Valerie Lynn Stephens on November 6, 2011

Welcome!

Hello! Glad you found my blogspot of various philosophical, existential, psychological, ofttimes paranormal, transcendental meditations and musings. But, for those of less saturnine, abstruse and subterranean leanings, an occassional post of eccentricity, Neo-Beatnik irreverence, wit and other assorted Glitterati Of The Absurd and the Demented will make their appearance;) This blog will perhaps not be suited for everyone, but: Let all who have the eyes to see, envisage, and all who have the ears and psyches to hear, revel in the subtle but profoundly resonant sonancies of their own solipsistic Intuition and powers of Metaphysical Exegesis... Hence, come on in, let us begin.


I oftentimes believe in the Devil more than I believe in God. But such a thing is so easy to fall prey to when the sentient organs of mortal human experience, by Truth's indiscriminate hand, are dealt the first blows of the Profane. Yet, without first recognition of Tragedy, even Comedy turns tragic and there is no immediate cause for ever redeeming ourselves. But perhaps we do not need tragedy of any form or kind? Perhaps the tragedy is in the absurd convictions with which we create something out of what is essentially, nothing other than what it just is. But the question is-How? How now, once the acknowledgement is made, do we let go to let it all go? For the very act of surrender requires an inscience of self-sense which we are not even capable of and which would not even be in our best interest to coddle. Must Time be so consumed and must Life be, so jeopardized by this existential juggling act? And this is where the metaphysical comes in. The matter behind 'mind vs. matter', 'evil vs. good', 'the temporal vs. the eternal', 'the material vs. the intangible', 'the intellectual vs. the intuitive' and last but not least, 'the self vs. others'. Many believe that this struggle is, in and of itself, the meaning and purpose of mortal human existence. And such a statement betrays not legitimacy, as more than half of our mundane daily lives are directly or indirectly concerned with and in pursuit of the best possible life lived. From what to eat or not eat for breakfast, to what vocation or calling to devote ourselves to, every moment of human consciousness is wrought with the weight of choice. Choices and decisions, some of which have to do with larger, broader philosophical and existential and even religious/spiritual issues and others, more mundane, and, not necessarily less important, yet still, always in conflict with the full actualization of the Higher Self. Yet, it cannot be denied but however much we attempt to attribute a factor of nihility to our own individual fates and existences, truly there is no such thing, for we all feel a pull towards something far from arbitrary or worthy of our feigned Apathy and Indifference. It is a seemingly undying, instinctual longing for Life over Death-even that Death Before Dying-a faint murmur of Exhultation and Life-Force felt within us, striving to be potentiated. Even in moments of suicidal ideation, there is never a true desire for Death, merely a fear of Life. There is never really a 'beyond the shadow of a doubt'. Things are far too complex and their totality incomprehensible to us on every level at all times for such labels to be justified. Whatever we choose to call this invisible yet dynamic force, somehow we know that this life does have a higher and much larger purpose and intent. It is as real to us as our very own breath and consciousness. And truly, Disbelief 'tis also a delusion, for even the most self-confessed and professed Faithless believe quite fervently and religiously in their Disbelief, do they not? Life is consciousness and consciousness in and of itself, is a profound miracle and act of great Faith. And whom and what are we and are we not to so arrogantly dictate the order of things? The classifications of what is 'real' and what is 'dismissable'. Reality vs. Fantasy and how our society so assigns them their place, but always at too great of a price. For is not Humankind's ability to Dream and to Imagine the very things upon which all is built? If only we could evolve to a plane where the two aspects-the Practical vs. the Metaphysical-the Platonian vs. the Aristotelian-could more peaceably coexist and even collude in what we call "the real world", there is no telling what we as a species could achieve. For, in the current cultural milieu, the idealists, the romantics, the artists, the metaphysicians and philosophers get short-shrift. And Life begins to feel more like a Gehenna, an affliction of unbearable existential asphyxiation and nullity. Yet, we are all orphans of that Lost Paradise and potentially prodigal children of this, our Earth Orphanage and its Head Master, Satan. Yet in closing, all I can think of to say is: If but only we could fully feel God our Father's sense of Grief, Loss & Sorrow wrought by all of this, would we have no doubt ever again, just how deeply and powerfully we are loved and valued.

-An essay composed about 7 years ago by Valerie Lynn Stephens-added to blog on Saturday, November 5, 2011