A sin and error thoughtform flees

I watch the inner face and pray

by putting that aside today

which troubled one with sensual fires

to break the cycle with their pyres.

We get caught in recurrent rings

with lust such ideation brings;

the usual sin and error pair.

I watch it dwindle in the air.

A black cloud dissipates in style

and I am grateful all the while.

I'm grateful for small things and great;

for bread from God upon my plate;

for thought and feeling, blood and flesh;

for combine harvesters that thresh;

for grackles, love birds, and the Moon;

for systems modeling to tune.

When lust departs, love enters in

the guest room vacated by sin

and marries truth. They bear good deeds

whose gardens tangled wild with weeds.

They've driven out the Canaanite

and Perizzite. They've welcomed light

and heat and flesh and blood of Christ

where Egypt's flesh pots once sufficed.

The Jacob's Ladder trials of flesh and blood ordained by Christ

For bread and wine there must be a clean platter and clean cup.

When these are clean then will Lord Jesus Christ enter and sup.

Then will there be a double portion for the seventh day

of Sabbath rest after six days of combat on the way.

The way of holiness, the highway in the desert, fire

and water, forking gardens of the heart and mind, our Sire,

His very flesh and blood and infrastructure and Grand Man,

will be received by each in that proportion which each can

receive the Sun and Moon and stars of Heaven in their deeds.

We cast out all the rest like cankerworms, hailstones, and weeds;

cast out black-heartedness and bloody-mindedness, cast out 

the sun ashamed and moon confounded. Blow the ram's head! Shout!

We'll purify the inside of the platter and the cup 

and we will go inside the rabbit hole and call it up

with trying fire and bitter water where we learn to love

enough for somewhere dry upon which can alight the Dove.

May enemies, self-love and sins, be dung upon the ground;

none left to piss against the wall or cry a sound.

The silver we'll refine with judgment and the gold we'll burn

and gradually into more loving people we will turn.

Oasis Base: the Valley of the Sun

 The homeless have defrosted. Wanderlust

propels them to crisscross Oasis Base.

Daughter of Grackle, leave thy Mum alone!

cawed Papa Grackle, and her Mum flapped off and he;

then she flapped with their sudden urgency.

The homeless on their desert walkabouts

have thick brown calves and cancerous black sores.

There dawn a dozen seasons in the spring,

a dozen seasons in the summer here.

These are distinctive bands of waves of bugs

as suddenly as  small black beetles roam

the carpets on their epic, crisscross way.

The Sun begins to cull the weaker birds.

The cats and birds pant in Sonoran heat.

Coyotes lope across the parking lot.

Three clowning grackles play in sprinkler spray.

I learned from <<Paterson>> the following:

a clump of cactus paddles in twin brights; 

Go into Settings... Yes, that's right... Now click

a grimy crumpled Quiktrip styrofoam cup;

on Local Color Epicenter Stage

squirrels epicanthic, still, inscrutable;

and set to 'On'. Save Settings and click out.

The stage set: an oasis in a kiln.

You need lush microcosm for the whole,

to  sing beige sand alongside filaments

just as a statue needs its plinth, just as

the water flows serenely down canals.

The oven has preheated.

Alien July attacks, essentially,

and then I do not feel like I'm on Earth.

But then the August reinforcements come

just when we are exhausted-dazed by heat

with 'Welcome back to Earth, Ambassador!' 

Then perfect weeks, isles of the blest,

glide past, serene as archipelagos. 

Wildlife's activity abruptly stops

obtruding on one's notice for some months.

Inexorable sunset sinks in time.

And then the first chills of the year waltz in,

exacting payment for warmth's frolicsome

expanse. The type of sleep abruptly shifts,

accompanied by richer dreams but half

remembered and a sense of bed's warm womb.

Autumnal raw exposure of the heart,

all nerves, glides forward through the tiny blades

which dice interiors exposed to life

in ultimates; like dicing of the Word 

between the bones and marrow and between

the fining pot and furnace, flood and fire.

Krypteia

Why Pennki Linkola! You lived to that romantic day

when practical exigencies ensured you got your way.

It's much as Bernard Charbonneau expected 40 years ago.

And haggard Dennis Meadows, how you lobbied to and fro!

His eyes say: Have they figured out exactly what we did?*

Why Mr. Meadows! I have heard your talk. Hands can't be hid.

You're almost out of Dodge; your good intentions are your cloak.

Don't be afraid! You might not go to Hell after you croak.

In healthy times, such microbes are quite harmless to our kind,

although we carry them around. I hope that you don't mind. 

For these when mankind pullulates will swarm like killer bees

way more concerned about our bottom lines than hugging trees.

But laying on a coat of idealistically green paint

turns cold, hard motivations into a gaslighting haint.

'The house is haunted! But by whom?' The People ask.

'Who is this they?' says someone in a Dr. Evil mask.

It's actually an interlocking quiverfull of theys,

but all Joe TV sees is shambling shadows in the haze.

If he could see much more than that, then might dumb cities burn 

the rulers and the ruled to ashes in a bright green urn. 

-----

"If the energy crisis deepens, shortage itself can paradoxically push development. Is petrol lacking? "Drill, baby, drill!" Is the Earth exhausting? Colonize the seas. Does the car no longer have a future? Turn to electronics which will permit people to make imaginary voyages. But we cannot retreat indefinitely in order the better to jump. One fine day, the powers that be will be forced to adopt more radical methods. A perspective free of illusion can lead one to think that the turn-towards-ecology will not be the deed of an opposition deprived of means, but that of the bourgeois ruling class on the day that it can no longer do otherwise. It will be the various responsible parties for the ruin of the earth who organize the rescue of the little that remains, and who after the abundance will manage the shortage and survival. For the ruling class has no prejudices, and it believes therefore in neither development nor ecology: it believes only in power" (Bernard Charbonneau, The Green Light, one's own translation). 

*

1. 

Fire Smoke Bread Wine Love Truth

The smoke of error issues from the fire 

of sin much as white smoke of truth fills up 

the holiest of holies; just as wine

of violence to the truth helps swallowing 

the bread of wickedness, just as the wine

of holy truth helps swallowing the bread

which is the good of love made part of us.

Just so does darkness cover up the deeds

of owls and satyrs in the cloak of night,

and light assist with baking loving bread.

The rising kraken's face is full of eyes

The spinoffs of this polymathic modeling

around the world from epicenters answer to the needs

of humankind in time of a transnationality:

an interlocking of directorate on steroids; a

covalence of the apices of pyramids of Earth;

a handshake between Queen Elizabeth and Oil Sheikh X;

a radiating epicenters structure, not cabal;

and not republics but transnationality of now.

Transnational decision making structures rule the world,

have superseded nation-states in all but outward form.

Even the chess and biking jousts are international

as to decision making. It's the pattern of the age,

the polymathic modeling particular to now,

the pattern of the fractal of the system of the world.

They'd rather His were not the final Word

 "And, lo, thou art unto them as a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice, and can play well on an instrument: for they hear thy words, but they do them not" (Ezekiel 33:32).

I find that people like to dabble lest

They be pinned down, this even to the best.

They'd feel much safer if the Word were just

Another ice cream flavor in the mist.

And as for designated prophets, NO!

That's a direction they don't want to go.

They'll shower praise on some sick narcissist,

But God's awkward selections won't be missed.

To one who comes in his own name they throng,

But one who comes in His is just a song.

Watch and Pray

 I caught a sin and error thoughtform lounging in my head 

And waited for it to depart. It did not, so I said,

You are a mere, unwelcome sin and error thoughtform chill

And shadow. Your departure is the Master's will

Who let you in to purify one's platter and one's cup,

One's heart and mind. You're no more useful here, "vile spot"! Get up,

Get out, go on to your next post, sandpaper of the soul.

Out of the Master's way! Thank you for furthering His goal,

Which is the cleansing of the human race of filths and bloods

With furnace and with flood and sundry draggings through the muds.

Thank you for being there for me with insufficient straw,

For helping me grow love, which is fulfillment of the law.

I'd thank you more, but you were quite a meddler and a pest. 

When you depart, Naphtali comes! He's far the better guest.

At evening time it shall be light

The platter's piping hot, the cup is shining. Nuptials

and millstones sound. The cuckoo clock is at its white horse phase,

its morning in the usage “morning cometh and the night".

The morning cometh and the Old Church whore of Babylon.

“The love of many shall wax cold” turns Church to anti-Church.

And with that cooling of the Church, its understanding dims.

Successive horsemen or metallic body parts unfurl.

Each horseman or metallic body part is cruder down

the scale unto the pale horse and the feet of iron and clay;

which is to say that love dies and the light within the eyes.

And I beheld, and there was no man; and the empty house

was full of satyrs, djinn, and every unclean, hateful bird.

The bride and bridegroom sounded not, the oil and wine were hurt.

For whores do violence to His truth and crucify our Lord.

They nullify commandments and “There is no faith on earth'; 

which is repudiation of the flesh and blood of God;

so that the Kingdom shall be given to another, new 

wine for new bottles and repairing of the bulwark's breach.

The two winged women look down on the checker board of fields

whilst carrying the lead-sealed ephah forth to dread Shinar

as we look down upon procession of the gyres.

The wooden bride and bridegroom have emerged out of their door.

They sound their joyous nuptials, the millstone's sound is heard.

The platter's piping hot, the cup is shining. Eat and drink.

A double helping for the 7th day

Wheels of His ideation, burning fire,

will swallow up the lions, light the mire;

will ride on a swift cloud of burning light;

will ripple out from inmost, known as height,

to glorify the Lord with eyes of flame

who shows us light and how to play the game;

who dawns as ordering of flocks and herds

and taming of the animals and birds.

The beasts and stones shall be in league with thee.

Yea, led by Him wilt thou be truly free.

The human sacrifices that we make

They would have tossed one in the bog

to startle archaeologists

had one emerged from ancient mists

an apparition from the fog

due to the webbed toes on one's feet. 

They'd think themselves assured of rain

with an abundance of fresh meat.

I'd think them addled in the brain. 

I'd think them blarmy bananas mad.

But then I think the present lot

the slaves of every fearporn fad 

that slices in yet hits the spot.

I've wondered if rain might be wrung

from steaming  blood, if that was it,

because of rain on battles flung.

But where then do bog people fit?

What use was it to throw them in?

What was the profit from the sale?

And did they keep them in a pen

or were they in some sort of jail?

And then there were the children left

on mountain peaks to die of cold

by Incans, dying in the cleft.

We still do, if one may be bold,

such sacrifice. We've changed the look,

outsourced the blood to foreign parts,

crammed muffled screams into a book.

We've come a long way since our starts.

The pages of the histories scream,

they're deafening, while turning them.

It hurts and yet it is a dream.

A jagged clock cloaks history's hymn.

A jagged clock cloaks history's hymn,

utilitarian true love

amid pained matter crude and dim

joy's music, a descending dove.

His planet spins not for the goals 

we set, the glory of our race

or nation, but the choice by souls

of whether to behold His face.