Achromatism

Two people, they say,
live in worlds, one in each,
and when, as they say,
they collide, they can reach
a point of a breaking
a fracturing.

When two people meet
When they stop trying to pretend,
that they have everything in common
except their humanity, and everything that comes along with it,

When they acknowledge
authentic reality;
the sheer majesty of two wills
in one place, at once.

Then those worlds,
fantastic planets,
collide in rhythm and melody.

Two worlds were never two.
But two perceptions of one, as different as the color of each pair of eyes.
There were never two.
We are all the same.
But that we are different, divergent, distracted.
It is but that we are different, that we are all young in our own ways,
and old in others.

It is our differences
which are the glory
of similarity

It is our separation
which is the beauty
of collaboration.

It is Love, it is Heaven, it is that in which all hope lies.
It is God.
Pure, unbroken unity in all chromatic being.

Given one melody, all harmonies are implied.
But let us glory in our irrational superfluity.

**

The music is more
It is more
The only thing that is more.
It is the only thing that is more.
Because--because music made from
broken trumpets
and unstrung strings
and woodwinds all left in the rain--
Music made from instruments which cannot play in tune any more than they can play themselves--
Music made with raw throats and with bleeding, callused, ragged hands--
Music made in agony--
Music made in forsaking all else--
Is such a kind of music more than music itself.
And it is more beautiful than the best of perfect intonations.
Because God did not become perfection--
He became human.
He became sin who knew no sin.
And that being is far more existent than existence itself.
All things real bow down to a paradox.
For God himself is not real.

We are real.
But we strive not to be.
That we may, in ourselves, be that which we cannot be.
That which we cannot understand.
That which is not created, cannot be perceived or explained, but purely...is.

Eyes have not seen, ears have not heard, for perception cannot but attempt that grand, unfathomable experience which is to behold.  For to behold implies, in its very inception, to be beheld.

The only truth is that Truth is not rational.  The best thought we can have is that no thoughts make sense.  All rationality ends in the truth that nothing can be both rational and True, that nothing can be both existent and real, that no mystery is fact.

There's something real out there.

See the beautiful words in beautiful lines,
see beautiful places with beautiful skies,
All these beautiful things filling my mind.
Come and spend the greater times.

I see your broken face.
convinced of your place.
It's humility, they say,
not to question your fate.
Be who you are, they say
Nothing less shall we tolerate;
Here's the free-est set of laws
you will ever come across.
And I see your broken eyes
as you look on in surprise
but no, after all your tries
Greater things can't come now.

I need someone to betray this to
that what is set up here is not it all
that this education is not even a clue
of what is going to fall.
I need someone to relay this to
that you're more than you have bargained for
but that you've been promised greater things
if you but live a happy life.

Come with me, or without me, better still
And see you've been living on the windowsill.

If a Tree

Distraction runs like uncaged rats.
Frantic minds in folded hands.
In prayer attempting to forget
That God is real none more than I am.

I must believe in myself and neighbor

if I am to care about my own behavior.

and understand that dread importance of
every slightest movement, if I am to love.

A Lowly King

It is most humbling, in the humblest way,

To see the power in every word I say.

To think not so lowly of myself,

But not to think I deserve my shelf.

It is not to live in a lowly way,
but not to assume, and not to say
That I am any less than myself.
Knowing God is always greater than want and wealth.

It is to recognize that the flower is just as pretty in dirty hands as clean. That there are no hands which deserve to hold the flower anyway.  That there is no man who deserves even the facility of hands.

In Praying

"Do not babble like the pagans do
Thinking many words louder than few."

I, however, can merely mumble one
At the smashing gravity that I am heard in none.

Self-Medication with a Capital L

We kill our murderers, imprison thieves.
We pity the broken, suff'ring, bereaved.

And yet we cry "Redeeming Love!"
When with stolen bodies from broken trust
We forsake our lives in hope--
We take another's in tasty lust.

Decisions

There is darkness-there is light.

There are greater things than night.

And there are things I see, I say

Which still are neither and hold no sway,

But never were there shades of gray.