involuntary mulling: going back to go forward.

Let it be said and understood in the heaviest sense of these words (while avoiding the often ignorant-outsider-condition of perceiving the weight of words required in attempting to communicate in a moment Life altering experiences which took place over a span of time as exaggerated) that, since last I wrote prose here, I've painfully and peacefully and wrenchingly experienced death and Life beyond me; beyond what I thought I ever wanted, beyond my imagination, and beyond every ounce of self within me. And I am Grateful; although it has broken me and my world and, by the grace of God, transformed me by the renewing of this mind.

Having been at a loss for words for some time now, aside from poetry--abstract, fragmentary and vague-- which, Interestingly enough, I never wrote before, I feel a need to explore a different sort of abstract, fragmentary and vague expression. Mulling over and a laying out of sorts of my translations past and other's expressions I have been a translation of. In short, I mean to post what's on my mind as I am mulling and contemplating, pieces of thought and inspiration in a sort of free-write streamofconscience manner; less inhibited by my fears and criticisms while still being intentional.
I am God gathering the pieces to put something new and old together; a work in progress; a translation being translated, and this is my attempt to translate what's going on inside me.

End The University As We Know It (first post in a series concerning needed creative rethinking ideological structures in our society)

End the University as We Know It - Mark C. Taylor - New York Times

please forgive me

why are things this way?
in all this excess I can't access
to feel
real
on the eve of your twelfth year
which
unbeknownst to we
you've worked half of it for me
to give all I have and can't feel
because it's all you can do
to continue to breathe and feed
your six-month-old beautiful hope
from a drunkards seed

now thinning now crying
now I discontentedly whine
bored with my pillows and walls
the earnings of my success
are a hate crime
rightful by law
so how is that my call?

How many lives make up my aesthetic numb ignorance?
what good is this and that and those
over there and these I can't see
are the wall paper and seat
where I sit and don't know exist
I'll choose what will be
and breathe
in my little reality
the best I can do is drink coffee and wine
while I contemplate my life's woes and tragedies
failing to pinpoint a time when I was sure of anything
or what I am breathing

the malfunctioning AC
has train wrecked my dreaming
and awoken me enough to glimpse
the life you've lived at the expense
of my material cinema sleep
is in that moment more real
than wherever I've been can ever be

and In my understanding I am too ashamed to weep
or ask forgive me
considering the easy justice of suicidal sleep
feeling the weighty judgment of naive privilege
in the moment I think I wouldn't wish this luxury on anyone
and ponder a "vow of poverty"
now this one thing I know
that in your pain-- poetically by my hand--
you and your family
are happier than I will ever be.

now leave me be.

Church with Crist

Today church was with Crists' blog, with Dennen's prophetic song gone unheard, reality's interrupting way, black coffee's bitter resting grounding, balanced with purified water with half lemon, Weather's religious practice of rejecting God, The Cold and heartless whore that is Mrs. Butterworth, and my own fist; my chest and my broken kite.

Here is my attempt.

to be right

about this world's shameful ignoring

of their neighbor

being stranger

and the communion of self plight

Checkbook clouded sight keeps them

from counting his visible ribs beneath breathing skin

or veiled lover Jerusalem dying

in brown skin fighting

bombing precisely

wrong place wrong timing

Shock and awe not so surprising

another day of bleeding for not fighting

playing with grenades called "aid"

this blown away face never existed in your statistics anyway.

gas a dime less

a strange way of counting success

something they've come to expect.

so I avoid your bank blinding

of the dead child at our table

soldiers killed on cable

and feudal fitting of comfort to living dying

in a way only done in the Christian sort of lying

and redefined submission remarkably reminiscent

of self sufficient.

This way good news is what you make it to your own pious existence

and applicants of words regarding the "blessed poor" refer to--trail off in some unconsidered utterance about their treasure being in heaven and the need for more AK 47's...

in an effort to (avoid) understanding Christs' death we spend our money sending others to theirs and writing checks, for a fraction of what's left, to those who made it through the salvation genocide.

This is my effort, to avoid more death,

to be righteous; I attempt. My attempt.

I have sent myself floating an angry striving existing;

to do something. change something. do nothing.

toward empty failed betterment is my blind defeat.

I beat and beat this chest in agony

harmonizing with all created things in beat and scream

our death is a heralding symphony

in final breath and broken ceasing

I feel Peace spreading; divinity willing.

not in speech or listen

both requiring the independent striving me,

this being blends to Being, I AM breaths.

This world is dark

Cold reproaching

Light.

How far you are from me In reflection

Infancy distant empty reaching

Through reality momentarily

Unneeded appealing

How precious Your resurrection.

How tiresome and tearing.

My body submits every longing

Running

Chilling

My mouth watering

Rest me.

What merciful numbing beauty.

In clouded ink character

In the sounding strings and leaves

Tones of light blindly revealing

Where you have been,

Gone just

And early am I

Not yet and some how when I cry.

Smile, forgetting smile.

Your lonely breath I breathe

Pieces

timely

broken not yet complete

timing

Amphetamine

The taste sets in

Burning

Turning

The sound flows in voice

Distracting noise

Soft nearness

Dark tight eyes fools loneliness

These colors, foreshadow curtain

Something never happened.

Dying life mute proclamation

just since breathing the stranger drags

still and stiff begins the digging

Regardless of later or never again

Still remembering Kitchen floor drugs.

I scream

See

Approaching

and mothers wailing.

explain to me

this and that

Maybe merciful mad sleeping

Wakeful dreaming Is hopeful forgetting

refining spirits fire

crack pipe flame burning just a little brighter.

Once remember

Trying trying

My mouth is drying

So many dead

Died living dying.

Season brings

memory will

these vivid illusions be

when

When what

naive victory

pointed to nothing.

Merciful stealing thoughts stealing.

Painful fair foul hear

Anguish healing.

Broken apathetic fear submitting.

These muted full.

Beautiful nameless breathing

Familiar rising.

And the billowing shrouds
of weighted, aged clouds,
from frustrated perspective first,
offered beyond its tearful pains
scene,
virgin light and ancient color due dance,
can only dream or faith
fashion origin,
to Irish lullaby
orphan "bastard",
look,
breath,
in the moaning current
of all history's whore,
former lines exceed repeat.

On Unassuming Bluffs infinite Mosaic of Colors Trinity,
Dance on,
On,
on Prancer, promenade
on my freed Sea of the Broken stained See
saunterly break Leaves
I lay
Whisper Breathe
Create
Symphony in Saffron Beams translucent Satin Keys
through Willowing Living Doors Dead
Entreat,
not while Aye Him but She
be Thou
yet less or more moreover This and Thee,
none ever cease, did
Thebes or These,
only Form
varied likeness
still fully given former He,
what matter Seems
our Senses Magically
Uniquely Am Antiquity
Still Are Presently
differ none Gracefully, of in Portrait find
Maestro
Painter
Bee
equally,
on Rhythmic Feet We likewise conversely Me