Untitled Verse

1.

A new creature,
that which is created, again,
requires a new creator.
A  new birth,
a child who is born, again,
comes to a new Father.
Neither is the male without the female
in the Lord.
Neither is the child without the Mother
and the Father.
He who would fill the heavens with bastard children,
like a single-winged bird, grounded and flailing,
throwing them into a vacuum of selfish ignorance,
is unable to create and give life.

Kings and Queens, awake and gather.
Find your brazen selves.
Use as your light the light from the wandering stars, smoothed out
and shining on themselves in a great new city of new stone
on a new river.

For forty nights she labored,
the first last and the last first,
reaching for her Mother's place,
for a sign, a crown, and the peaceful rustling of the tall branches
of the Lord's planting.

2.

Poor Old Jonah swivels in a marvelous char at the head of a river of a boardroom conference table.

Behind him sits the gilded framed portrait of a dead man, his father several fathers ago, a faded and revered image,  now perched in gleaming towers made with man's hands in gentile lands and grand tufts of flowers.

Factory bees and assembly lines all bear the family name on their pensions, kept in sharp time, the name of a long dead tinkering founder and the autos he invented and fueled with his blood.

The line churns the autos that are churned by the marketers and salesmen,

and it all floats up to the boardroom, where Poor Old Jonah swivels and frowns at charts and graphs.

And the man in the portrait stares into the distance at a future of glistening boardrooms in gleaming towers, of charts and graphs and grand tufts of flowers, and marketers churching the same auto he hammered out ages ago and died upon.

And Poor Old Jonah signs the checks with his father's name.

3.

Line up what was:      1,  2,   3,   4,   5,    6,   7,   8,    9,   10,  11, 12. 
Stretch it to infinity.
Line up what is:          5,  10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35, 40, 45, 50,  55, 60. 
Stretch it to infinity.
Line up what will be: 7, 14,  21, 28, 35, 42, 49, 56, 63, 70, 77,  84. 
You’ll never run out.  
This is the patience of the prophets. All threads bound and converge at the meridian of time. 
As above, so below, as the cannibal galaxy casts out the darkness,
creation has no beginning and no end.
As Abraham leaves his father to come to a new land,
so Michael leaves his Father to come to a new land,
And so Michael leaves His Father to cleave to another.
They gather then, and now, and forever, and they'll never run out. 

4.
 
I came in red this time.
You knew it before you first saw me
and the light and the dark entered into me.
You knew what it meant this time.
I have the scars of your barbs in me. 
I have the hurt with which you hurt me. 
We will leave nothing unsaid, everything undone that you did. 
I can see the end of the scarlet thread from where I stand. The One Who Stands is my name.
I was there, in the darkest of places,
feeling your knife slither and burn,
hopelessly bound,
when the light broke forth in shining circles above us.
It thrust down into that place where you held me.
and you were swept aside like dust,
Scattered and smitten, your might stripped bare.
I was gone before sight returned,
and you saw that all your plans floated,
silently unmoored in the air, like your dust.
We were there together in the brightest throne rooms,
pouring fury from eye to eye.
Our hearts strove, like dogs lurching against their chains,
and you knew, and you dreaded,
the day I should come back in red.  

5.

I will see you there,
eating delicately,
growing fat on the dessert cart pulled by the shining bull
with Venus between his horns.
Shake the smooth hand, glittering, fleshy hand.
I leave this curse on you:
that you left Him to preach His own sermon;
that the smoking blood should be drowned out by the sound of gladness in your lips;
that the wheat should be gathered in to make strong drink;
you carved goodness out of evil and gave thanks to Moloch for warmth.
You have pulled yourself down.
Your name is written in your book, by your hand.
And I will shake you from my coat,
like the dust. And you will feel it quake
until the only sound is the peaceful rustling of the tall branches
of the Lord’s planting.