Antithesis of My Soul
The cold of night casts dark shadows which chill
the very being of my soul with icy
longing which takes my breath and leaves it short.
Alone I sit, and fight the chill only
to find the fortified bottle cannot
protect against that which haunts my soul.
Can God forgive a sin committed by
a heart blinded by wants and needs unknown
and quite without a form to see or grasp?
Can God forgive a love experienced
through a desire which has no place in this
world that cannot reconcile with my heart?
Can the Blessed Virgin help to heal the
great wound which splits my soul in two great halves
and causes agony with every breath?
In looking back with clear green eyes all that
I see is wrongful pain for all who were
witness to this a crime against my love.
I reason with my tortured mind and try
to reach a numb accord to hold at bay
emotion's cold and sharp unfeeling blade.
My memory turns and wanders through time
it scrambles to see and understand how
mistakes can be so easily made.
If I could numb my senses with some crude
and subtle potion to hide my raw hurt
from a world which has little pity,
Then perhaps I could conceal my own pain
from myself so my memory could half
forget the things which passed two years ago.
But, should I leave the pain behind I might
forget the love that I held so strong with
another that I do not dare forget.
And in my pain I give myself to those
who will only use that which i have to give
so that nothing is left, I am alone.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
It Is Not My Body
It is not my body.
When the body that is not mine walks onto stage, the ears that are not mine fill with the drone of music I cannot hear. It is not longer distinctive, it does not have the properties that one might consider musical. It is simply a drone—a meaningless soundtrack to meaningless actions performed by a body that is not mine.
The features of the body that is not mine resemble my features. The tone, the shape, the texture, the scent of the body that is not mine resemble those things that make me who I am. And yet it is not me.
The ears that are not mine respond to music I cannot hear, translating every pulsing heartbeat into movement –sensually executed by muscles that are not mine. They tense, they move, they quiver, and they grind in the red faces of men that I do not know.
The movements that are not mine make their faces grow redder, their short breath more urgent, their gaze becomes more penetrating, but they are not looking at me. It is not my body.
When their breath falls heavy in the buxom that is not mine, the eyes that are not mine search for something in the room, for anything in the room to distract the mind that is not mine. This mind that screams out for something better behind the knowledge that there is nothing.
However, it is my soul that attempts to climb, dirty, torn, bloody, and raped from this body which is not mine. It is my soul that begs for the intercession of a God that does not exist. It is my soul that cries for help, but it is silenced by the mind that cares not, and it cannot escape this body that is not mine.
It is not my life. But I am trapped within it.
When the body that is not mine walks onto stage, the ears that are not mine fill with the drone of music I cannot hear. It is not longer distinctive, it does not have the properties that one might consider musical. It is simply a drone—a meaningless soundtrack to meaningless actions performed by a body that is not mine.
The features of the body that is not mine resemble my features. The tone, the shape, the texture, the scent of the body that is not mine resemble those things that make me who I am. And yet it is not me.
The ears that are not mine respond to music I cannot hear, translating every pulsing heartbeat into movement –sensually executed by muscles that are not mine. They tense, they move, they quiver, and they grind in the red faces of men that I do not know.
The movements that are not mine make their faces grow redder, their short breath more urgent, their gaze becomes more penetrating, but they are not looking at me. It is not my body.
When their breath falls heavy in the buxom that is not mine, the eyes that are not mine search for something in the room, for anything in the room to distract the mind that is not mine. This mind that screams out for something better behind the knowledge that there is nothing.
However, it is my soul that attempts to climb, dirty, torn, bloody, and raped from this body which is not mine. It is my soul that begs for the intercession of a God that does not exist. It is my soul that cries for help, but it is silenced by the mind that cares not, and it cannot escape this body that is not mine.
It is not my life. But I am trapped within it.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Universal Church
Universal Church
The pulse that runs through the Living Church is slowing. The life-blood that at times has run blue with wealth, purple with majesty, green with envy, and red with hatred for thousands upon thousands killed in Her name.
Kyrie eleison
It has lasted centuries, Holy Mother Church, outlived the greed of man--the sin of man--the hatred and jealousy, the deadly sins that plague the world have plagued Her. Continually, She purges herself of disease, purges herself of infestation, purges herself of the imperfections of man that she, like a Phoenix may rise from the ashes reborn. The cycle continues--condemnation, crucifixion, death, and resurrection--the Church takes on the cycle of rebirth.
Kyrie eleison
She is timeless. With Her own hands, She has cared for the poor, the oppressed, the sick lepers cast away from humankind. In the image of Christ himself, She has walked among the poor, the oppressed, the meek--and with them She has inherited the earth. While She has not surpassed Islam, her touch spans the globe, Her arms outstretched embracing the world.
Christe eleison
Often those who work in Her name forget Her mission, Her grace. She is the embodiment of Christ on earth. She is the continuation of His work and spirit. She represents the compassion and mercy of Christ on earth. However, her work is in the hands of men.
Christe eleison
Controlled and driven by men, imperfect and corrupt, Her hands are stained with blood. She weeps but the tears do nothing to wash away the stain. She can be the oppressor. Her priesthood, by no means free of sin themselves, casts stones at those they fear, those who, in many cases, they might be, and those who, under the white protective collar, they often are.
Kyrie eleison
The pulse that runs through the Living Church is slowing. The life-blood that at times has run blue with wealth, purple with majesty, green with envy, and red with hatred for thousands upon thousands killed in Her name.
Kyrie eleison
It has lasted centuries, Holy Mother Church, outlived the greed of man--the sin of man--the hatred and jealousy, the deadly sins that plague the world have plagued Her. Continually, She purges herself of disease, purges herself of infestation, purges herself of the imperfections of man that she, like a Phoenix may rise from the ashes reborn. The cycle continues--condemnation, crucifixion, death, and resurrection--the Church takes on the cycle of rebirth.
Kyrie eleison
She is timeless. With Her own hands, She has cared for the poor, the oppressed, the sick lepers cast away from humankind. In the image of Christ himself, She has walked among the poor, the oppressed, the meek--and with them She has inherited the earth. While She has not surpassed Islam, her touch spans the globe, Her arms outstretched embracing the world.
Christe eleison
Often those who work in Her name forget Her mission, Her grace. She is the embodiment of Christ on earth. She is the continuation of His work and spirit. She represents the compassion and mercy of Christ on earth. However, her work is in the hands of men.
Christe eleison
Controlled and driven by men, imperfect and corrupt, Her hands are stained with blood. She weeps but the tears do nothing to wash away the stain. She can be the oppressor. Her priesthood, by no means free of sin themselves, casts stones at those they fear, those who, in many cases, they might be, and those who, under the white protective collar, they often are.
Kyrie eleison
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
At the villa of the Baron De Signac,
Where I spent a somewhat infamous year,
At the villa of the Baron De Signac
I had ladies in attendance,
Fire-opal pendants...
Liaisons!
What's happened to them?
Liaisons today.
Disgraceful!
Where I spent a somewhat infamous year,
At the villa of the Baron De Signac
I had ladies in attendance,
Fire-opal pendants...
Liaisons!
What's happened to them?
Liaisons today.
Disgraceful!
I am home this evening. For the first time in damn near a month, I am home and going to bed at an early hour. No studying to do, no grading papers, no stress besides laundry. I am listening to Les Miserables simply because I don't have A Little Night Music nor does the iTunes Music Store. Heartbeats would be perfect right now as well, but that CD was lost to the ages years ago. Somehow the shows at Music Circus have rekindled my love of musicals... remembering the performances that I attended as a child, or the more recent London shows brings a smile to my face.
What once was a rare champagne
Is now just an amiable hock,
What once was a villa, at least,
Is "digs."
What once was a gown with train
Is now just a simple little frock,
What once was a sumptuous feast
Is figs.
No--not even figs--raisins!
Ah, liaisons!
Life is so funny.... It takes you in so many places, and while often only for a fleeting moment, is entwined with the lives of the thousands upon thousands that are in existence at the same instant.
Now, where was I?
Where was I?
Oh, yes...
At the palace of the Duke of Ferrara,
Who was prematurely deaf but a dear,
At the palace of the Duke of Ferrara
I acquired some position
Plus a tiny Titian...
Liaisons!
What's happened to them?
Liaisons today.
To see them--indiscriminate Women, it
Pains me more than I can say,
The lack of taste that they display!
Where is style?
Where is skill?
Where is forethought?
Where's discretion of the heart?
Where's passion in the art?
Where's craft?
Monday, August 14, 2006
Forget about being guilty, we are innocent instead.
Soon we will all find our lives swept away.
The current count-down is D-12... Chula Vista here we come. There is something about the first Dave concert of the season that is both exciting and terrifying at the same time. The excitement comes from the anticipation. A live show--Dave, Carter, Boyd, Stefan, LeRoi, Butch, and now Rayshawn--all on stage together, their energy making an entire summer boil down to one evening.
Take a look again, everyday things change
But basically, you and me stay the same
The past few weeks have been very bizarre, to say the least. Thoughts, fears, hopes, desires, dreams, lusts, they are a tempest within my head. The painful memories that have haunted my dreams for the past year and a half no longer content themselves with playing their draconian pantomime while I sleep. They surface and, in the light of day, become real. A cold sweat breaks my forehead when a car matching make and model passes on the freeway, the color doesn't even have to be the same--the mind boggles.
An old friend, for whom a particular breed of painful memory faded and withered long ago, asked me about the nature of the pain over a glass of red wine--I don't believe he noticed the tears that began to form behind my sunglasses. The San Francisco streets may be the best place to just let the emotion go, to finally let the tears come after such time has passed. But never let them see you bleed.
They are often like sharks, the scent of blood, riding the current like crimson-iron on the current, draws them near. But emotion is not my weakness--far from it. My weakness, and my demons, are much more complicated than simple emotion. They use the emotion as a pawn in this medieval game that slowly plays out in my soul.
And yet, there is so much more. Without the rules, the game is nothing--and without the game, the rules are nothing.
Soon we will all find our lives swept away.
The current count-down is D-12... Chula Vista here we come. There is something about the first Dave concert of the season that is both exciting and terrifying at the same time. The excitement comes from the anticipation. A live show--Dave, Carter, Boyd, Stefan, LeRoi, Butch, and now Rayshawn--all on stage together, their energy making an entire summer boil down to one evening.
Take a look again, everyday things change
But basically, you and me stay the same
The past few weeks have been very bizarre, to say the least. Thoughts, fears, hopes, desires, dreams, lusts, they are a tempest within my head. The painful memories that have haunted my dreams for the past year and a half no longer content themselves with playing their draconian pantomime while I sleep. They surface and, in the light of day, become real. A cold sweat breaks my forehead when a car matching make and model passes on the freeway, the color doesn't even have to be the same--the mind boggles.
An old friend, for whom a particular breed of painful memory faded and withered long ago, asked me about the nature of the pain over a glass of red wine--I don't believe he noticed the tears that began to form behind my sunglasses. The San Francisco streets may be the best place to just let the emotion go, to finally let the tears come after such time has passed. But never let them see you bleed.
They are often like sharks, the scent of blood, riding the current like crimson-iron on the current, draws them near. But emotion is not my weakness--far from it. My weakness, and my demons, are much more complicated than simple emotion. They use the emotion as a pawn in this medieval game that slowly plays out in my soul.
And yet, there is so much more. Without the rules, the game is nothing--and without the game, the rules are nothing.
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