so, yeah - this is a bit odd I suppose

His Angels

"And lo! Swedenborg is the Angel sitting at the tomb;
his writings are the linen clothes folded up."

-William Blake

From within the earth, out of the dust and stone
a man was issued forth, and he was finely hewn
he sought to know the word, and with the word
the royal we he entertained, he showed the lord

And though for failing to find he turned away
so this a falling soft vessel shaped of clay
did claim to know the courses one ought live
blood of Christ, body of Christ, a gift to give

For this his crimes and his dissenting mind
he was charged a danger, blind leading blind
And yet from this dangerous home departed
a chosen child born to die, broken-hearted

Learned and traveled, so farther and wider
did he in his way encompass all like a gyre
and being somewhat proud and younger still
he poured out his mind before it might fill

pages of books and scraps of worn paper
occupied by thoughts which never taper
until in full pride and science brought
he dreamed men where they are naught

though time enough and world he had
it was not for these pursuits he was bred
perhaps it was he a labyrinth desired
that the Nordic Deadelus required

yet there grew within the man
a slow cry slowly growing to fullness
from which no academic chair might cease
and leave him think as he might please

he sensed a division, yet not wide enough
to slide his hand gently between elements
so close though they must be he thought
but beyond each other’s grasp, never caught

seeking to find he went abroad again
and looked under every rock and man
to find the place where soul and flesh
walk silently onward hand in hand


but something still was in retreat
his science failing and dying now
he found himself alone with Him
whom he sought to please most

but which shall take the throne and
which shall know Him best of all
a gilded mirror, framed in flesh
or a sallow painting, burning with love?

over dinner, it was and ought to have been
as he took into him all the flesh and meat
provided by Him, and of Him taken forth
did the man find an answer waiting in the dark

so it came and was no more a questioning
there was in all his rooms no longer a silence
but from this maw into which he had sobbing gazed
now issued forth companions to walk beside him.

for years that followed the man did walk with they
who were first-loved, who knew him best
and in those dark places and high places
he saw all he sought reflected in their faces

what followed is a library, built upon madness
supported by volumes sung in sing-song at night
and though in death he was still alone, faithful –
he cried to the darkness as it came up to meet him

Empty Your Bowl

three flags wildly flapping and clapping loudly in the midnight breeze
I am casually rolling home wearing a garland of garbage and leaves
there is a dull wet stink of life and
it is pierced by the breeze that gesticulates the flags fiercely
and scattered it
like a snow globe
is a terrible ordeal which blinds you like a swarm of locusts
until it finally settles down.

there is righteousness tonight in each place I put my shoe
I am the saint of this boulevard

stooping low I reach out my hairy hand and pinch between my thumb and my forefinger
a lowly worm
fleeing the flooding of his home
but the flooding is abated
and he is a blind man in the desert with: a very limited supply of water
I pick him up and bring him home,
like a child running away from home and this time it’s real
but it’s also a mistake
and I’m saving the day.