Thursday, September 3, 2015

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Saturday, August 29, 2015

"Be doers of the word and not hearers only, deluding yourselves." --James 1:22

Even Herod liked listening to St. John the Baptist.



Sunday, August 23, 2015

Friday, August 21, 2015





How new is a remembered thing.
It is to remember everything.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Monday, August 10, 2015

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Everywhere is sin and in everything:
city's acclimation never tires,
in which the goods of each are weaned, sired,
bought up, dealt to, fecklessly stretched, tight-stringed:
anonymous forced denouement ringed
with slicked voices; debt-racked, grin-backed briar.
Only one step and you're necked in quagmire;
one techni-gain the gainsayers bring,
then another's soon to come, given grease.
From there assumes virtue's lithe look-a-like
(yet one will-death and new become your limbs)
that preemptively locks on truth a lease,
as one would strike an object pig on pike,
or as one holds thanksgivings back, and hymns.

Friday, August 7, 2015

Those who debate the "ends" of the nuclear genocide committed by America on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, either saying that the ends do not justify the means, or what else could have ended the war, leave me asking, what in bloody hell "end" are you referring to?

The dropping of the Bomb was no end at all. How could it ever possibly be? The unfolding of history will show that it was the incipient beginning of a Third World War beyond reckoning; a demon child born in continuity with the Second. If there was anything final about the dropping of the Bomb, it was that it was the breaking of any remaining innocence that had been present.

How anyone can believe that to be an end to the Second World War is absolutely stupefying.
The king is like flotsam, floating down the walk-path,
here to make rounds of his rising citadel;
face of the man-made mount, a vast hollow mask
his counter jetsam: toddler's mud pie, laboured anthill.

Not even honourable mention at the beach's
juried sand castle competition, annually held.
Remotely a tide is slithering away in feathers.
Ceaseless industry in the crannies and niches

fails to beat back the sleepy sense. No one cheats the time
taking longer lunches, doddling during work.
Operation runs smooth by the one who visits
with another at his side, and points his rolled-up blueprints

at a distant stairway, arch or garden square.
Yet some hear words in whispers hard to tell, like the water's
yonder sparkles, a shushing along the level sands:
a magnitude of folly explodes upon our work

like the crimpling sun: come dark your ruin comes. Perhaps
the two bowing fools, down there, worm fools, who precede
the king, are the wisest around, laying down
invisible pavers, founding mirrors of the clown.