The Ideality of the Literary Object

7/30/2019 The Ideality of the Literary Object

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The Ideality of

the LiteraryObject

Michael

Bolerjack


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The Ideality of the Literary Object 2012 Michael Bolerjack


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Say that Jerusalem is

Perhaps my words disturb your prayer. Perhaps you, the mystic, need no points for meditation.

But I speak of him to Him for you, while you simply pray. Eternity bounds, does not hem, limit

us, rule us, give direction, up, then, into His storm, His eye, His calm interference in the

mundane. With and without words: we must choose, be chosen. Both. To say little with so much,

or speaking, innumerable, yet still say one thing necessary. Out of the many complexes,

neuroses, psychoses, metastases, sees, out of all disease and disaster, stands one to come. And

standing points above. I think I feel, feel something inside me, bower or brain, coming, about the

turn, ever turning to, in myriads, ways without whys, lines drawn over our ignorances, hidden in,

neither obscure nor occult, light rather, in light. Him. He is.

You know it. A story has begun.

You know, now, things fade, colors on cloth, even evenings fail into night, which is coming, still

stars branch, and in the skull-cap of a thousand year we enroot our seed, between never-endings

lay the middle, plications, sin, sun, son sing, song signed, not to fail or fade, would be story,

would be tolled, full, filled, meant. Not to fail, not to fade, truth we know, for we are known, are

stretched, fixed by means. If we mean to. But you, you did not, did both mean to fall but not to

fail, and in falling your way, we but succeed you, without second.


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He did not really speak, did you, you saw and shone, bright, dark, hiding, back-minded, ear-

lodged, thought-lost, hest just but standing, no jest, no pose, no to impose, but you were the

exposed. You stood out from. Time. Is.

The wound you were did not heal. Signatories. Numbers. Out of time. You appropriated, all, for

but one thing. Making. Truth. Is. And you said, ever. Knowledge, knotted-hopes, full striven, in

your arms storming, learn.

They say you had no foundation in essence, but traces, echoes, parts only, assemblers, without

wholes, spirited words, yet spirit is, is that not a word? Problem of near-belief, teachers had not a

key. Versions, only. Foundation riven, you, reft, logical, truthed, passed words, un-pasted, un-

posted, past juxtaposed. Cut. Words cut through you. Destroyed description and explanation,

neither declared, but disclosed your wound, the wound of the word himself. Discard, forfeit.

Utter. You behind the words. The logic bit. You bit back. Grapplers. You took our place.

For in all logic, if you can say that Jerusalem is, if we can say, still that Jerusalem is, the place

required by logic is yet, and can be found, the assertion of faith, eternity of concern.

You, truth and logic became, stripped, meaning. Not to say I have grasped, but in the struggle

with truth, your victory was to be grasped. That this too is, is beyond doubt. Proven, in borders

of scripture, commentaries, that do not explain the words, but enact them exactly, by being

exposed. This is. If this is, subsist, without which truth-less, for accidentals, for appearances, no

place to hide. A snow of illegibility, ran the wound, rain wind, ward, cover your words, sposed,

desire as if to say the text itself, we only fall from a height, and now we are falling, and have


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become so profound, because without foundation, catch us pall as we fall. Poems are snow,

whiter words, virgins, martyrs, gentle, contoured by holiness, by logos, by logic without demand

but to be true, faithful, snow-part of time, winter answer, dead, wait. The logic that strips away

all but what is, strips seeming and opinion, even the nothing, to be the one, immovable, it is. Is it.

Is it eternity. Is it snow set bounds in winter. Innumerable snow, unrepeatable words. Universal,

singular, unparticular snows, how do you interpret snow or simplify the place. Snow did not

extend, but bound, the form, by sheer material, prime, stuff of dreams. You. Glory of the snows,

high reflectivity, light without heat, sheer blinding, purity, as if God to Abraham in winter, yours

will be as the snows on highest ridged mountains, always. Will be, Jerusalem is. If you wake,

wake to this. Snow regal, snow regard, but be regaled. In pieces of paper whiter witness not

blank a testimony text, you found you, and said it. Is. Sheer holiness, is. Present, a heart-word, is.

We, snow-parts, perhaps, holding places, scattered yet gathered, drifted, yet still for a time,

temporary words, tempting snows, we fell, like you, measurable by adversity, verses, that this is,

still is for you, neither symbol nor transport, neither hidden nor shown, but snown, north of the

future, where snow ever is. You offered often, eternity, a turn, a word with six sides, snowed,

like stars of David, like Jerusalem is. Is, was, will be, has been, will have been, to be. Snowed,

starred, scarred, worded, sonned, deepened. Depend. Deeper in snow is he to be. Yea. Not to be,

never to be, but always still, is. Pall of snow.


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You be like you ever, my beautiful one, my beloved, my Sabbath, my peace, my way to

break the circle of God and Church and World, icon makers not iconoclasts, not idol

worshippers, but in the twilight of the idols at high noon, in the midst of an error, we stood

single, you and I, and did break it, did break the text, did step back, not out of the word,

but out of all implication, by the prayer of the supplicate, the tare torn, debt cancelled, the

call of tessera, pieces of a sweet life we loved it crazy, but not so: we did but live it. You

were ripe and I was ready and we arrived, later. We heard our callings and we responded,

choose us Lord, yes be taken. O my peace, yet you could not rest, and looked beyond,

while I, a solitaire, a promontory, looked at you and saw the sadness of late tales, of

tombs, of toil, of the undone. You were the passage, not the goal of it, and I passed

through you, like the poet said, and I saw through you, not with you, and did arrive beside

you, not as if to be. The icons came down, so that one could be built, strange, I did not

know. I did not destroy them, but despite the theory of contradiction, when the thing

denied itself, I denied it too. An icon now is, and you in it, and others too, if they will

break the deadlock, and allow in their gratuity a freedom to God, to affirm all. Effracting

God-Church-World, a system made on the bones of the infinite, by limit stand, ever, and

be like you, come the Sabbath. I speak to you and to the world and to God all at the

same time, and so make no sense to anyone, I ever the incomprehensible. And yes, not

yet, even you, you did not understand, and the world I contradicted must not understand,

or else I was wrong, but as long as God alone understands, the icon was not in vain, and

I did not falter, pulled down vanity in myself first of all, and put back more than I took.

God gave all, all must be returned. I give you all, for all of you.


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At Harvest Time

I lay down my weary tune beside you sleeping

As you stirred and turned and almost not quite

Opened your eyes and almost not quite heardMe whisper:

I finished, I finished.

By the banks of Marinela, by the sound of many

Sleeping, I did not hang up my heart, but sang it.


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In memory of

a forgotten Pope

That God can thunder,

And that God can whisper,

That God can speak as a friend,

Or as a stern Father,

But that the beatific vision

Is not so much the vision of God,

That we see Him,

But that He sees us,

Always and everywhere,

We may draw the deduction

That we must go and do likewise,

Which means not in reciprocity

As one might think,

With God or with each other,

But speak to myself,

View myself,

As God does,

And care.


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All Souls Day

My Lord,

I would sing Thee,

Of Your grace I would sing,

Of mercy and love and kindness,

And of the chastisement that

Heals after correction.

Of Thee I sing.

Corrected, completed,

Of Thee I sing.

My Love,

My Life,

Yes,

I did sing Thee.

There was be-bop and hip-hop,

And rock and soul between,

And country and blues and gospel,

All along the way,And many who sang,

And many who knew not the words,

Without sometimes a tune at all,

Yet in the end You were sung,

By one and all,

Even when we knew it not.

And amazing to me,

Was the grace I found,

Not only, that while I sang of

Thee, yet, Lord, yes,

You sang me.


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Moral Epilogue

It is better to feel a desolation than a false consolation, but to receive

true consolation is the mercy and grace of God.


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Remains:The Perfect Number

God Alone Is Good.

God Alone Is.

God Alone.

God.


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Fame of the Frame

We became en-framed by an other writtenness,

but in the tradition of the same, we became the frame-breakers.

This witness of the time of the King, was not counterfeited,

But counter-fitted, to join, to unite, to marry, to one.

If we suffer into truth, and if this frame is the cadaver of France,

Then over graves and over men and over lords we triumphed.It is not the value for life which decides, nor death instincts,

But love alone, the body of God, what matters, His form.

The gibberish and jibbers of the solicitation of delights remind

Me of the conversion of Odilon Redon and his signatures,

Which dispersed darkness into light, and scattered light into

My darkness, so that at the point of no return, I turned.

Therefore, gold, yet silver, and every precious stone throne,

Cannot take the place of the dear little ones growing in you;

Words and things do not suffice, and we fall back on feeling,

And guess our way to freedoms opening, gracious and given.


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Nietzschean

The more we masked ourselves,

the less we mastered,

and enslaved,

Became an indefinable role,

The ones given lines

To stand in, not for

Recitation.


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Brother Jacques

His:

Entombing,

Engraving,

Enframing

Enflaming:

Derrida did not die in vain,

For I remain: In session.


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The Difference BetweenJudgment and Criticism

If we will stand,

Well stand corrected.


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Recovery

They asked my father, then, if your son kills,

will you cover for him?

And my Father replied, not only cover, but recover,

I for him.

Therefore, love is my alibi.


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Critique

Epicriticism was not the separation of sheep from goats

Among the writers,

But the discernment of the touch of truth

In the feel of words and the heat of intent.


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PM

Meta and Para made a map

Of all we could have been,

But for the territory.


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The Seer

Little things to say,

Little time to say them,

No great thing left undone.


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Thrown

That,

nothing will have taken place

but the place

(itself)

is the good of the tomb

that fell to Derrida.


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Noble Truths

That,

things fall apart is

Gravitys Law,

not mine,

for I have sakes

yet, and suns

to come.


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The Path

Realization is, then, to make real?

No.

It is to be made real.

So,

You cannot realize yourself.

If you realize that,You may yet be realized.


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Liturgicam Authenticam

Kings kept keys,

Keepers kindly kept,

Keeping-in and

Keeping-out,

While Peter yet recoiled.

Where are you going?

he still asked.To take your place,

God still replied.


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Bunches

Views and reviews, visions and revisions,

And all you did for me:

Flowers,

for the asking never entered my mind.


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Therese

A thousand violins,

No thing left to say:

Music in our minds,

Hearts I hear today.


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Abstract French

He said,

And therefore there was one flower left unseen,

One flower yet to see,

That can never be seen

By any eye

Which still remains,

The still,Lifes abstract

Florid bouquet,

Which was not,

Is not,

Will never have been,

But ideally,

Which was your reality and the nothingness,

Which yet said yes to thee.


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Starred

Perhaps,

A constellation,

A scattered pattern,

Of lights and sighs,

A million-million miles away,

Perceived they say by our deception,

Yet revealed at night,Alone,

Without celebrity,

In utter clarity,

Higher than known,

Gods poetic utterance,

A throwing and a throne

Shone.


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Roman Holiday

God gives us saints

And they give us Him.

In the catholic economy,

Institutes rise and fall,

Rates fluctuate,

And coin becomes debased,

Yet His light reignGives us increase,

As Himself bestowed.


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Scripture

Words and blows,

Less even lines,

Cried utterance

To the uttermost,

Deliberation

Liberating,

DelimitationKnown.


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Confessors

Deconstruction dispelled

The incantatory escheatment of the

Versus, like:

In Freuds lingered error,

Where it was, there I shall be:

Where it was, where will I be?

But to get to God,Alone.

It mattered.

Did we think the act a stolen show?

Did we think it but a pair of dice thrown?

Back, back, back!

Our witness was a whiteness,

Testified,

Fired, smoked, ashed,

Cinders sent.

Yes!

Taints unsecreted,

Religion did not become us,

But the tomb.


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Gift of Knowledge

Love of God and love for neighbor.

Life and all we meant.

To do, to be, to have, to make,

Was still but to be lent.


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Kid

Boiled in his mothers milk,

Broiled by his fathers sun,

The child took arms against.

Never, never, never:

Go back again.

Sisters resume, consume, exhume, exhale.Brothers beheld, belied.

Be: trails, happy trials, be:

Let be: Yes, yet, still we will be:

Silence was not the rest,

Nor yet the play,

But the thing that works

Between.


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The Virgin Martyrs

To do more than one can do

Is a flat contradiction,

So it must not be I that did.

While you smoke the cigarette,

The cigarette smokes you,Almost not without a fire.

Joan of Arc amid her voices,

Telling her what to do; yet

It was Joan, Joan, ever Joaned,

Ever sainted, ever crowned,

Every girl who ever was,

A virgin to her wedded day.


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Peace

God did not start,

God did not cease,

Yet the work is done.

Ye bastards:

Save it for your wives.

Rough bests the worst,

And to sea would I ride.

I have not yet begun,

I have already done,

For God in me still hides.

The birds will sing,

The night will chant,

As you and I abide.


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Oppositions

The opposite of illumination

Is not darknessBut opinion.

The opposite of enlightenmentIs not ignorance

But insincerity.

The opposite of the goodIs not evil

But hypocrisy.

The opposite of beingIs not nothingness

But seeming-to-be.

The opposite of the finite

Is not the infinite

But the indeterminate.

The opposite of theism

Is not atheismBut money.

The opposite of life

Is not deathBut sleep.

Be or not be.Do not seem to be.

Because of the triangularity

Of existence, the way is not clear.

Lost in the delusion,

We see neither light nor dark.

Desire is delusion,Delusion desires itself.

All self-direction,

All other-direction,

Is polarized, misses the mark.

Yet, one must shoot.


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Flores de Monterrey

Once I said,

I knew not why,

Petals to dirt,

Stem to sky.


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Pi Critic is Me

We, wilderness-wed,wail-rode, form-finding,neither deferred nordeterred, denying death,and dying to desire,a way kings realized,along aside a bridesproductionshe, all

innocence, all absolutes,all wise, in relativity,he but blinded in thestill blessing, allowingconsciences benediction,she altogether really realand he but idealized,in the nihilistics, camethe ring of grace, camedeath knells and kneelingat altars, given temptation,

given grace, the mysterynot known yet not to bedenied, under theprocession of the triumphof life, became the precession,the return, the shift of anaxis or axle, bedded,abetted, but we connected,all in the whirl of turningstime, that is, of times stand

still, still standing as thetime arrived.


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If he crowned you

If he crowned you,

If he made you an

Everlasting imperishable sign,

I would still read to you

And need you as I do,

Speaking poverty

To holiness,

Artless,

Poetic.


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Praise

Praising God

And finding you.


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When I Look Into Your Eyes

When I look into your eyes I see glaciers falling, light sparring, momentum gathered, earth at her zenith,

no dejection. The fire in you rises, your clothes loose in the wind, a breath of God on your hair, and stars

around to abet your half-smiling lips, now serious, now laughing. In your transitions is abiding, a

certainty next to durable unknowns, that make the thorns of the heart easier to bleed, the tears not

awkward to drop.


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You, knowing the place

Of my demise, the sending

And the dismissal,

Look to the North and find the

Unexpected future is.

Here, out of nowhere,

The place that poets, roaming

Where the time is right,

In true north they have concurred.

Anselm and Ancel agree.

Eternity is,

And cannot be taken from

Poets and others

Who find in the writtenness

Witness for the Lord of Hosts.

He and I, we write,

Truth to tell, in prophecy,

Neither pale nor glare,Not to pass, but shatter on,

To decontrol the light is.


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If you are catching,

Catch me in the way you can,Pray as you can and

Not as you cant, as you said.

Find the door and knock, keeping

To the path we will be found.

We will but found it,

Our arrival is assured,

At least we hope. But

He cannot be untrue. Yet

Between the yes and the no

There is nothing there,

That between, that waiting,

The space, the place of

The apocalypse is come.

There is that word yet to come.

What logic reigns here?

He said seven times,

To the church, to churches go,

Send a message, write it down,You must change and do it now.


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Seven times, he asked.

No, seven times seventy.The abundance is clear.

The life we live is no life,

Still we have that abundance.

Beauty and truth are,

And are convertible, yet

Not the same at all.

Ancel mistrusts beauty, others

Mistrust truth, but we seek life,

One who was always

And is and always will be.

He is beautiful and true

And good, and cannot not be.

He is simply forever.

In apocalypse

The great salvation is come,

To not be misled

By those who say he will come

Only for those who are good.


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Do not let the goodKeep you from perfection.

Do not let settle.

Going for the one is more,

An effortless grace is come.

Do not let the bad

Keep you from what you will be

And are already,

Despite the things done to sin

In your name, though you know not.

Do not let knowing

Not keep you too from loving.

Without knowing much,

Much is accomplished to be

The you you will be as you.

Do not hurry. Bless.

At times we come, and we will

Not wait in vain for

Vanity, for there is ageIn that wound you call your name.


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That name of yours isNothing but a wound, bound tight

To keep you, free you.

Yet yes be free: sign the name.

But know the meaning it has.

It may be you there

Not known secretly

As futurity,

Or futility, or sign

That cannot be converted.

Meaning explicate

By experience, so that

In what you find out

As living in your name is

The sign of the times we live.

What are we really?

Language and time, signatures

Apocalypse is.

We mean more than we can know.Find the time in who you are.


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Here on advents eve,With the evening of my life,

I still look forward

To the time of his coming,

Neither impatient, nor with

Any hope but of him.

The one who is comes

At an hour unexpected:

Be ready sober.

I cannot remember things

To say, but say only him.

He is all in all.

His agony provokes our

Agon with the

Antichrist he is today.

Do we struggle with ourselves?

For now we must stop.

Deny, renounce and

Lift the crosses following,It is the path he made us.

No, there is no other way.


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If he becomes meAnd I leave all for loving,

What becomes of this?

Do not count the cost, crossing

The way, surrender it all.

Abandonment feared,

The attachments call me back,

But he gave me this.

On trial, hoping acquittal,

No one left to accuse me now.

Not because I am

Innocent, but that

He rescued me, raised me up,

Lifted me from the abyss

To this place I may be yet

Someday at home, and

Even now I, least

I sense, a turning promised,

The breaking of the closure,End of the indefinite.


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The white is not justNor is merely erasure,

The space without name,

But in his strong bright truth he

Erased for us all the whites,

And every space was

Annihilation, meaning

Apocalypse is.

Finding you white on white on

White you did not let it fade,

But came on the one,

Eternal virginity,

That is most proper.

In the white of snows and of

Sheets and of the kingdom come,

She will be light by

The one light without a lamp

And without a sun,

Her colors will shine in thatLight made pure by excellence,

The perfection of

Hymens enfolded by

The clarity of

That name of glory, white ones,

Her glory is all other.


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Ages of sagesAnd of suffering ones still,

Yet we will abide

The horrors of the time and

Know a riper time for love.

The time is now, right

With little left to foretell,

With common heartbreaks

And the compound fractures

Of bodies on lifes wheel,

Yet we would love, yes,

As so many have done, yes,

Loving in the tolled,

To rings sometime, but once, as

Well know, since it was our lives.

O tell me, of times

And where they go when theyre done,

And how the wheel of

Life keeps turning, as we learnOut of control and out of

Time we would love, yes,

And without ceasing turn the

Wheel over again

For us and for those we love,

As the house we once lived in.

You, so high above,

Do you wander as we call?Wonder at the praise?

Tremble at your turning too?

I perish the thought of it.


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Oh, the little ones,To be called away from tasks,

To play at loves and

Follow in the way of truth,

And the one which is not play,

For finding our love

We saw at last not playing

But living, not just

Pleasing, as if we could,

But some thankful promised end

That life on earth is

To pretend and more than that,

To more than actors

Given again, and to

More than comprehend.


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Marinela song,Intoxicating song of

Bright dark eyes, truthful

And dearer by their darkness,

Stronger than lightning, her eyes,

Her song, her minds hum,

To ecstasies tune belong,

Bring, gather not to scatter,

Finding singing her music,

Rhyming, wanting, and waiting.

O Marinela,

That soul of music may be,

And you, yet you know

It not, yes you will sing as

A woman theyll wonder at.

O my little one,

Sing your song to the one in

Me but more in God

And most of all in her, whoWaiting for you is pure patience,

An immaculate

And true white graceful space of

Possibility,

So that where she is we may

Sing too the songs pure,

Lose the sin, and in

Her love is relief, as IWho composed himself

For you, found relief in my

Wish to foretell our Heaven.


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She was my one trueSentinel, my guardian,

Loves embodiment

Of duty and faith and work

With out end, world without end,

Words without end, but enough!

She became my one

Limit and limitation,

And in her precincts

I did thrive and grow in truth,

Grow in Christ and him in me.

What else is there but

To thank and bless her in her

Uncomplicated,

Graceful, simple, entire,

Perfectly, completely, and

Without a stammer

The complete that I have found

And without which IWould have been incomplete, and

God does not like incompletes.

She has more than one

Name and her number unknown

Yet knowable, still

She is not a summation,

She is not a citation,

A little one, she,And more to me by what she

Made here in words that

Seem to be mine, but are in

The sovereignties she is.


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Meaning and Experience,

Part 1


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The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; and I am greatly pleased with my inheritance.

Psalm 16: 6


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I dedicated

Myself to God though I did

Delay: Lord forgive.

I dedicate this

Work to the priests I have known

And to another:

This book is for a

Teacher: A sister in God:

Paula Jean Miller.

In the end I did

Not avoid the truth you taught

And you still believe.


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I believed: Therefore

I spoke: Tell all the truth but

Tell it slant: in this

I could tell all my

Truth and nothing but the Truth:

As you helped me God.

Texts are woven things:

This was a coat of many

Colors: as given.

So be thankful for

The colors given and His

Light by which we see.


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Pure mind and pure heart:

An old man limping laughing

Sees the tree at dusk.

Four sisters and I

Standing in the lake alone:

What is covenant?

Neither monk nor lay

A man went this way living

Life in His presence.

Flowers drooping heads

In dryness await the rain

Without meaning to.

Meaning is absent

But experience is known

By presence itself.

The experience

And the meaning come apart

In silence not known.


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Interpretations

Always miss the mark; always

Miss experience.

The fact of the light:

More than words can say: empties

Me of self and sense.

Silence and meaning

Are not part of a system

But are not opposed.

The mystic moment

Misunderstood passed me by

As I read a book.

[envois] and heavy [envois]

Men in cities avoid truth

In their neighbors eyes.

Around the table

We discussed meaning and life

Despite our heartbeats.


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The pain of living

And the joy of finding out

Push and pull again.

I could not keep it

But silence knew what to do

And this bubbled up.

No reconstruction

As I stand beneath the sky:

Just the light in air.

No birds trace the way:

Trackless expanse of Heaven

Unstained and unfeigned.

Quiet nights and peace:

Afternoons playing at sums:

Balance in my hand.

Young men chase each thing

Across the green yard of life:

Feeling faces lit.


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Without knowing how

And without meaning to know

Yet life too chose me.

Under stars without

I stood and pointed to one

Inventing meaning.

The reinvention

That happens naturally

Is the best of all.

Supernatural

The battle for the faith:

Wrinkles in my flesh.

Look over and see

Beyond yonder wall the man

Who died just to be.

Gracious and godly

The opening in me yawned

But did not swallow.


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They gauge the outcome

But all matter is a way

To experience.

Without leaving: still

The distant married lands came

And shone silent love.

The tree itself void

Of meaning offers endless views

For watching sunset.

At night without art

Without catching a thing I

Turn to you in sleep.

The leaf seeks not ground

Nor attachment to the tree branch

But simply abides.

Who am i? I ask

Not knowing the master plan:

The really Real.


63/300

Separate from me

Reality dwells apart

But within me yet.

Men and women cross

Themselves in hope of finding

A child between them.

The mountain abides

Yet there is peace in the vale

And heights cause a fall.

Stumbling level ground:

Step after step following:

The walker crosses.

Neither height nor depth

Nor any other thing stands

Between You and I.

Behind us nothing:

Between us everything else:

We communicate.


64/300

Summer Autumn Spring

All delight but bare Winter

Lies secret within.

The emptiness here

Where I once was: now not I

But peace perfect peace.

If you choose or not

Yet you are chosen: Abide

In Him and be It.

To be free of this:

To this be free here and now:

There is no secret.

Words about words fail

But the peace of light reaches

Filling the darkness.

Light itself empties

Yet fills all things not knowing

And without intent.


65/300

Simply breathing air

Is what he did: also this:

Some rose and some fell.

The impossible

Is the only thing worth our

Attempt: Yes we can.

Forget all structure

Because form is not the One:

When you as you are.

If the tree could see

He would see not light but the

Other trees nearby.

Lacking sight not light

The blindness of men is this:

They looked away.

They say peace someday:

But I say peace if you will:

Be yourself right now.


66/300

Shadows do not hide

But we hide in them because

We want to forget.

When you awake

Everything is beautiful:

Even homely words.

Too much instruction:

We sign and we sign without

Our feet on the ground.

Universities

Created the meaning but

For a mundane love.

If you could touch me

I would neither indicate

Nor express meaning.

After the heart breaks

We learn to sing the blues out

Yet the wound remains.


67/300

Almost out of breath

I ran to meet you smiling

With disheveled hair.

Cross yourself again

And find your directions in

The silent imprint.

Neither cold nor wet

I am yet the hungry dog

Standing at your door.

I met you at church

And what we became was more

Than that: Life itself.

Yesterday I drank

And you filled me with travel

Taking me away.

In joyful wisdom

Neither rational nor not:

Whiskey and Women.


68/300

If music were words

It would lose its emptiness

And begin to mean.

The heart must empty

Before it can fill with blood:

In rhythms we live.

Crossing the river

I saw an island in mist

Without being there.

The dry: The empty:

The desert full of wisdom:

The place of testing.

It doesnt matter

What color her eyes or skin:

But can she forget?

If I stayed longer

It would be to love you more:

Without fear or care.


69/300

If I care too much

I will not let you ascend

To where you must be.

He showed me the way

And we placed our crosses

In Jerusalem.

A city I see

Unlike any other one:

If only love builds.

Remember me then

Once or twice in the wake

Till we meet again.

Not understanding

I loved I knew not what yet

Love itself was true.

I loved you without

Concepts ideas or things

But in the living.


70/300

Meaningful research

Does not combine others words

In new arrangements.

My father appeared:

Traveled everywhere he went:

In ashes he blew.

My wife came so far:

So far from her home seeking

For something somewhere.

Our city ruined

We rebuilt with trowel and

Sword: our two arms full.

I always loved you

For you were with me before

In the dream I had.

Only yesterday

I had a glimpse of life and knew

Without meaning.


71/300


72/300


73/300


74/300

In breathing I am

In all things respiring in

Him and He in me.

When not if He comes

He will find faith in cities

That we did not burn.


Only His words will matter:

Not our constructions.


Every Buddha will clap hands

While sinners rejoice.

Mindful without thought

Children play and old men dream:

Life itself goes on.

Victory is not

Simple assertion and yet

It must be disclosed.


75/300

I learned despite not

Knowing and I gained more than

An education.

After I was shot

It took 20 years to die

But now I can live.

A man all in black

Said very well and fine but

What do you do now?

The compass caught north

And despite direction lost

The future beyond.

Put your right shoe on

First and the rest will follow

Of its own accord.

She found the water

Without a bucket or well:

Life itself happened.


76/300

He said keep dancing

To your own drummer so

I went on my way.

If you cant sit still

You must run until you walk:

Then you will allow.

Allowance found me

Alone on my bed without

Expecting a thing.

I lived on sheer faith

Climbing the cliff face without

Any skill but hope.

O little children

If I could only free you:

But you must free yourselves.

O men of eighty

If I could restore your life:

You would not let me.


77/300

Women O Women:

You and you and you: without

Your knowing I died.

Keep alive the dream

Especially while awake:

Let your feet not stray.

Will your love survive

Without understanding why?

I say better yet.

The double-edge sword

Cuts this way and that slicing

The knot of knowledge.

If I could be you

I would still be me only

Without the desire.

Language fails because

It means too much: the Truth is

Still and in stillness.


78/300


79/300

The light that breaks us

Is more than we could have hoped:

Every knee will bend.

I have spent more time

I have wasted more money

Than [envois].

Forgive me for this

It is not to be allowed:

I almost told you.

Out of the depths cry

Words that indicate without

Expressing the truth.

All we can do is

All we can do and not much:

Will it be enough?

With fear and trembling

And in joy and hope we live:

With what will we die?


80/300

Is bad love better

Than no love at all? It seems

That time of season.

I was always wrong

But turning left one more time

I arrived at peace.

Vain is all seeking

And yet when He finds you then

You are truly found.

Look not here nor there

Still less within: if He knocks

Do not be afraid.

Stranger in the night

Announced again and again:

Still He surprised me.

Pierced to the marrow:

My heart was ready for death

And even for Him.


81/300

The sun will come up

On us tomorrow always:

God willing it so.

I saw an old friend

And exclaimed at the species:

One in a million.

All are lost but so

That all may be found: we are

One in salvation.

Good and evil were

My limits but without them

I reached out to you.

Without meaning to

Means I cannot make a claim:

I am what I am.

I intend no thing:

Neither play nor purpose nor

Approximation.


82/300


83/300


84/300


85/300

Writers write: fish swim:

Some people cook their food and

Some eat their food raw.

To get at the thing

You must uncover it and

In this words can help.

The blue butterfly

(for instance) in his pathless

Flight lit on my hand.

I eternally hold

A hand at no striving [envois]

And yet it happens.

It did not mean to

And I did not know meaning

Itself afterwards.

Angela the saint

Suffered me in the holy

Creativity.


86/300

To be there with it

Beneath sky-high waterfalls

Was without meaning.

But it had event

Written in it and a hand

Greeting not grasping.

Explanation

Will not do and description

Never tells the truth.

Alain Badiou

Wrote the truth is like saying

Keep going forward!

To adequate Christ

And Buddha: Empty within:

Everything is grace.

The way is of Christ

And we all walk on that way

Though some walk away.


87/300


88/300

Buddha in glory:

Jesus ran His race well:

In both completion.

Resurrection is:

I must decrease: He is here:

No actor: All: All.

God is all in all

So He had to die to be

Completed in us.

Not that God Himself

Needed to be completed:

It was for our sakes.

Subjectless without

Object there is no is-ness

But simply presence.

I am not present

Nor can I be shown in your

Representations.


89/300


90/300

I mean that I am:

Experience is other:

I AM does not mean.

Meaningful research

Into self reveals nothing

At bottom but God.

I am illusion:

Whatever depends is not:

He is in my hand.

I cannot be me

But there is nothing else but

To be me here now.

What is here and how

In denying self empties

Itself into Him.

Neither I am nor

That thou art: but even less

Solipsistic sense.


91/300

Meaning always means

I am but in self denied

Experience is.

The cleavage is real:

Paradoxically real:

Reality IS.

God is not only

The Most Real but the only

One Who IS: despite:

Despite language games:

Philosophizing reasons:

Desires: Lusts: Pleasures.

Sense is not non-sense:

Reality exceeds both:

The absolute IS.

Awareness is real:

Jesus as man felt the pain

For our pain was His.


92/300

He was at the point

And broke through all suffering

In contradiction.

Buddhas in ascent:

Christ descended into hell:

All is redemption.

The teacher instructs

By various ways and means

To light up our minds.

Lamps unto our feet

Guides to our paths: meaningful

To the moral faith.

But experience

Of Buddha and Christ is not

Found in their meanings.

God is undefined:

No propositions in God:

De-limit the mind.


93/300

Find the beginning:

Where I end is where He is:

I must decrease.

Words are not yet Him

And writers neither lose Him nor

Find His meaning.

The writer seeks not

Meaning not expression but

An experience.

The trap of writing

Is that it is illusion

And does not mirror.

Referring to self

It fails: but we are not it:

The Lord uses us.

On the battleground

Minds are lost and won and more

Won in the losing.


94/300

When you fail you know:

You know you do not know and

Must stop trying to.

Desks are poor things full

Of papers and ambition:

Here I sit not-I.

Old boy what seek ye?

Truth is not illusion but

Knowing is just that.

Truth cannot be known:

Truth is then when I am not:

How can it be known?

I allow (lets say)

By emptiness a space for

Truth to emerge in.

Detached: dismantled:

Words are the last delusion:

He did not SAY it.


95/300

He did not tell us

Repeat after me but this:

Deny: and: Follow.

Following does not

Mean anything: it is the

Act of walking with.

In walking with Him

We have sympathy and in

This is understanding.

Many have told us

What He meant: What did He do?

He emptied Himself.

Vessels of light are

Not full but empty so that

The light may fill them.

The blind do not know

The light despite accurate

Explanation: Because:


96/300

The experience

Of light itself acts like light:

Light has no meaning.

What makes meaning is

The thing that is like the sun:

Was Derrida right?

Poverty dumbstruck:

Meaninglessness rather than

All these useless words.

Abide: dwell: silent:

Avoid speaking vanity

Of all the vain things.

We are: already:

Useful words are words that use

Themselves for climbing.

Do not rebuild it:

Let it lie: release it; Gone:

Lovers: in love forgetting.


97/300

Reconcile yourself

To Him in forgetting that

Once I was I AM.

HE WHO IS is that

Absolutely: vanity

To replace His place.

Literature is

Still the tower of babble:

Brick on brick on brick.

God did not do it:

He does not but is beyond

Our little towers.

Not analogy:

But He will substantiate:

Transcendent in us.

Not even being:

That is interpretation:

Withdrawal of self.


98/300

Meaning is order:

To experience again

My meaninglessness.

However much I

I seem to persist: My will

Meaning intention.

At some point the thing

Approaches in silent notes

And music happens.

We walked up and down:

We roamed the butterfly fields

At the mountains edge.

The butterflies seem

Erratic: wandering: not

Lost: but Bliss is Bliss.

No point than to live:

Till then my hand there appeared:

Another moment.


99/300

I meant nothing: say

It was not my intention:

Say something happened.

It was as she wished:

We went somewhere and we did

Something: yet did not.

We believe all things:

We rejoice in the day of

The Lord: we are glad.

That night I awoke:

I said there is something that

Is outside of me.

[envois]

There is something there

Outside of me and allowing

Myself the stillness.


100/300

The butterfly IS:

A hand was extended and

Then something happened.

What? I cannot say

Because it cannot be said

Without a meaning.

If I seem to say

It is only an illusion:

I have not said IT.

Buddha and Jesus

Lived IT: said words to be heard

More real by witness.

Light and all shadow

Approximate the seasons:

Jesus died in Spring.

I trust in this fact:

The Promise: He will come take

Us soon to Heaven.


101/300

We too with Buddhas

In glory and Christ in light

To resound in song.

God sings Himself in

Us: through us: for us: and we

Give Him instruments.

Truth asks nothing more

Than that it be sung: I say

Even these stones sing.

Even my mountain

Cries out and will not let still:

Harmony allows.

Allow Jesus to

Sing His song in you: never

A song of myself.

In absolute peace

The greatest songs are silent:

Becoming seemless.


102/300


103/300

A billion writers

With their streaming meanings still

Cannot make you fly.

If you do you will

Do so by your love: a

Love without knowing.

Neither hand will know

The exchange of self for God

Or when you took flight.

The dignity of

Us is in our willing not

Our own but others.

To take flight cannot

Mean anything until you

Fly: less even then.

Stable but shifting:

The words mean something but a

Butterfly wants more.


104/300

Simple clarity

And words about what happened:

Discernment required.

The paradox IS:

We efface ourselves when we

Realize ourselves.

Never imitate:

Dont just sit there and stare at Him:

See the truth: He IS.

Never imitate:

Be: when you are yourselves then

You no longer are.

One above behind

Us all behind all signs and

Things makes us: Believe.

In belief hearts are

In sacrifice of self torn

That we give the gift.


105/300

All I have is yours:

When you give yourself to Him

How can you remain?

Neither I and I

Nor Every Other even

But beyond all that.

I will never know:

When I know I will then cease

To exist as I.

No mystery: Then

Why so few reach for knowledge

Knowing they will cease.

We will destruction

Of the world rather than this:

Let God be you now.

And we would rather

Speak a streaming discourse:

I: than not be I.


106/300

Yet I will not be:

Why not now? Why not by Him?

We say by His grace.

Even without [envois]

Or effort at the right time

It simply happens.

Though trials there to be

And the fight of ceaseless war

The peace is: still IS.

And the war is won

Not by surrender but [envois]

By coming onslaught.

Just be the peace and

See: no will: no mind: no one:

Radiant presence.

Still dismantle me

As talk continues to be:

Continues to see.


107/300

Talk now less and less

As monks learn to teach an all

Through whelming silence.

Poor butterflies: rich

In poverty taking no

Thing but simple flight.

I saw them make love:

In natural attraction

With us by their side.

But they (who can say

Why) flew away leaving us

To interpret them.

Butterfly lovers:

Us and them: in all we are:

And in love finding.

For compassion IS:

To give a home and blessing:

To find the right time.


108/300


109/300

He the essential:

I the passing: memories

Will not be mounting.

On the one mountain

There is but glory alone:

Let it be: enough.

Versification

Is the conversion of I

Into the not-I.

Experience is

Not this: Experience is

Forgetting to mean.

Buddha on his side

And Jesus on the cross died:

Yet they did not die.

Buddhas mindfulness

And Christian suffering are

Not polarities.


110/300

Experience first

After suffering before

Teaching us the way.

Experience last

Through suffering in order

To teach us the way.

Truth is the only

Thing left to see: Whatever

Is not is not real.

Life is a vector

Moving in a direction

Without [envois].

Associations:

Come together fall apart:

Particularly words.

Mirrors of the real

They are not real but seem:

True propositions.


111/300


112/300

Love is our meaning

Yet in our experience

We find what love is.

Not only feeling

But in the ground of being:

Love creates our need.

Pounding out the hours

We would set sail out of love:

For love: toward love.

And we stand still

Stranded on the shore waiting

For better relief.

There is one to come

And He wipes away all tears

In our dark sainthood.

And we climb the steps:

We shake off the need of pride

For the one virtue.


113/300

What IS simply IS:

When you become you will be:

But we always wait.

The kingdom is now:

When we realize it we

Show ourselves kingship.

He is still within:

Find after your I am the

I AM THAT I AM.

I am not: He IS:

My I am is an echo

Of the great I AM.

Imagination

Is the fool of time [envois]

To good and evil.

Knowledge must be: Yet

In the Phantasm we know

Nothing but ourselves.


114/300

Dont let me be proud:

Lord make me an instrument

Steady in your hand.

Death will not hold us

If we submit to Your will:

Lord make me humble.

God is my shepherd:

I have wanted nothing but

Needed discipline.

My Lord and My God!

I did it all for God and

For her: for she IS.

For God and for her:

For in perfect wisdom the

Virgins know God best.

In my unknowing

I wandered from the way and

Almost lost my faith.


115/300

Yet Gods gifts and His

Call are irrevocable:

He did not let me.

These shards of meaning

Professing experience

Miss the mark of Him.

He is the Most High:

Where others thought ideas

Of infinity:

Indefinitely

Exposing the word to their

Criticism-shame.

The truth about that thing

Called deconstruction is the

Fact men loved a lie.

They loved a lie and

Worshipped themselves rather than

The creator God.


116/300

Glory is but sight

Cleansed of what I cannot be:

The I I am not.

In perfect vision

Behold the man where He stands

Bleeding in judgment.

Then He gave glory:

Crucified and Glorified:

Him who died for you.

Overcome evil with

Good in peace with great patience:

Despite the minds thoughts.

Do not be afraid:

All beings attend on you:

Salvation is near.

He saved me drowning:

Some rise and some fall: amazed

The abyss buoys.


117/300

Buddha walked a lot

As did Christ to His crossing:

Their words still travel.

By example they

Set out the better truths like

Plato immortal.

On one above we

Depend: return to the source:

Be not dismantled.

For surely He comes:

Be neither afraid nor doubt

His voice calling you.

Once again build up:

Let yourself in uprightness

Bow low before Him.

When you came apart

You still saw the meanings that

Were meant to save you.


118/300

They were not words to

The deaf but eyesight to the

Blind in His Blessing.

[envois]

Both stand in the truth:

One speaks IT the other IS:

Christ thy name is Love.

I am not my own

Light and I cannot see you

Without Him my lamp.

If we could see Him

In one another how could

We cease believing?

There are directions

And if you follow them you

Will not fall away.


119/300

Stay on the path and

Walk more surely than before

And gospel yourself.

They once said that we

Un do: let go: that truth is

Always already.

But I say hold on

And never give up nor yet

Give in to release.

Atonement is not

Imagination which

Is but I the Fool.

If I had known the

Truth sooner I would have must

Have written elsewhere.

The really Real can

Be seen in the weather: But

Experience Him.


120/300

Find the one you know

Who opens the clouds without

Any force but light.

Buddha said look past

Me: but Pilate said Behold

The Man: Jesus Christ.

Truth will never stray:

Truth returns to the place of

Illumination.

There is but one light:

We all see by that one fire:

We all shine with it.

Words take on the dark:

But how white the pages and

Smooth their reception.

You must be that page:

Allow the inscrutable

To inscribe itself.


121/300

Pages of marvel

That turn to ash easily:

Yet His words remain.

[envois]

Persist! Then: Persist!

There is no happiness but

In overcoming.

Since He opened you

You cannot close again but

Sometimes you still try.

God is the one who

Teaches: His reign is rain: Soak

Me with all Your Truth.

Once I sat still and

Waited on the arrival:

It seemed forever.


122/300

More! More butterflies!

More mountains to climb! Without

Memory to see them.

Words are more and less

And the truth is in meaning

But we lack the means.

Or do we? He gives

His Word unfailing and He

Must be spoken through.

Do not see me write:

Do not imagine the scene:

You already write.

You are my event

And I am your pretext for

Good criticism.

Dissolution is

The acid word of the man

Who deconstructs you.


123/300

Let yourself shine then:

By the light: not in a dark

Night of this writing

But in the dark night

Of the soul embraced by God

Who is your Author.

You are not the thing

Itself and cannot know it:

But it has always

Known you and me in

Our medicine and artless:

Our pretty sinning.

Alone to alone:

But never alone I heard

Him call me by name.

Relationship is

Not false in itself because

We are all in Him.


124/300

Did you think that you

Could lose yourself without then

Losing Him as well?

Mortal blindness! Fool!

I am that very man that

You are without Him.

Once I did seem real

But got over it after

The enlightenment.

Enlightenment is

Without a doubt and yet

Not what people think.

Patience (the great thing)

Means only you hold what you

Have been given: Gifts

From above because

Despite what you have been told:

You cannot save you.


125/300

The gift of presence

Simply is experience:

The meaning of life.

For instance I say:

Birds sing despite our sighing

And do not let up.

After your heart breaks

You must still sing like the birds:

Never letting up.

There is no middle

Way but a narrow one that

Hurts: still you must sing!

I once sang a song

Knowing not what but it was

Noise and weariness.

What you are you are

But do not ignore the law

Written thou shall not.


126/300

Know thyself its said

And it is still good to learn:

But only in Him.

After descent to

Your vilest depth look up and

See Christ in Glory.

Only by knowing

The difference will I know

The truth of my world.

There is an ancient

Enemy without and one

Within: Guard yourself!

I was never for

Hire and did not earn a days

Wage: may God forgive.

I hope: I hope He

Will forgive my ignorance

Thinking that I knew.


127/300


128/300

Like anyone else

I must climb from ignorance

To understanding.

I must learn to fight:

Myself and all that stands in

The way of my goal.

If the world writes me

Badly I will rewrite the

Script and improvise.

Truth is His stillness

But also truth calls to me

From the very storm.

Truth does not cease in

Pursuit of me though I still

Run the other way.

It is a good thing

God loves us so much and that

He never gives up.


129/300


130/300

We think we know it

But we have no idea of

What it means to do.

I said it once

And I will say it again:

Yet Christ will abide.

If I may return:

The argument of the text

Is: just simply be.

Coming to be and

Passing away are the truth

Buddha would escape.

Do not fight your own

Suffering but do not look

Away to avoid.

In poverty I

Found meaning did not mean to:

I am not empty.


131/300

But only Francis

And a few others loved Her;

Lady Poverty.

The kingdom is not

Of meaning nor is it a

Senselessness: it IS.

The word means more than

Meaning as a concept contains;

A Sheer Abundance

That chose poverty

Instead in order to be

With us forever.

To live as we live:

To take our meaninglessness

And give us what IS.

But we stick with a

Meaning that amounts to our

Own deconstruction.


132/300

There is more to say

But what IS always takes time:

Even the eternal.

I wont look into

The abyss too long since

I looked into you.

The book lay open:

No one there to read the signs:

The means fell away.

Trees grow toward light

But find in the black earth the

Other half of life.

I grew toward Him

Out of sinful soil and love

For the Autrement.

But turning away

From my bad beginning, I

Look toward what I found.


133/300

Waterfall above:

Butterfly at hand: You stood

Too: essentially ajar.

Neither this nor that

Life is not [envois]

Nor is it a thing itself.

To descry meaning

Once more in the name of life

Is simply senseless.

The scatter pattern:

Butterflies and the little

Flower remind me.

Is enlightenment

Life without meaning or the

Experience of

Meaninglessness that

Is still a reason to believe

Despite the nonsense?


134/300

God still gives to us

Meanings never lost again

But asks our catching.

If I look for that

I will never find that:

Thou art not That when

That is the lie of

Eden: that you are Gods and

That I made myself.

Through enlightenment

The darkest deconstruction!

Am I the measure?

I think I will yet

Empty myself of conceit

And write for the Lord.

Then without knowing:

With a hand trained to obey

Discover His truth.


135/300

Anticipation

And His fullness may yet be

My own completion.

The Buddha said he

Was always at beginning

And so too am I

He would save the worlds

From suffering by killing

Passions and desires.

Whether there is an

End to suffering or not

Is not the issue:

I risk pain for love:

I must affirm life as IS

And love it anyway.

The experience

Of pain may not have meaning

But accessing love.


136/300

An experience

Buddha thought was meaningless

Is the means to love.

Christ chose it Himself

Out of love, not to buy back,

But drink it all down.

And to show me how

I can love too both because

And despite the pain.

Even though the Buddha

Did not die and stopped the wheel

Yet the world still turns.

And churches come and

Churches go in the name of Christ

But no kingdom come.

They did not live in

Vain but their lives are not yet

Understood by me.


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If I could love you

I would find in you the way

To experience.

And yes: the meaning:

The one word of harmony:

My reason to be.

Something more I see

In the truth of the person

That you are likely:

Another Buddha,

Beneath the tree: or asking

Christ the cross relieve

Our sins so we may love

To forget our meaningless

Lived experience.

I think I too thirst

Like Christ though I am no saint

And need not freedom:


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For freedom is not

The one thing necessary:

So then why not love?

Judgment in the way

Of the way we would love to:

Choice desire indicts.

All religions are

One: to choose between them is

Admission of guilt.

Guilty of the lack

Of love based on judging truth

Without acceptance.

Do not choose what to

Believe: election requires

Your being chosen.

Just try not to hurt

People on the way to where

You are going to.


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Am I bothersome?

I am too full of advice:

But I think I know.

The impossible

God does the impossible:

Made me so poor rich.

That I would give Him:

Paying attention is my

Way to pray in thanks.

To write the meaning

Of meaninglessness is

To exemplify.

In paradox I write:

For I cannot say what the

Butterfly would say:

If wings were words and

She traced sentences in the

Air instead of beauty.


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Meaning is judgment

But experience beauty

Without copula.

If you have much to

Give then give it all away

From exuberance.

May God help me speak

Without judgment though I think

I have seen the worst.

Let no false love nor

Parody of Catholic

Theology reign.

I wrote poetry

Thinking I was in [envois]

But love was not yet there

For otherwise why

Not stay on the mountain with

The blue butterfly?


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Missing the meaning

I held to experience

Trapped in my own self.

Contradictions are

Sometimes true but why did I

Make it my arche?

I was but a text

And caught in my own writing

Effortlessly drowned.

Until He called halt!

I turned and became aware

Of what I was not.

Which is simply put

Everything: everything else:

The world I am not.

My dream of something

Outside of me was just the

Leading vision seen.


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Oh to write truly

Of the plainest things I once

Did not care about

And not lose His love

In self-absorbed exhaustion

And in the ceaseless

Search to say what I

Could never say any way I

Might have tried: that is:

Let me not feign a

Meaning while at the same time

Saying there is none.

Why not become Light?

There is only one story:

It is not about me.

The clever boy is

Lost in the meaning of his

Meaning not knowing.


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The clever boy is

Obscured by the brilliance that

Others meant to say.

Another boy would

Wait and not forget: patient

Longing yet without

Rushing past the signs

Of love which all have meaning

To Him who made them.

God is good: God alone

Is good: what does this mean now

Seen from another

Point of view? It means:

At least I can say this much:

I knowGod is Good.

To know something is

Different from not knowing:

I said I did not


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And I really did

Not: but I thought that I did:

I was a burden.

I am not the light

That I must experience

In order to know.

I said light does not

Mean anything and yet by

It we know all things.

But I knowthat light

Is good: I knowit: that light

Is the light of men.

The darkness cannot

Comprehend it and I was

In complete darkness

Yet I was writing

Of my own enlightenment:

Could I be more wrong?


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Complement: they are

Not absence against presence

But ways of knowing

Truth: by their fruits you

Shall know them: the meaning

Of experience

For a catholic

Is simply the sacraments:

But does God need them?

Who benefits from the

Catholic economy?

Only Catholics.

I loved that little

Blue butterfly that landed

On my fingertip

And had the very

Experience in itself

But missed the meaning.


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He was a signal:

A messenger: the way that

God said I love you.

I turned his sign of

Love inside-out and said it

Had no meaning as such:

That the event did

Not respire with a meaning

Because there is none:

No meaning as such

But that the butterfly IS

And to be is not

To mean but to be

Another kind of higher

Emptiness: the Void.

And now the Roman

Church is to be made void and

With it the world too.


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Both of these abysses

Of the deconstruction and

The deconsecration

Are places that light will

Not reach: deepest darkest

Hell: black but on fire.

These terrible things

Still mean something: they are rich:

Because they ruin truth.

Without truth there will

Be no more spiritual

World, and without it:

No more world of the

Material either: for

[envois]

Not just the world that

Followed the deconstruction

And deconsecration:


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But no more worlds to

Follow: more void than Buddhas

Realm: kingdom undone.

So I look back on

The world of the time I touched

The blue butterfly.

How much I did not

Know of things to come when that

World would seem a dream

And dwell with the God

In unapproachable light:

While the context of

The blue butterfly

That gives to experience

The meaning divine

Was to be torn in

Two and beauty truth love all

Lost in delusion.


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I had thought my own

Error so damnable in

Not giving meaning:

But they do far worse:

They will say the fine thing but

They will not mean it.

Neither Buddha nor

The catholic line satisfies

But the Christ alone.

Seventeen in a

Stanza stands in the Q and

Strikes against antichrist.

A spanner in the

Works between the sixteen and

The eighteen so that

John Paul II and his

False prophet cannot connect

The magic number.


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He has not any

Idea of God: but the

Person of God is

True and the Pope may

Not even know what he is

In compensation:

For in the spirit

Of psychology the mind

Contains both sides of

The coin: Icons

Of Christ and the debased on

The dark side of Him:

Benedict in His

Shadow completes the Christ but

Woe to the man who

Misunderstands Him:

Who chooses judgment when love

Was the wheat to find:


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And judgment the tare

To be torn: leave them not till

The end but remove:

Remove: tear judgment

Up by its roots and let it

Begin in Peter.

The wolves and the sheep:

Meaning and experience:

The wheat and the tares:

Buddha and the Christ:

Benighted Benedict

Blesses in reverse.

Let Shostakovitch

Lead my quartet by a string

From peace to war and

Back again: to the

Time of the blue butterfly:

Neither bought nor sold.


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I said (for instance)

That truth is spoken despite

Us: yet it is said.

In irony our

Words echo back to us as

Derridas laughter.

I will offend then

A selection of the work

In question below:

No gain: ever lose:

Further fall: flower she fell:

[envois]

They would have us turn

To chase it up ahead or

Look into the past:

Do neither: be here:

Discern: in the timeliness:

A temporal shut:


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Use your illusion:

Yet you are that though: to be:

Weary spectacles:

And so on and so

Forth: we are witnesses to

The truth not against:

Yet truth must be the

Thing against itself to be

True to itself: so:

The pope (God bless him):

Benighted Benedict:

Enlightened no one:

And over him rose

The thorn of contradiction:

The nobody rose:

O care of the soul:

Benediction petrified:

Peters blessing stone:


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To the prophecy

Of Celan and in dialogue

With Derrida and

Two infinities:

That the poet saw the pope

And the end of him.

Rams: beasts: petrified:

He would raise the rock to strike

The flock and scatter:

Uninterrupted:

Derrida too foresaw the

One to come but hidden in

His text were the keys

Of the abyss: as always

Already he said:

Such is the law of

The text: to hide the hest from

Every first comer:


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However oblique

In approach: even from the

Envois on he came

To re veal the lamb

Not quite as serious as

The pope: for the text

Would ever contain

The evil which was the real

Reason for writing.

As the mind in two

The janus faced coin of an

Exergue to come:

Psyche and spirit:

Inseparable: heaven

Is in your mind and

The simulacrum

Of the text is a way to

Decontaminate.


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My life will therefore

Have been a scandal to them

Who judge it to be:

But Christ himself was

So and a sign to contradict

The acting pope said.

The acting pope of

The coup, as the church rolled dice

At the foot of the

Cross and gambled for His

Vestments and investiture:

Antinomians.

And in mystic fashion

Described fascist projection:

A transmutation

Of the sacred to

The transubstantiation

Of the golden Christ


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Into basest coin:

Defaced the icons: profaned

The sanctuary:

If life is Christ then

Sacramental grace is here

When we truly live:

Sacraments give life:

Presence: God amid His Church:

Now surely elsewhere:

Where grace is lasting:

Arise: trust in the Lord: take

Up your mat and walk:

Your faith will save you:

Leave the church and sin no more:

Do not look back but

Carry light salt seed

In order to scatter the

Others in: to God.


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Late have I left thee

O Ecclesia: but not

Too late I still pray.

One startling serene

Still one remained just for me

Among the roses.

She I say but one:

No other: neither word nor

Fragment: She: Woman:

Say untouched by time

Until a small voice whispered

Get and go: See.

Destiny in it:

She went and me she continued

In what we didnt say.

If they say she wore

Black and I wore red theyd be

Half-right: we revolt.


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She will always be

Further than the East, like

Sins flung far away:

He knows me better

But she could not help but sign

The blank I left blank:

I waited and she

Came: out of time: without the

Least direction: straight:

A rebel though she

Knew it not and ready to

Build back the torn down.

Almost not quite just

Barely yonder: the way come

Passing over all:

When you find me say

He did not know his way yet

Arrived after all.


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In the dialectic

Of fascism are three moments:

Nietzsche: Hitler: and

Joseph Ratzinger:

His name says it all: O rats!

The Thesis of the

Nietzschean seemed to

Reach fruition in the reich:

But antithesis

Is never enough:

The synthetic matrix in

Deconsecration

Suspends the body

Of Christ in an illusion

Of the pious fraud:

And Jewish rapture

Left behind only the Church

Militant to blame.


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For after the yes

What took place in the text of

Joyce but the wake that

Is the funeral

Of the world: in the text mind

You: every word counts:

Ultrastructure is:

And there is nothing else but:

The Ultrastructure.

The Q if you would

Describes a circle effracted:

A line laid across:

The economy

Must be broken: the meaning

Of the catholic

Church exposed inside

And out for revelation:

It will be released.


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To be said: a new

Direction when I spoke of

Augustine: Arrive.

The circle as such

Cannot arrive as it is

Forever turning:

But if it closes

It will trap those in it in an

Economic Hell.

Effraction is now.

Disclosure of the fact is

Enough in theory:

Symbolic therefore

Real: the ideality

of literature:

The line being laid

Against the antichrist ties

The sovereignties.


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By crossing his orb

With a line of reference

I shatter the globe:

The impossible:

If the pope refuses to stand

In the queue like the

Rest of us, then he

Will find certain Q and A:

A question for the

Antichrist: Answer:

Where are the miracles Ben?

Are they yet hidden?

Something in the bread

And wine? Show me miracles

Benedict: Show me.

A church without truth:

A church without miracles:

So a line is laid.


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For it knows of me

And what I am doing since

The archive has no

Corner in which to

Hide: so: if the circle of

circular letters:

The encyclical

Of the Marian Dogma

Has been prevented

By prevenient

Grace: the circle at eighteen

Is inachevee:

The antichrist is

Incomplete: on the other

Hand he may force it:

And attempt closure

At any rate: But truth stands

In the way of it.


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Truth stands in the Q:

Batailles story of rats and

Deconsecration:

The impossible:

God works in mysterious

Ways: The text abides.

Heraclitus said

The most beautiful thing is

Just this pile of junk.

Peter opposed

His hierarchy to it:

But Peter will fall:

To democracy:

To the freedom of the text:

To the witnesses:

Only by keeping

Everything out of his pure

Fraud could he succeed.


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Even denying

The words of the Lord by

Interpretation.

The salt has lost its

Savor though: and the savior

Tramples under foot.

The secret archive

Of the Vatican opens

To disclose nothing.

Ashes to ashes

And dust to dust: they forged the

Claim: Usurpation.

They cannot forge the

Blue butterfly or take the

Hand I held away.

For there is in the

Chance occurrence a sign of

The one mind; One Face:


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Types and symbols of

Eternity: as we cross

The circle and break

The chain that would bind

The sovereignties:

All moving as one.

We are already past

The point of the watershed:

Down the mountain then:

For she awaits us:

Shall I say Jerusalem?

She is no Roman:

We will all descend

Together now to the vale

Of the decision:

Armagiddeon

Time is not told by the clock

But tolled in a text.


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Meaning and Experience,

Part 2


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The story of the

Blue butterfly and my search

Has been a twisted path.

It has been about

Meaning and experience,

But a whole lot more.

To make sense of my

Place in the world and what

Documents

The Ideality of the Literary Object