Th'extravagant and erring spirit hies to his confine.

I am your prophet. Did you not know?
I am your road to Emmaus.
You shall recognize me finally
As I disappear in you,
Your doubts no more.

I am your prophet, wist ye not?
The blood of my lips meets
That of yours,
Your breast meeting my touch,
The identity of the stranger
On the road revealed.

I am the golden light,
The height of all Buddhas,
The resolution of all contradictions,
Perfect excitement contained in perfect calm.
The vast polarities of life as it is judged
Brought together,
Publican, sinner, fisherman, wise man.

Did ye not know my tender Jesus touch,
My joy in your faith in me?
We are different so to fit together.
Do not let yourself hide from me,
Out of womanly competition.
Give yourself to me, lower yourself upon me,
And I shall be resurrected from the dead.
The boulder slid from the mouth
Of my tomb.

I am your prophet,
Did you not know?
Love endures all,
My manhood is about,
My hands, my chest,
My eyes, my tongue,
My feet, my fingers, my toes,
The top of my head, the topmost
Of all my chakras,
And all the lower ones,
All in between.

The contradictions of my life,
The barren opposites are brought together,
So as to know the whys and wherefores
Of everything.
Come, embrace the Pentacostal light,
The light within.




The commercials, they interfere with my thoughts, my gospel.
The unending sense of life as competition,
Not of peace, a bettering from within.
Competition, the worst idea we’ve ever had,
Token of stupidity, body armor, negativity.
Commercials, like Shakespeare’s busybodies,
Ophelia’s father.

A boy sees a girl. She notices him.
They meet.
They come together in joy.
And the parts of them that are the soul
Come forward in embrace.
Then, a difference in manners
Or personality causes a misunderstanding.
He didn’t know quite what he should have done.
Both like each other, but a mental game ensues.
With each apparent failure to close the growing distance,
One is rejected, in anger and impatience, and made to feel
Like a deviant. And so, he retreats, for his stumbling has brought
Upon himself that air of the stalker, the harasser, the creep,
Because of his awkwardness, not for the soul that woke within him,
As he embraced her for the first times.
Appearances, the self-fulfilling prophecy
Of the door slammed in his drunken face.
And where is the boy then, with his pure soul
That loveth? Everything has a marketing plan,
A way to make gain,
But not he.


Behan's tales, Ted Hughes's criticism, Finnegan's Wake--it's all chatty delightful gibberish worthy of the species. Know that it's all gibberish, dreams remembered and caught in a kind of net. Society's blips and bubbles like the radar patterns of rain on weather channels. In barroom meetings, the gibberish comes out. The enduring barman is witness to the basic literary style of the creature.
Given that all you read and hear is random disjointed gibberish, set at a level the internet seems to maintain so very appropriately, the eye turns to the lasting patterns of that from within which is captured carefully and evenly in literary effort for the uplifting and the eternal, the beautiful truths, the lasting dreams, forms of progress and higher thought.