So You Say You Want a
Revelation?
Disappointed mystic exile
John,
eager to besiege his
jailors
rendering unto Caesar
tales of woe and
destruction
of Biblical
proportion:
"The burning bush told me. I swear
it's true."
Beware the ides, the armies of
Megiddo,
the smoke and mirrors,
the mushroom clouds
invading our memories.
"I send you these frantic
missives,
Oh my Christian
soldiers.
Do not stray from
Yahweh.
Look what He has done to
His
soul-begotten Son,
in a fit of divinity."
I believe Jesus made it his
mission,
gave every effort and
sacrifice,
to save his mortal
family
from mad jealous wrath of
Dad.
His words clear, actions
legend.
So sad that sheep easily
forget,
falling under the evil
eye
of any would-be
butcher
slavering to grow strong
on
the currency of blood.
There are beasts, and
Beasts
numbering in legions.
Days end, begin, end
again.
Murdering souls in the
Name
of the Redeemer. Oh, the
Rapture!
Any sane Judgment would leave
us
drowning in bitter
tears.
I am begging:
Open your eyes, minds,
hearts.
Open and learn.
True revelation awaits in every
leaf and vein,
in every newborn cry
revealing pain
is meant to be a
message
of active compassion,
to nurture a future
kinder than the past.
Breaking bred
Ravenous,
born from boiling seas.
Holy Beast rampages, rises
beneath
broken surface;
exhales snarling flame,
riotous burning blame,
wreaks tidal waves that never
quench
roil of fire.
All our desires embroil, enslave
in thrall of poison spit.
We can't allow comfort, nor
encourage
scored hearts to heal,
not while we steal your ire
to fatten rich nests.
Believe your cause excessively
blessed.
Believe you are doing your
best
to be as Creation demands.
Believe you are worthless
beyond condemnation
unless you are taking the
stand
prescribed and admired.
If you aspire to anything
higher
you must carry the brand
on your forehead or hand,
must be willing to kill
in the name of fealty,
to fulfill the prophecy.
to feed the Beast.
Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not
mine.
Jesus cried, and somebody grinned --
don't whine.
Jesus smiled his love on the
least,
scattered his manna that the lowly might
feast.
All you remember is that slavering
Beast;
so remind me why it’s vital to deny
those who promote a peace of
mind
based on revering kindness
above
Divine.
Pageantry
Could Christian Fundamentalism be the
dread AntiChrist,
and greedy Wall Street his ravenous
Beast?
Could the Second Coming be prides of
young
claiming back the
streets?
Could Prophecies feared and
hoped
to bring Sinners to their
knees
to lift innocents into just
reward
by Blessed Hero's noble
sword
avenging faithful meek
--
Could that parade be before
us,
just not the scene
surmised,
preached to prove the righteous
right?
Has the final fight foretold been
taking form,
storm clouds positioned for hard
rains to fall,
untidy time of transition whence
soothsayers call,
alarm bells chime?
Is the end of this trial of
dependence nigh?
Can we break the Jesus code, create,
rewrite
Apocalypse as our own golden age,
reign
of Peace?
What World Is
This?
Not preordained, not
programmed.
Ties that bound cut to
slivers,
what will
emerge?
No millennial beast
slouches here.
Only speed of light
delimits.
Earth’s bowl sky holds only
air,
not certain
destiny.
Perhaps, if we allow
release from
baseless
blindness
a state of grace may find
us.
Independent of holy
demons
or royal
decree,
fate can be
self-reliant.
Beyond grasp of power
arrogated
to God or mortal
master,
each well-examined
self
is a force of
nature.
From shadows shy wood nymph
watches warily,
ready to bolt rather than
chance being seen.
She knows her universe
straddles change, craves balance.
Hubris claimed humans cry
for trial by combat
sacred? profane?
narrations between?
What world is
this
in swaddling
clothes
at the break of
days?
Postnatal
So many unpleasant
faces
ruin a beautiful view.
Angry reds instead of cool
blues,
calm ease.
Too many bruises
scream to be free
of burden
of skin and blood.
Tribute to the Muses,
pleasing balm of
misery,
that I be allowed
their resplendent
disgrace.
child in crumpled corner silently
sings
to hold tears, tongue, repent,
appease.
Songs of laughing eyes a’float in
kindness --
happy fantasy to pretend to
reminisce.
Where does it start?
A life, a mind, a set of states of
being?
Innocence, vulnerability, not
having
practice of precepts that frame
awareness.
Why she yells, unmasks her ugly
face;
why he shakes and strikes and
blubbers.
Contorted eyes, cheeks,
mouth
loud to invoke terror.
Violation, violent broken
boundaries;
monstrous, fearsome,
because grotesque beyond
comfort.
So unthinkable
we call it myth,
delusion.
Iconic target for
hatred.
A twisted face to pin on evil
tales, to
spit out sobbing poisons, paint in
shades
concealing
lies that harden into
revelations,
legends, the stuff of
nightmares
and deflected shame.
Memory’s child, forced to hopeless
obliviation long before
a chance for clarity, sense of
agency,
for a self to determine.
Undermined.
A child wants the safety of hearth
and tribe,
of happy fairytales, everyone well
fed and
tucked to bed, caressed in love
that hugs away
the slavering beast.
A child wants, a busy mother wants,
a charming serpent, cowering
servant, honest merchant
wants. Voice of sympathy, soothing
harmony,
innocent pleasure.
No room to complain.
You enjoy when offered reasonably
clean and unspoiled
food to fill that screaming hole of
hunger.
Irregular shelter where maybe you
can sleep, escape
all the pain and wailing
indignity.
Sing for your supper; patrons toss
coins to amuse,
rapacious, their cultured
appetites.
A darkened Church (candles saved
for opulent ritual
-- none may steal this God’s fire),
blood bond, sacrifice.
Taste of copper and
iron.
We are of the Earth, Her mighty
Sun, of
tides and moonbeams and molten
seas.
Not love --
chemistry, explosions, immortal
fire.
I have wandered, blundered forth as
a leaf in the wind,
as a pebble scoured by erratic
waves, as
a child of Man loosened from
mortality.
If there are stories I could tell
my mind
to feel safety in dreaming, to
feel
a possibility of home,
I have yet to find
them.
Still, I listen for a voice to
believe, for a song
that might feel like hope,
or finality.
Shell-shocked from this war of all
against all.
Live where you belong: right here;
right now.
Here’s to the weary.
Here’s to the fun.
Here’s to the berry that makes us
all young.
Here’s to the rulers.
Here’s to the fools.
Here’s to the toilers and tellers
of truths.
Here’s to the end of another
decline.
Here’s to the best of our
time.
46664
Caging the Beast
"call me after the Rapture"
I
post on religious social
network
sites.
Have you read Yeats' "Second
Coming"?
After the prophecy
After the hard, hard
rain
after the rainbow
Call me. We should get
together.
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