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.