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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
When not if He comes
Only His words will matter:
Not our constructions.
When not if He comes
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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:
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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