Field Notes on the Living God

Jesus Grew Up + From Everlasting

from wilderness unto Gethsemane

from His 1^st Flood unto the victory on

the Cross which glorified, fully fulfilled

Isaiah 9, verse 6, His wandering

in Sinai fiery furnace fiery trial

unto the tears of blood among the blooms

among which He proceeded towards night's cross,

His victory overcoming cornerstone,

the cornerstone of best fit of all lines.

The God Man, Divine Human Jesus Christ,

addresses us in verses of best fit,

aims for the most regenerations,

(a maximum utilitarian approach

exactly in accordance with the love

of liberty) and blooms within us at

exactly when we can be kept in love,

a love that gradually gets purified.

A pure relational event transpires,

and following this brush with joyous dawn

you no more need the proof of which they speak

than need to prove your partner has a mind.

Regeneration sucks the poison from

our wounds, our wound up fantasising lusts

for anything, not just arousal in

the narrow sense, but anything at all.

It's Jesus who instructs how to love,

who flows into our stockpiled divine truths

as wine into a vessel, brightly shines

from Mt Paran, blooms-rises in the heart

the hunted hare has, gentleness upon

it, has it, cups it carefully, so much

more carefully than we cup ants (but great

by far than we above the ants, His love

sustaining us from plunging into Hell!).

Beyond our thoughts in secret passageways

outside of training forms like time and space,

belief becomes instruction in the art

of love instead of bitterness, first stir

of mutual love, the pearl of great price known

as charity, the charity on which

the law and prophets hang, the cuckoo clock

of prophecy, the passion play of fall

in charity in course of quarters, love

consociating us where we most belong.

He knows that many simply will not believe

so gives us many leaves for healing lands,

domesticates hereditary sin,

the tendencies thereto which we all have.

He does not need one's testimony but

our everlasting Father Jesus Christ,

that inexpressible and holy joy

who calibrated what is holiness

was clearly intertwined with all

conception and all creativity –

“without whom there is nothing done that's done” --

and outside ordinary time and space.

Joy taught one thereby how to overcome

past bitterness, establishing excuse

upon excuse for other people, how

to notice one's wound up severity.

This is not dogma! these are field notes here,

this happens as your partner happens, as

a migraine happens, as the radio

will bongo, as we drain a dram of dream.

These then are field notes on the living God

relational event dawn Jesus Christ

one can't express! such intricate and vast

expansive silent organ music! How

dawn helped one get up in the morning! How

His love instructed one in noticing

the other human beings, loving them

(1^st Thessalonians 4:9, I believe),

the mutual love of Jesus in our hearts

that swallows up the flood the dragon spews.

Our Father Jesus, Saviour of the World

He is the light and heat. We are the dust.

That image causing jealousy? Our lust.

He is the love and truth, the joyous sound

of bride and bridegroom wherewith we abound;

abound that is with mutuality

sincerity, with sown sodality,

oil/charity with everyone within.

Our Saviour from hereditary sin

is that same highway in the desert fools

can even travel as their lava cools.

He is the testing opportunity

to live forever and in unity.

He melts the biggest ice chips in our hearts.

Thereafter, even if by fits and starts,

the littler ice chips cannot bear His heat.

(His is the truth we drink, the good we eat);

these ice chips being lesser grudges, chips

on shoulders, feuds involving snarly quips,

and suchlike baggage in the cargo bay

which we resist such that it flees away,

attenuating to a shadow here

so that a true conjunction can cohere;

that is, conjunction with the God Man by

conjuncting good and truth with the Most High.

The Divine Human is Almighty Lord

and God and everlasting Father's Word;

and even people who don't know His name

can still conjunct, still play Love's hidden game.

For name is like to have a good name is;

so those who do His deeds are truly His;

not Nicolaitans, for a reward!

but even out of sight of one accord,

with all who live this way, conjuncting well

with Heaven as opposed to with some Hell.

Be not surprised that Jesus sometimes lets

the sand into your oyster shells and then,

(once we've become aware of law thus sin),

the rain temptation waterblasts your house

with vile insinuations like a mouse

or many mice perhaps, annoying as

a nagging voice some man or woman has.

It nags all night as accusation piles

on accusation, fantasising wiles

succeed each other, resist our control.

So far as we oppose them, so far whole,

so far abundant, liberated from

enslavement, beating to a different drum,

the mutual love of Heaven in our hearts.

This is the unity He makes of parts

and why we woke up in a ticking bomb

that starts out dancing, then falls in the tomb,

same belly Lazarus lay in 3 days.

This is life's meaning beyond all the haze

of battle, nags within and nags without,

the frenemies, the hypocrites, the shout

and bustle of metropoli, hired mobs'

two-way conduction and whatever robs

the people of their dearly purchased dough.

And those same people reap as they did sow.

We'd best sow good thoughts and good deeds or else!

The reprobate in fiery shadows dwells.

They share our heads to fructify our souls.

They hate us, even what we love, our goals.

Such is the flame of testing in our hearts,

becoming Moses: humble, skilled in arts

of the Egyptians, sure the Lord is light

that lights our bulbs, a truth that dispels pride,

and that gives envy no place to abide.

The pouring of the oil and wine from dawn(1) till eventide(3)

Your propium, your ego, fallen flesh,

yon heart of stone that nearly fills your jar

is doomed! unless the Saviour fills that jar

with holy living water from the New

Jerusalem out of a boundless sea

of oil and wine, like Zeno's paradox

flipped right-side up, perfecting without end,

infinitesimal Ezekiel's feet

no longer able to touch ground. But if

you dare to touch that oil and wine, you kill

two witnesses, you crucify two thieves,

which is the night, the feet of iron and clay,

which is the fourth phase pale horse, death and hell,

when voice of of bride and bridegroom sound no more.

Dead night is when the priest and Levite pass;

they pour not oil and wine into those wounds

inflicted on one robbed and left for dead.

Temptations Great Flood Swollen Jordan Fire

 We wake up in a body with a mind

a long time before learning to be kind,

infested by the tapeworms of the soul,

the ones whose present was a lump of coal

who spark up flames within you feed/enjoy

or don't, flames they enjoy and which destroy,

flames which destroyed them when they walked the Earth,

though in externals they displayed their worth.

We wake amid the shambling bodies here,

the waking personalities we near

with language and with action, knowing not

if in between their ears they are a bot

or not. So much depends on watching minds

for enemy behaviours of all kinds,

on seeing from more inwardly with love,

the charity of conscience from above.

The flood of infestations bridle men

who know not they've been taken for a spin.

The flood of evil thoughts whose wily wang

competeth not with joy; its oily tang

distinguished from our good thoughts, actions, goals.

Beneath Good's bridge lurk shadows, shambling trolls,

ships shipwrecked far from cozy hearths, firm shores.

No organ of our bodies, these are sores,

these piercing thoughts of deadened reprobates –

the nagging emphasis on one it hates --

known as intrusive thoughts to people now.

You're never quite alone behind your brow.

The thoughts of reprobates that flood your head,

perhaps distressed insomniac in bed,

perhaps amid torn turmoil of bright day

in shadowy recesses on the way

comprise the fiery trial which tempts your soul,

the great flood and what time the Jordan's swole,

the 40 days and nights of Jesus' fast,

the 40 years the Church of Sinai passed,

the Red Sea that destroyed all Pharaoh's host

through which the Israelites from coast to coast

proceeded like the house built on the rock

through fiery flood which purifies the flock.

They're gonna hang Confucius from the sour apple tree

Concerning CHAZ-cum-CHOP: Orange Man poopooed by Jenny

Durkan. Paris Commune. Late-stage Marxist-Leninism.

Thou shouldst not revile yon Orange Man, lest and anger haunt thee.

Thou shouldst not participate in a Two Minutes Hate, not any.

Parallel developments of dialectic ideologies.

Wars: Position? Motion? Late-stage Smithist-Financism

octopus of aggregation squid ink bubble pop, we're very busied!

War of Motion! Apparatchiks. Old Boy's Club. Both carbon

credits, Black Lives Matter intersectional convergence,

counterhegemonic. Trump poopooed by Governor Jay

Inslee. '...States Rights, Leninism sitting in a tree, k-

i-s-s-i-n-g...' Hyperinflationary debt

pop insurrectionary epic octopus-headache crescendo

shambles positive disintegration... 'will have order!'

Order in this fort! Calexit? Red Guards. Washorexit?

Red Guards pull Jeff Davis down... “We're gonna hang Jeff Davis

from the sour apple tree.” The mob has been unleashed, has

just pulled down slave trader Edward Colston's statue, dumped in Bristol

harbour. Neither “Classless” nor “Democracy” but one word,

oligarchy! Oligarchic interlocking, aggregation

paralleling other forms of global integration.

State of the Whole People, meet Democratism.

Sure, they're Marxist-Leninists, but you can always buy those

wholesale, much like mobs. A word on CHOP: Riddikulus. A

phrase on synthesis: Far Centre. Nourished must the genii be with fear.

Red Dawn done did it with Americans! Stunned stampede

mass hysteria coronovirus Great Depression.

Insurrectionary-foreign war: Novemberrevolution,

1918-19; Red October: 1917. Red Mafia.

“Red sky in morning, sailor's warning.” Red Guards pull down values.

Wen2hua4 Da4Ge2ming4 hua4... They're gonna hang Confucius from

the sour apple tree. They wanna pull down Washington,

they wanna pull down Jefferson. They wanna deconstruct all

hegemonic values. Red News, Education. Children

chanting, holding carbon credit signs up for their masters.

Children chanting as once college students did before them.
“Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge”. Red, white, and blue,

How do you do? These Hectic Twenties get to you, Red, white

and blue? You're looking sick Red, white and blue, you're writhing hun.

You 've got you a hyperinflationary insurrection,

hun. Talking 'bout you, Red, white and blue! My land, you gotta

pull yourself together hun! Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. White.

I wonder who is paying for the Marxists and the mobs

and what will happen to the people, people who lost jobs.

Mine eyes have seen professionals stampeding to the moon,

susceptible as buffalos to any passing tune.

Their willingness to come aboard those contact tracing apps

stands out to me as clearly now as squiggly lines on maps

amid the driving rapids churning, drilling them with dreaming. 
I know not whom but raise our flag at twilight's last gleaming.

Hel-lo, Tik-Tok

Industrial society: more bolt

of lightning than a plan; worn waves of Rust

Belt, not insidious conspiracy;

a torn, crushed, crumpled Red Bull can in mud,

a shopping cart abandoned by the road.

Not that some wave crests do not cackle now

& then, pent penthouse sociopathy

divided even as strewn street gangs are.

The robots walked into our city on

their soft robotic feet,

walked down our street -- last glimmering of an

explosion – on their soft robotic feet,

walked out of it, diminishing into

bright distance. Soon they are Tik-Tok again.

Bold busybodies crisscross neighbourhoods, these

faceless in proportion to surveillance.

Starlings murmur from the sky in abject shock.