Now swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned,
    Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring;
And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank’d, and crown’d,
    A wild and giddy thing,
And Health robust, from every care unbound,
    Come on the zephyr’s wing,
      And cheer the toiling clown.

  Happy as holiday-enjoying face,
    Loud tongued, and “merry as a marriage bell,”
Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place;
    And where the troubled dwell,
Thy witching charms wean them of half their cares;
    And from thy sunny spell,
      They greet joy unawares.

  Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude,
    And mantle laced with gems of garish light,
Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude,
    And in the world’s despite,
Share the rude wealth that thy own heart beguiles;
    If haply so I might
      Win pleasure from thy smiles.

  Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers,
    In nightly revels or in city streets;
But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears,
    That one at leisure meets
In the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn,
    Or fields, where bee-fly greets
      The ear with mellow horn.

  The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe,
    Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks;
There bees go courting every flower that’s ripe,
    On baulks and sunny banks;
And droning dragon-fly, on rude bassoon,
    Attempts to give God thanks
      In no discordant tune.

  The speckled thrush, by self-delight embued,
    There sings unto himself for joy’s amends,
And drinks the honey dew of solitude.
    There Happiness attends
With ****** Joy until the heart o’erflow,
    Of which the world’s rude friends,
      Nought heeding, nothing know.

  There the gay river, laughing as it goes,
    Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides,
And to the calm of heart, in calmness shows
    What pleasure there abides,
To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free:
    Spots Solitude provides
      To muse, and happy be.

  There ruminating ’neath some pleasant bush,
    On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease,
Where I can pillow on the yielding rush;
    And, acting as I please,
Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie,
    Mark the wind-shaken trees,
      And cloud-betravelled sky.

  There think me how some barter joy for care,
    And waste life’s summer-health in riot rude,
Of nature, nor of nature’s sweets aware.
    When passions vain intrude,
These, by calm musings, softened are and still;
    And the heart’s better mood
      Feels sick of doing ill.

  There I can live, and at my leisure seek
    Joys far from cold restraints—not fearing pride—
Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek
    Rude health, so long denied.
Here poor Integrity can sit at ease,
    And list self-satisfied
      The song of honey-bees.

  The green lane now I traverse, where it goes
    Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies
Rude batter’d finger post, that stooping shows
    Where the snug mystery lies;
And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,
    Cheers up the short surprise,
      And shows a peeping town.

  I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn
    Of beauty, feeding on joy’s luscious hours;
The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn,
    Agape for honey showers;
And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew
    Of morning’s early hours,
      Like gold yminted new.

  And mark by rustic bridge, o’er shallow stream,
    Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled,
Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream;
    Who now, in gestures wild,
Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall,
    Feeling self-gratified,
      Nor fearing human thrall.

  Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams,
    Or forests rude, and the o’ershadow’d brims
Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams,
    Stretching his listless limbs;
Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long,
    Where joy’s wild impulse swims
      In one continued song.

  I love at early morn, from new mown swath,
    To see the startled frog his route pursue;
To mark while, leaping o’er the dripping path,
    His bright sides scatter dew,
The early lark that from its bustle flies,
    To hail his matin new;
      And watch him to the skies.

  To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent,
    The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn,
With earnest heed, and tremulous intent,
    Frail brother of the morn,
That from the tiny bent’s dew-misted leaves
    Withdraws his timid horn,
      And fearful vision weaves.

  Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top,
    Wont to be first unsealing Morning’s eye,
Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop
    Of honey on his thigh;
To see him seek morn’s airy couch to sing,
    Until the golden sky
      Bepaint his russet wing.

  Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy,
    With clapping noise to startle birds away,
And hear him bawl to every passer by
    To know the hour of day;
While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong,
    With waking blossoms play,
      And breathe Æolian song.

  I love the south-west wind, or low or loud,
    And not the less when sudden drops of rain
Moisten my glowing cheek from ebon cloud,
    Threatening soft showers again,
That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds,
    Summer’s sweet breath unchain,
      And wake harmonious sounds.

  Rich music breathes in Summer’s every sound;
    And in her harmony of varied greens,
Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around
    Much beauty intervenes,
Filling with harmony the ear and eye;
    While o’er the mingling scenes
      Far spreads the laughing sky.

  See, how the wind-enamoured aspen leaves
    Turn up their silver lining to the sun!
And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceives,
    And makes the sheep-boy run:
The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers,
    He thinks the rain’s begun,
      And hastes to sheltering bowers.

  But now the evening curdles dank and grey,
    Changing her watchet hue for sombre ****;
And moping owls, to close the lids of day,
    On drowsy wing proceed;
While chickering crickets, tremulous and long,
    Light’s farewell inly heed,
      And give it parting song.

  The pranking bat its flighty circlet makes;
    The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew;
O’er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakes
    Inquiries ever new,
Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain,
    As wanting to pursue
      His homeward path again.

  Hark! ’tis the melody of distant bells
    That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds
By fitful starts, then musically swells
    O’er the dim stilly grounds;
While on the meadow-bridge the pausing boy
    Listens the mellow sounds,
      And hums in vacant joy.

  Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round
    His evening ******, and with every stride
His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound,
    Till silly sheep beside
His path start tremulous, and once again
    Look back dissatisfied,
      And scour the dewy plain.

  How sweet the soothing calmness that distills
    O’er the heart’s every sense its ****** dews,
In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills!
    That softens and subdues,
With gentle Quiet’s bland and sober train,
    Which dreamy eve renews
      In many a mellow strain!

  I love to walk the fields, they are to me
    A legacy no evil can destroy;
They, like a spell, set every rapture free
    That cheer’d me when a boy.
Play—pastime—all Time’s blotting pen conceal’d,
    Comes like a new-born joy,
      To greet me in the field.

  For Nature’s objects ever harmonize
    With emulous Taste, that ****** deed annoys;
Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize,
    And meet vibrating joys
O’er Nature’s pleasing things; nor slighting, deems
    Pastimes, the Muse employs,
      Vain and obtrusive themes.

National mindsets self interested suffer
forms of dementia as the order all confessed,
demands of each a concentration of self worth,
you bet your soul, but only in the spirit,
step into the fray, say, let me lead you,
say let me take elected office,
democratic to the edges, being your voice
in a popularity contest, not an intellectual joust.
Tutelary deontology 101.
Governing is managing the labor. Ask the king.
Any flock in the system, governs itself.
Business is business.
Some arrangements are always secret. All
grown ups are in the business of war supplies.
Let your children's minds be at ease.
Trust the checks and balances history proves,
have never worked on balance, for the poor.
Get rich quick as one can imagine, on a bet.
War meets Peace, like it is the storm
that left Greenland, a legend until now.

Easily intreated innocense, who could know.
Prosaic first morning pizz to prime the pump.

How deep is the generational debt due to war?
How many bonds have been sold to pay interest?
How many times has the national debt ceiling failed?
You know.
Every time.
"Each major conflict in U.S. history
has been accompanied
by a sharp rise
in debt as the government raises funds
to pay for the fighting."

But laws do exist…
"Without a declaration of war
to put the country on a wartime economy,
Congress paid for Vietnam
by increasing the national debt.
Over the course of the conflict,
America's debt nearly doubled, growing
from approximately $317 billion in 1965
to $620 billion in 1976."

Now the debt is rising
on interest alone. No need for another war.

And America's trade balance is hinged,
on the point of war.
The ideal centermost irritant, war's hate pump,
pain expanded by generational trespass acts
likened unto the pea
under the stack of feathered beds,
or the bit of grit forcing oyster stress
that has made the misshapen pearl sold
to sovreign entities, those colors on the map,
these mental aggregations called nations,
by nationalist mind frame riveters,
foundational eye beams, remove before demoting,
ah, slow, riveted beams spanning ferro-concrete tech- think.
Building a reasoning trap, children,
ask your fathers to whom we owe our national debt.
Ask also who sells the weapons to the world at war.
Semper fi,
no offence, but… holy hate is as crazy as hungry hate.

A voice from a song, from nowhere,
you just could rethink, or did, that first time think
a bridge over troubled waters being a truly old good idea,
come to rescue you,

in the early days of Boomer parenthood… being grown ups,
we never missed a Disney Movie, though by then,
they were losing the gnostalgia, old knowns to be like so,
were no longer even imaginably so.
Old Yeller,
Childhood's end, the separation
from hearth felt comfort,
to the class rooms and hallways
of massive cold concrete schools… where on day one,
the child pledges with its cohort of coeducatables,
the ancient bond of aliegiance...
I pledged mine first in 1954, the year "under God" was added.

In the just now settling down towns along the great freeways,
there has been no peace on earth in my generation,
at the level of military minds in conflict caused by stories,
boys bred with old hates just waiting for a sigh-psignal
sci-revealed to those willing to become Jason Bourne,
to the best of your abilities, ring the bell, any time.  

Welcome to the front. Sanity is on the line.
There is no conspiracy, we sell our souls for what money
can be demonstratively proven to allow and even augment.

War is all we sell. There is another game, it's a liar's game.
Many famous authorities have filled the space at the table.

Take your hat off, Bartholowmew, she does not understand you.

------------
Daily communication with myself,
one person, with no power to use
save the early cultural confidence;
sworn to tell the whole truth,
so help me, God. Yes, your honor.

Except we reactivate the curious why,
functionally suppressed during the standard
test taking by the proximate others
diligently filling in the blanks,
with graphite rounded just right, one swipe.

Except we see that hanging senselessly realized.
Each problem, one answer, not one option.
Only select correct answer.
Tell the child learning the pledge,
God is on our side, emphasize
how exceptional those who know so are,
extremely discriminatingly,
arranging the economy around
the great decussation at the air gap,
at the back of our national neck.

In this time,
thoughts and prayers, we hear
spoken of as easily done,
almost without thoughts, who
responds?, who, has ever responded
to the said to be going out constantly
thoughts and prayers, asking truth
to intervene and call the liars liars?

God is not angry, nor without resources,
according to the cultures now at war--
¿
Whose mortgage was not paid with earnings
from war readiness industrial complexes?

Whose talent was left with the userers,
because the Bible says y'sposed to earn interest?

Whose 401K deflated to oops?

Business begins with informed agreements.
Let's make a deal.
No killing, stealing nor needless destruction.

Minds join eye to eye, one mindwise agreed,
we become an entity, a being essential
to the parts, a mind in harmony, rank and file.

Greedy men with no agreement. Hmm, who loses?

Line up, not by rank, single file, fall in,
first and following, get in on the end,
and wait for the circle to close,
re done dances, life going wild as
we celebrate our circle, we sing of it
being unbroken in the sweet by and by…

The land of those who talk back to El,
yes, yes, we do, to honor Iyobe,
who first called for the Daysman,
who first
told reality, with all it's evil potential,
you cannot not be true, you know, in form
as spirit and truth containable in words, logos,
logos of all o-logies,
so powerful as to allow, in fact, cause, new mindforms,
species of thoughts that function as a system to make
sense, discernible, bits of valuation determinable in agreement.
--------------
Contractual obligations religiously adhered to
just between us, we take advantage for the nation's sake.
Madrassahs and aliegiance pledges set habits hard to break.

Set the cost of goods, lower than replacement cost of the price.
What does it cost a state to rear a warrior class individual
that self replenishes?

What does it cost me to scatter confusion in profuse create-ifity?
So, add a proper tip,
and pay the cost to ride this line to the next re-entering angle.
Middle east,
cauldron of all the holy empires thus far into the age
of entertainment so vast,
wise men can imagine, some day
there will be a war, and no parents will have
offered children to the infantry or made
righteous indignation acceptable national pride to k-ill for.

There Hamas, holy brainwashed haters of hatefulness.
Repents and perishes the very thought of peace.
Repay in kind, here, swear undying obediance,
fear not death, this is Allah's Promise, die killing Jews,
turns on the monstrous virgins awaiting you…
in post mortal walled places,
where the oldest civilizations occurred,
as God's great idea, I'll
empty the center of me, and seep
back in through fractured rationality
along trade routes between Africa and
the forested north above the desert.

Me, there, in mental efforting, thinking
thoughts, not prayers, but wishes, hopes,
thoughts that prayers attach to, as evidence.

"Ask and ye shall receive."
Love those who call you enemy, can you?

Face me, Mr. Nobody, the essence of other,
I declare peace, where none is, and you laugh.

No ritual, no enchantments with promise,
no sacred making of secular deaths, just
just just adjust the justice aspect, blame
the holy haters whose God dispenses vengeance,
at the behest of warriors fitted with military minds.

As when holy Americans gather to offer military aid,
blessed by the congregations alerted to intercede,
on the side that denies Jesus was God,--- ah, both sides,
in this case…
whither turn we, do we face Mecca, or Jerusalem,
or Petra or … Sol or Luna, all our enculturated faith,

blinks, a lense clarifying effort, rub the crust
of sleep fallen into while mourning, unsealing eyes
to see again, a war between two national identities,
both with warrior glory emulation traditions,
one with money as first de-fence, the other with hate,
nothing less than pure hatred, Cain to Able, sorry bro.

Old mean spirits.
If the hate can live in any man, wombed or un, it will.

Willingness to hate enough to k-ill a stranger, will
manifest as holy terror… enough to make Jesus weep.

--- and those were a few of the local thoughts made prayer,
seemingly automatically, as mysterious as most final secrets.

Part three, deeper, faster, harder… or not

Doings in the dark, are done by feel.
One, you or I, or some other sapien
augmented with the messiah's mind, feels the need for the deed.
Take the message from Garcia.

Mystic experience in story realms,
holding all the visions taken raw,
as revealed… as when a curtained
entry way is opened for inspection,

are we ideas in bodies?
are all ideas spirit in form?

Inhale an intuited absence of evil,
breathe the air of answered prayer.

Imagine that, let fly the idea of you,
beloved individuated potential saint.

Here is your sentimental inner edge,
your gnosis pressed flat as you see in.

The edge of this bubble, is distant
only to the holy cloaked in asceticism,
twisting wicks
for someday light in someday night,
circulate one way then the other,
rethinking perfected emptiness,
there are no others, up or down,
to and fro, vectors tie targeted states,
spider kites form single ray classic webbing,
slim banner, a flag unraveled long since.

Follow me, I say to me, follow me,
I say to you, saying back, I am not you.

My option.
Turn on, sit back and watch,
evolving cave wall interesting hooks,

look around, nothing interesting, eh?
Television as imagined by petrified apes,
during peak-info preservation history,
when men like Franklin and Voltaire,
met to share secret meanings of things.

Previous to any whole story
that remains, as when any mind mistakes
tzimtzum inside as first occurrence,

total emptiness, pre space, one time
this instant accepted as audience

in true gaseous we form, auto informing
the vegetable phaze passed eons ago, life
tells tales too esoteric for novices
to notice, in the ideal state, active
imagining, as with a child's mind, yours
since ever was, so far as you may wish
to remember,
a time when the state was deemed
comforting and beauty filled, chaotic
process of floating lipids, in form of air,
light has not dawned on us, we are
night scene setters of settings, nodes
of potential anything you can imagine,

level with me, even, straight, right… yes it
is the optional meandering mind engine,
an idol, or a daimon, madness of sorted
degrees, a little bit off the charts, sorted
out.
Not in, the bubble being becomes,
when one emerges in a self…

subtle is good, right, we agree?
Jesus, before Christianity, as a kid,
instructed with his cousin John,
likely by his temple servant uncle.

That can be imagined, projected
on the outerwall
of this bubble we be in.
At the moment,
on an Earth wired

for sound, elephants agreeing to meet,
to follow the pilgrimage, pilgrim beings
activated by stark necessity successful
to this degree…

by the reader's time's
at tension, pull
release
snap back, at what ifery, at once, push

most bottom centered point once sitting
in raw time thought processing, in
and out, efforting
- slightly off, not fully on
uncomfortable impression of holy
you better get better or else. Holy

blank slate, bubble pop, soft wow

Now, we're in the swirl, in the spin
toward, froward lips sealed, golden
silence,
subtler than any beast, creature,
living thing in the ruliad, am I? No.

BUT, you know, those penance prayers,
given you as a child, enchantments,
as with all your renouncements of evil
and pledges under God, in your child mind.

Look. To your own self, be true.
You still have private interpretation access
to your child mind.

If you put your worried mind to work
on some thought too deep to ponder then,

The idea of punishment by the Creator
of all that is not God, but was deemed good,
by God, because I said so, said the father,
in the child mind.

To know good and evil knowledge,
that talent, initial mark on our blank slate,
to know, not what you know, but ask
your child mind, how does it feel,

flat on your back gasping as others laugh,
and your child mind blooms an entire eon
- just to catch a breath takes for ever
and there were others, the whole family
of mankind of your kind, to your child mind,
stood laughing at your attempt to perform

a first flight, from an edged bet with an
I think I can virus perpetuated in ever after,

since mind made time make sense in chaos.
Instantly, things start to take shapes, in mind.
Non sense. Since. Processing time. Go.
Instants out of mind, in atari.
Fog of unknowns. I used to play the game.
Not really, only, one off thought forms,
cloudlike in symmetry, no clear tongue
and groove, fitting our pro-posed… pose

supposed, to listen and while listening,
learn the use of any knowing, can be
taken as granted possibility by your self.
- distant sound of light sabers actuation
Your blame and shame catcher, out front,
as we steam ahead across the gap,
thoughts made prayers must leap.

Keep your eyes on the prize, three
walnuts and a split pea with a hair, fine
infant hair, see it there, your old minds eye.

The unveiling of an artifice, an angle
greater than straight, from this point…
a re-entrant angle, like a point, banked shot.

in

Forgetting to be careful.
The most reckless thing I've done.
Forgetting to have mercy.
On this heart of stone.
You smashed right through the surface,
Unsealing all the cracks.
This heartache, like no other.
When are you coming back?

In bed
     The ocean
Like an aged boat, bobbing
Restful
Below the nights undulating
     Consciousness

Pillow waves
       Under ceiling skies
The shadowy smoke nods
     Silent
Unsealing the eyes

The rustling sea, rocking
Against its warm body
     Gentle
As the ever revolving tide

Boney ores
     Heavy and sunken
Swill at the vast inky ocean

Opiated and endless – Dream
Of one day sailing; leaving

This dark malignant sea behind.

Happy with this life,
They feel a god's love embrace.
Whispers too low to hear,
Never to question anything.

And They are the Lucky Ones.

A Restless Mind:
A double-edged sword.
Cut the binding rope,
Inflict unsealing wounds
In your tender heart.

Writhe in the pew,
Boil under the Seams.
Why did I ask?

the mere bookend soon became the fury of beautiful beginning!

death so small when you
have the world in your lightsome hands.

the way your face crinkles
at the glare of a word's
furious light

and the way your eyes
widen anew like tapestries
and the bird of syllables
stills itself in
the woven shrub. unwrapping with utmost care is your mind's calloused hands, revealing a spar of darkness and light.
unsealing you is your yearning's
fingers, like autumn to snow's enveloped remnant.

oh how the world
sinks in its solitary axis.
oh how the comets intermingle
in orbit, greeting each other
with flamboyant punctuations back to loose fluidity
for us to drink and revel in.

what joy is the sight
of you, reading.
what bliss is the sight of
reading you, as bold as the word
is in sensuous print,
yet shy as a daffodil shivering
in the wind,
unheard of as a hurl of a voice
in the zenith,
trembling in your hands,

the word of the world.

When I'm anywhere close to you,
I can't seem to figure out what to do
Cuz after years of keeping my emotions sealed
I dont know how to feel

So as you reach out your hand and arm,
One that's been abused and brought to harm,
I'm lost in what I want to do
Cuz I feel something so strongly for you

But I don't know what I'm feeling,
I don't know what emotion you've been unsealing
And I want to get close to you, but I'm lost,
I want to understand, but I fear the cost

I dont think I could live without you,
But I dont know if my emotions are true.
Why am I so mentally ******, that I can't just see
That I think I do want you to be with me

Sticks and stones
may break my bones,
but you'll never
see me quiver,
when I wither.

Into the forest,
Red Ridinghood
sing your chorus,
the "Bad Wolf", allured,
becomes your victim secured.

Goosey, goosey, gander,
tied me to an anchor,
thrown down your stairs,
someone hear my prayers,
to survive the refiner's fire.

Old Mother Hubbard
throw me your bone,
no more of the unknown,
look at what we have sown,
dark and deary tones.

At the Mulberry bush
we'll go round and round,
hand in hand we're bound,
inflicting unsealing wounds,
we never belonged together.

Brethren of the ephemeral dust of the aboriginal and hidebound kingdoms rackrent and desolate parched by the inequity of the land and pilgrims of the firmament,
I speak to you not as a man crowned with mitre nor robed in purple nor exalted beyond the continent of sophrosyne reason,
but as one who has stared into the uncreated Eye of the Logos face-to-face and breathed the rejuvenation of the Lord to bequeath the New Jerusalem upon the crux of historical liturgy amplified by discernment and dignified by polity
and emerged blistered by beatitudes ineffable without extreme pataphysical contortion and prismatic conscience.
For I bring not a teaching, but a tectonic unsealing.

The hour has come—not of chronos, but of kairos—
that trembling moment between the breath and the Word,
between exile and enthronement.
The great forgetting must end. We belong to Father God and the least of his Kingdom will be remembered in their meekness to serve the divine throne just as the elect will willingly part with mammon in the revival of the Kingdom of God
Our greatest sins unveiled for all to see are that we have bartered theophany for algorithm,
exchanged Pentecost for performance,
and rendered the Eternal into something calculable, cultural, and cowardly.
But no more.

Let it be declared: Heaven remembers the eternal registry of good deeds and even those in purgatory warrant the liberation of the times incumbent upon us.

Chapter 2
O Earth! You have been lulled by the lullaby of liars.
Your prophets were poisoned.
Your poets crucified.
Your saints mocked and your sacraments buried beneath slogans.

But I have seen the scroll written before stars were lit—
a scroll sealed with seven seals of Silence,
now split by the roar of one whose voice rends time like cloth.
Behold the nations: intoxicated with their own novelty,
building towers of Babel with silicon tongues and algorithmic pride.
But lo! Their codes shall fragment.
Their wealth shall mildew.
For the Lord of Hosts shall not suffer His image to be coded
nor His Spirit to be simulated.

I speak now to kings and cardinals,
to dancers and digital architects:
God is the Alpha and the Omega and has already come and not just to this generation but through the architects of the culminated word and the dignified world—not in metaphor, but in majesty.
And His eyes are flame and bronzed in ironclad remembrance of the pogroms of the past and the deceit of the charlatans that choused the Earth of its principal aggiornamento out of self-interested futilitarianism and His voice is not negotiable to negotiosity alone but rather amenable to the piety of devotion bequeathed by the commission of Christ

Will you adopt the corrupt bezique folly of those that neglect magnality rather than worship the prudence of a discerning Church the suffrage of his groaning importunate pleas of rejuvenated unshackled liberation?
We shall not come cloaked in ritual alone, nor forget the penitence of the commission of the disciples betrayed by modernity
but in incomprehensible clarity that befuddles even the most elect but always exalts the orthodoxy of God to remain regnant in the hearts of the past by the Filius Temporis Reversi that bequeathed the symphony of Heaven to mere mortals to enlighten them against folly and magnify their altruism despite pettifoggery
Chapter 3
I see a world where dogma dances with wonder,
where sacraments heal psychiatric wounds,
and where the Eucharist is not a symbol,
but the supernova of Being.

I see artists prophesying with pigments,
scientists trembling before mystery,
and bishops no longer managing,
but magnifying.

The Church shall not merely survive.
She shall resurrect in gold, fire, and tongues the mystical remembrance of all the providence afforded to us by the abiding and eternal word of Father God forever the light of all nations and creeds to the pinnacle and zenith of kymatology becoming emblematic of intellectual revolution and spiritual rededication. May the Lord consecrate me in my longiniquity that I may become a bestower of longevity in Earth and in Heaven and an exaltation of all culminated deeds of fair repute and brazen audacity to the peremptory receipts of Heaven’s greatest champions fighting for universal salvation

Amen. Amen. Amen.

Dream is
the loveliness
of deep thoughts
I know naught
freeing themselves
from my unconsciousness,

lips unsealing,
the cool blue
feeling of healing
affections,

nightmare forms
stretched and
elongated
feared and hated
at the same time
I know they came from
my sick mind.

Dull to exciting,
inviting strange lighting
to illuminate
that which will not wait
in the dusty cupboard
of my old mother Hubbard
soon to be empty
closets,

the closest thing
to revelations
that I have ever seen,
sadly
I am frequently forgetting,
even though I know
sometimes that is a blessing.

THE EPISTLE OF JULIAN TO THE SEE OF PETER
Chapter I: The Voice that Echoed Before Time
    1. Julian, a sojourner through aeons, servant of the Architect, son of the thunder of memory, unto the Most Holy See, guardian of keys and keeper of the apostolic fire: grace, gravity, and glory in Christos Everlasting the vessel of peremptory salvation of both the living and the dead ephemeral never in gravitas solemn in eternal terpsichorean gentility
    2. Hearken, O Rome, enthroned upon seven hills, thy gates adorned with crimson silk and thy vaults resonant with the blood of martyrs; incline thy ear, for the wind once whispered of me, and now the thunder testifies beyond the salience of rectiserial substratose enormities of complex intertesselated relations of aceldama thwarting a true prophets truest recourse
    3. Before parchment bore my name and before the earth was hewn into empire, I was kindled in the breath of God and scattered across the dispensations as a spark within the body of Adam. Immemorial in the tomb of wounded memory for defiance of the screed and scroll sprawling from dust to dust, light to light and emergence into vindication
    4. Not once have I lived, but thirty and nine times (38 as myself and at least one as a divine being); and each life a stone in the tower of remembrance a towering tabernacle foisted upon the sacrilege of scorched mammon, a seal upon the book that was to be opened in the latter days.
    5. In every age, I was nameless and named, cloaked and revealed, a figure half-formed on the edge of prophetic vision, a bearer of something not mine yet wholly entrusted a bestower of the highest magnanimity and sapience even among the choreguses and charlatans
    6. I was Julian before I was Julian—my name, a cipher; my body, a parchment for divine ink.
    7. Not through reincarnation as the world degrades it, nor through mere metempsychosis as the ancients supposed, but through divine recurrence, an eschatological appointment encrypted in the substance of time consubstantial with the Father’s shadow almighty in umbrage and cloaked in the veils of tectonic unsealing.
    8. The stars themselves bore witness, aligning in the shape of a key on the day of my conception, and Saturn bowed low when I opened my eyes on the tenth day of the tenth month of the 88th year of the 20th century.
    9. At thirteen, I wept not for sin, but for eternity in a lament for lamentable terror in my ordination as a Hebrew Scribe. At twenty, I spoke the prophecy of All Hallows’ Eve: that the veil would thin, the angel descend, and that a child would awaken bearing the memory of every forgotten covenant as the deliverance of times appointed me to heal every maladaptive curse and liberate everyone from the ******* of sin and defeat death in consecrated Exodus from the totems of Stalin in immeasurable communion with a wheel of history so profound in engraved symbols of unspeakable alphabets spoken by a living infinity entirely coherent to the 32-beat pulse of human history.
    10. And so it was: the heavens stirred. The cosmos sighed. And I—Julian Malek—became conscious of the burden of God even if only maieutic to a man ignorant of the shadow of the flesh consecrating the greater irony of licentious latitudes and importunate revelations to magnify the power of the spirit devolved from the elective inspiration of widespread tyrants and tyros of every age never deafened by the blackest night nor scarred by the whitest illumination scorching in abiding truth for an enlightened age of intellectual revolution
    11. I am the synthesis of philosophers and prophets, a psalm scribed in living flesh, a scroll that speaks when unrolled by prayer. A rectiserial time enlarges the gamut of both conscience and conscientiousness working together to liberate the Wormwood fallen star
    12. Yet Rome knows me not in pretense because of substratose folly of the iniquity of False Witness and Thwarted embarkation
    13. The ministers of the altar speak of vocations and vettings, of seminaries and statutes, but they perceive not that the One who called Moses from fire has spoken again—not in Sinai, but in Denver the ***** of the age of Jezebel rampant in the pettifoggery of pretentious caricature and cavorting licentious disregard for true witness in a false world immiserated by the drivel of simpletons of maskirovka and ragged barbed contumely of repugnant alienation
    14. Would you have believed the Baptist, had he come dressed in linen? Or would you, as now, demand that Elijah attend seminary before daring to call fire from heaven?
    15. I tell you solemnly: the time of parchment is past; the time of living scripture has begun.
    16. Not for my glory, but for His purpose. Not to boast, but to build.
    17. You ask for orthodoxy; I offer you mystery. You ask for papers; I bring verses. You ask for obedience; I kneel, but with the thunder of Sinai rumbling behind me and the Donkey's Colt twice anointed in Super Bowl barms by two different champions to ride into the ***** city of harlots as thieves of its decency
    18. The God who made the donkey speak has made me remember. Can the Magisterium afford to turn from such a sign? Can a Playstation Controller moved by God without any assistance from Printing Press to the Floor of Mountaintop wood compel the obeisance of recursive time to anoint the truest champion of every worthy Church.
    19. I have not come to defy Peter, but to remind him of the keys in his hand. and the torch within his vaults to illuminate every Green-Eyed Lady and every hand of consecration in the commission of Christ
    20. Open that very vault of discernment; let the winds of prophecy stir the gold-leaf of your ancient books.
    21. For I stand not as an applicant, but as a summons. Not as a child of ambition, but as a witness of the latter hours in a destiny that curves towards the Righteousness Obama spoke of and others Restored
    22. Let Rome awaken—for the one who speaks has stood before the Throne in silence for millennia, and now at last has been told: Speak.
THE EPISTLE OF JULIAN TO THE SEE OF PETER
Chapter II: On the Fire of Identity and the Burden of the Name
    1. I speak now not of what I have done, but of what I am—though even that word, "I," trembles beneath the enormity of the identity bestowed as the reincarnation of the child of Egypt reared by the pharaoh testifying for the enslaved and shouting with peremptory force the importunate pleas of oppression resolved
    2. For what is a name, O Rome, if not the echo of a divine utterance, caught in time’s throat and inscribed upon the soul?
    3. "Julian"—a name chosen not by mother or midwife, but summoned through veiled fire, whispered from beyond the veil where angels gather and the ages contemplate their ends.
    4. The stars knew it before I did. The saints hinted at it in sleep. And when first it was spoken to me in fullness, it did not sound like novelty, but return.
    5. Malek—king, messenger, paradox; both one who serves and one who reigns. A name that veils and reveals. A crown forged in exile.
    6. These two syllables—Julian Malek—form the seal upon a scroll unread by the world, but long known by heaven.
    7. Shall I deny what the Lord has branded into my being? Shall I tell the Church I am only a man, when the mirror reveals one shaped by the breath of many dispensations?
    8. Thirty-nine lives I have borne, and yet in each, a single pulse—a rhythm not broken by death, nor diluted by centuries.
    9. I was always among the unnamed, never crowned, never known; yet always building, always remembering, always carrying the seed of something promised.
    10. With each lifetime, the Architect pressed His image deeper into my marrow. With each death, I awakened nearer to the center.
    11. You ask: is this madness? Or worse, heresy? But I ask: when the prophets cried out in deserts, did you not say the same?
    12. When Joan heard voices, when Francis cast off gold, when Catherine wrote letters to Popes, were they not accused as I now am?
    13. The path of divine fire is always mistaken for delusion—until it burns the veil and reveals God.
    14. I am no usurper, no pretender. I am not asking for mitres or rings or authority. I am asking to be seen—as I have been made.
    15. And if my voice trembles with sorrow, it is because I have seen what happens when those sent by heaven are rejected by its ministers.
    16. I am tired, Holy See. Not weary of God, but of the silence of His stewards. Tired of being told to be smaller than the fire within me.
    17. Tired of those who measure vocation by resume and not by flame.
    18. Tired of knocking while the keys sleep.
    19. You believe the papacy was established by Christ. I do too. But I also believe He still speaks—and that not all His messengers wear collars.
    20. To be Julian Malek is to be an unbearable paradox—too large for the world, too obedient to rebel, too luminous to hide, too wounded to boast.
    21. And so I write, in fire and in fear, not to demand, but to unveil.
    22. The world will know me. The stars already do. The saints speak my name in riddles. And yet, I long most of all to be known by Rome.
    23. Not for my sake—but because if even one voice like mine is left unheard, then prophecy has died, and the gates have grown rusty.
    24. Let the Church not make that mistake. Let the fire in my name be kindled on the altar, not doused in the tribunal.
Chapter III: Concerning the Witnesses, the Signs, and the Miracles
    1. You who guard the Chair of Peter, ponder not only the words I utter, but the signs that have followed me as shadows cleave to flame and shrouds dance in darkness as black holes emerge in my bathroom and dimes slide across the floor flying away with the herald of an Eagles barm of the Church of Philadelphia most loyal to the commission of Patmos
    2. For no true calling goes forth unaccompanied by divine echoes; no trumpet sounds from heaven without some tremor in the earth and many times the heaving subsultus has breathed rejuvenation by demolition to spare the world of ignorance at the toll of casualty against casualism
    3. Let me speak plainly, yet with trembling: miracles have marked my path like ancient stones left by angels to guide the blind.
    4. On the day of my conception, the moon was eclipsed and the heavens were silent—until a comet passed over the sea, as if to whisper: “He has entered again.”
    5. On my birthday, more than once 190 years apart, the ground of Oran Algeria ultrageously quaked—not with destruction, but with the groaning of the earth receiving one long awaited in the Muslim fatherland of a Jewish Patriarch wed to a Catholic Mother in the city of the Alamo
    6. In the 31st year of awakening along with the 22nd, a voice not my own whispered into my dreams: “You were sent here, not born here.”
    7. And on October 31st, 2008, as dusk clothed the world in holy ambiguity, I received the Vision of Infinity in scaled summations of liberation redoubled upon gratitude for deliverance Veiled in Twilight.
    8. I saw the veil between worlds thin like worn parchment, and a light like no light on earth burned within me as if the soul of Ezekiel took residence in my breath.
    9. I prophesied aloud that night: “The world will never again be the same.” And it was not.
    10. Economic collapse followed. The nations shifted. A new century began—not in calendars, but in spirits.
    11. On that very night, witnesses heard me utter names I had never studied, and describe cataclysms I could not have foreseen.
    12. The elect know this. Those attuned to heaven’s music recognized the dissonance of time correcting itself.
    13. In dream I stood at the threshold of the Sistine Chapel in papal festivity accompanied by the Pierre Houston loves to Forget . Tas convivial festivity churlish with glee became the sentinel savior of civilization
    14. I awoke with Latin on my lips: Vocatus est qui nescit unde venit—He is called who knows not whence he comes.
    15. You doubt these things, perhaps. You call them coincidences, or worse, delusions.
    16. But how many coincidences must occur before the word itself collapses beneath its own improbability?
    17. Did not the Magi read signs in stars? Did not the Apostles follow a voice that thundered from a bright cloud?
    18. Have we grown so modern that we call miraculous what is merely unexpected, and heretical what does not bear a diocesan stamp?
    19. But I tell you: the world is alight with signs, if only Rome would look up from its dossiers and see the burning bush again.
    20. For witnesses are not lacking. Old women who call me “the boy from their visions.” Children who name me “the light man.”
    21. Even priests—yes, some among your number—have confessed, with trembling, that they feel the wind change when I enter.
    22. A monk in silence once took my hand, gazed into my eyes, and wept. He said only, “I have waited seventy years to see this face again.”
    23. There are scrolls yet unread in the vaults beneath your basilicas that speak of one bearing my mark.
    24. There are frescoes where my likeness appears, unpainted, unplanned—yet there.
    25. There are songs long forgotten that hum my name in the ancient tongue of prophecy.
    26. Ask, and they shall be revealed. Knock, and the vaults shall tremble open.
    27. For I am not hidden, only veiled. Not silent, only unheard.
    28. And if Rome will not listen, then the stones shall cry out, and the sky shall speak with thunder.
    29. But I pray it shall not come to that. I pray Rome will awaken not in fear, but in wonder.
Chapter IV: On the Church’s Blindness and the Veil of Bureaucracy
    1. Woe unto the watchers who no longer watch, and the shepherds whose crooks now draw boundaries instead of gathering the scattered. And the silent scrutiny that monopolizes the ****** of men and the latitude of licentious larceny of Holy Truth the midwives of Jezebel in a city defiled by a legacy of silence
    2. For the flame that once danced on the heads of the Apostles now flickers dimly beneath fluorescent lights and administrative ledgers.
    3. I speak not against the Body of Christ, for I am bound to it by soul and spirit—but I do speak against its sclerosis.
    4. The limbs are heavy with protocol, the eyes glazed with caution, the ears stuffed with procedural wax.
    5. You say to the Spirit, “Fill out this form.” You say to the Fire, “Wait for committee approval.”
    6. And when a soul arrives bearing the breath of God, you ask, “Has he completed the necessary training modules?”
    7. O Rome, how thou art clothed in sacred garments but sometimes speaks with the tongue of Caesar’s accountant.
    8. In times past, prophets were beaten. Now, they are ghosted.
    9. You say I must wait in silence and conform, but I have conformed across centuries, and still the world languishes in darkness.
    10. I was quiet when I saw cathedrals turned into museums, their altars abandoned for PowerPoint homilies.
    11. I was silent when I watched bishops genuflect to politics, but scoff at wonder.
    12. I watched saints ignored because their miracles made the insurance companies nervous.
    13. And still I hoped that one day—just one day—the keys of Peter might unlock a gate not of marble, but of heart.
    14. I hoped that beneath the layers of incense and Latin and folders stamped “Pending Review,” someone would remember Pentecost.
    15. For what was that upper room if not the death of bureaucracy?
    16. And what is the Holy Spirit if not the annihilation of policy in favor of presence?
    17. You fear charlatans, and rightly so. But in guarding the gate, you have sealed it against the King Himself.
    18. The Church, when afraid of madness, builds cages for the divine.
    19. But I ask you, would you have ordained John the Baptist? Or would you have sent him to therapy and advised a quieter wardrobe?
    20. Would you have welcomed a barefoot Jesus into your chancery, or asked Him to make an appointment?
    21. The saints of old wore sackcloth and saw visions. Today, they would be flagged for “psychological review.”
    22. O Pontifical Palace, thy walls are thick with caution—but even gold can be a tomb.
    23. I say this not to accuse, but to awaken. For love warns where flattery cannot tread.
    24. The time has come for Rome to remember that it was built not by policy but by fire—unruly, wild, and divine.
    25. The same Spirit who shattered Babel’s pride now begs entry through Rome’s paperwork.
    26. He comes with tongues of flame—but your inbox is full.
    27. I do not ask to be above discernment. But I do demand to be seen—not as anomaly, but as herald.
    28. I do not reject the Church’s order, but I mourn its calcification.
    29. For in fearing chaos, you have often banished revelation.
    30. In fearing error, you have bound the hands of prophecy with red tape and skepticism.
    31. In fearing scandal, you have hidden sanctity.
    32. My life—my thirty-eightfold life—is not a resume, but a scripture of flame.
    33. And I submit this scripture to you now, not to be rubber-stamped, but to be read in the trembling fear of God.
    34. If you find error, correct it with love. But if you find the echo of the Spirit, dare not dismiss it.
    35. For the one who writes you now has walked in deserts, in catacombs, in visions, in centuries—and he comes not as a petitioner, but as a page in God's unfolding testament.
    36. Let the Church not say, “We did not know.” For now it knows.
    37. Let it not say, “He did not tell us.” For I have spoken.
    38. Let Rome remember that the Spirit still chooses the strangest vessels—and sometimes, the thirty-eighth time is the hour of fulfillment.
Chapter V: On the Hour of Decision and the Cry to Awaken Rome
    1. Behold, the hour is no longer near—it is arrived, and the veil thins like parchment brushed by divine wind.
    2. What Rome binds shall be bound, and what Rome looses shall echo through the foundations of the earth.
    3. But what shall become of Rome if she binds the Spirit and looses only caution?
    4. Shall she remember her Bridegroom when He comes not with oil and mitre, but barefoot and burning?
    5. I cry to you not as a rebel, but as one who remembers Eden. I call not for revolt, but for return.
    6. For the gates of prophecy are open, and the hourglass of this age is now flipped by unseen hands.
    7. The stars have groaned, the nations have reeled, the martyrs murmur in their tombs the arcanums of deliverance grounded in the equanimity of the wisest counsel and council of Heaven itself
    8. And still Rome sleeps, lulled by doctrine without danger, liturgy without trembling because it is blistered with hidebound tomes and sclerotic precedents of procedure above grace and grumbling and groveling above the sapience of ages
    9. Yet I stand at your threshold, not to cast stones, but to raise a lamp. A lamp that cannot be proscribed by any literate scribe as heterodoxy for they do not reside in the tabernacle of the Logos made eternal.
    10. The Spirit has not departed from the Church—but He waits in the outer court, knocking softly.
    11. You were warned once before, when the Galilean overturned your tables; be warned again, for He has returned in His forerunner.
    12. Thirty-eight lives have prepared the way. A voice cries again in the wilderness—not of Judea, but of your own forgotten sanctuaries.
    13. How long shall the pillars of Peter ignore the wind that stirs the veil behind them?
    14. Shall the one who was named in heaven before birth not be granted even an audience?
    15. I do not seek the Chair, only the candle. Not the throne, only the ear of the listening heart.
    16. Test me if you must, weigh my soul in your balance—but do not close your gates with the keys meant to open them.
    17. If my words are madness, then they will fall. But if they are fire, you cannot contain them with silence.
    18. I have walked unseen beside your cathedrals, wept behind your altars, prayed beneath domes that never knew my name.
    19. And still I rise—like the cry of Abel’s blood, like incense that will not dissipate.
    20. For I am sent not by flesh, but by the scroll written before the world began.
    21. A scroll sealed with seven seals—and the first was opened when I spoke the prophecy of Halloween, 2008.
    22. Let the world laugh, but let the Church discern. For your Redeemer once wore a crown of thorns, not of credentials.
    23. Will you deny his emissaries when they comes to you in fragments, in flames, in forgotten sons?
    24. O Rome, awaken! Your towers gleam but your heart drowses!
    25. Your chalices shine but your lamps grow cold!
    26. Remember the fire of Peter and the sword of Paul! Remember the dream of Constantine and the weeping of Monica!
    27. Remember the Spirit that made fishermen apostles and mothers prophets!
    28. For He stirs again, and the wind bears my voice across the ages to you.
    29. Hear me—not for my sake, but for your own awakening. A parchment of the newer clay and the Valley of Dry Bones have reconstituted themselves in the groaning quaky Christchurch, New Zealand on the Day for Presidents and Paupers alike (February 21st, 2011)
    30. For if Rome does not listen, then the wilderness will become the new sanctuary of an involuntary hostage of the honesty of witness corrupted by deprivations of internecine incendiary strife mobilized by the filagersions of honest patronage against dishonest calcification of humane ambition
    31. And still—I will love you, even from the desert, until the day your walls remember my name as the polyacoustic reverberation of corrugated times deranged by defilement but inspired by penultimate rectitude in the consecration of every screed and conscience of honest testimony borne of garbled love galvanized by metanoia