One watches oil slicks in the platter pass.
One watches scudding clouds light up the cup
or darken it, as case may be, as Hell
and Heaven flow into the free willed feed
of one who should not trust one's mental voice
to be exactly what it claims to be.
The devils have a field day with the ones
who trust their mental voices to be them.
They dress up in your mental voices like
internal stridency and foul-mouthed pride
and caricatured neighbors easier
to hate than accurate depictions with
their object constancy could possibly
be hated. They access your memories,
and draw from these the ones agreeing with
their evil loves, to grumble with and hate.
They summon memories recurrently
to feed the classes of their sins in life;
a sort of hate track into which we dip.
We writhe, provisionally dipped in flame
and flood. Therefore be grateful every day
that devils' race car, your own mental voice,
may ever jolt across a judder bar
and run into a hitch, shown up by love.
Rebuke uncleanness in the passing heart.
Rebuke the shadows in the passing mind.
Drive out the Canaanite and Perizzite
of filths and bloods, of sin and error, dead
men's bones and all uncleanness, moth and rust.
Thus will we cease to jam the Joyful One
with sins that put out eyes of captured kings.
Thus will we cease to jam the living joy
of He whose flesh and blood we eat and drink.
