diatribalArts

He created in his image;;;made man
With a touch of God…words that took form…spirit

That took flesh…little breaths that in the
Dust eddied wisps of humanity that

Would whirl the world into vortices of
God-likeness!!!instead,,,it became a

Tornadic column that rose to heaven like
Reversed thunder;;;they the Anemoi to

Storm—streaking the stratosphere with contrails
Of exhausted human-ness. They stormed!!!

Aeolus in his exhaling-hall…but the God
Of breath remained—lungs full; he breathed

Another like them,,,the west Zephyr wind(((God
As man)))to inspire man’s humanity!

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Fire!!!eyes blazed with blindness from seeking
After God’s veiled face;;;seeing his glory

Only in its passing-by. White-washed eyes
Left vacant in his waning. In the

Morning,,,just out of the shower,,,a rugged
Face with whiskers, still flush with fleeting dreams,

Gazes back out of glass—reflecting
Rev’rential awe; this!!!is God’s glory

Passing-by. Now and then I see through the
Flaming veil the many fashioned faces

Of God. I had forgotten their lin’age
And mine,,,and not enough seen his constant

Passing-by. “Glory to God in the highest,,,
And on earth wonder for his passings-by.”

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Mercy! Mercy! These hands have worked none. Yet
It pours; mercy for the wretched thousands.

Hair lassoing fingers…eyes buried in
Darkened palms. Mercy!!!mercy for these hands

That paint contusions on flesh like frescos
(Rich-hued,,,black & blue)…like Michelangelo…

A last judgment on naked gods; gods‽
(Imago Dei) however, who’s hands

Create Wrath and charge it to “multiply,,,
Fill the earth, and subdue it (Merciless,,,

Ferrous hearted)!” Now, broken,,,hobbling,,,pained,,,
And gingerly to knees…hands to head. “Oh

For that miracle of sanguine tears—bloody
Mercy; mercy for the countless bruised.”

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The idea of cowboys, lassos and distinctively American mythic symbols in this piece must be credited to my friend and fellow poet, Gardner Mounce.

A train blaring westward but
Having no more lassos to
Throw…no more west to blaze…no
More buffalo or natives
To trample. Only asphalt
Breaks
its stride—the wild
is gone.
Nonetheless, there are well worn
Boots, buckles with flash and dusty
Hats worn as are red wristbands
By knee high kids that, though
With admiration, lampoon
Another’s toughness; so the
Whistling train squeals its parody,
And the wild-west lives on.

Spring came and sat on my arm. A mosquito—a newborn to suckle on veins bulging like a breast with milk…skin pursed like lips pink-flushed after a lingering kiss and fluids exchanged. Spring came and dappled with pollen (fluorescent green) my black car. Seed spent on machine; it begs for it to be a part of it all…to hide its machine-ness (it doesn’t feel it so much in colder months). Spring came to hide the last of the leaves, now sticky with sap, with green growth that climbs on its shoulders and feeds on its compost, and for a brief moment it reminds of the past, the fall and the future still to come. Spring came with bright, verdant greens that stand in contrast to that well worn, wizened green deep with last season’s age and a long winter endured. Spring came and beckoned forth the irrepressible dandelion which like lions are kings—kings of the yard that proudly raise their maned heads over freshly tamed grass which gladly yield to the lions’ pride and many dande-cubs. Spring came with bright flashes that for some moment recalls the day in the middle of night; the air filled with the pungency of electric moisture not yet fallen but held back by dark billowing arms that soon will tire and drop their heavy burdens and spilling, pool…and pooling, breed more mosquitoes…and breeding…more blood to be suckled…

my lungs filled with smoke
(slow exhaled).
my ears with dirge. a cool wind whispers
a wash of rain. my mind with
shook foil and the ooze of oil…I
am touched—
Otherworldly;
so the spirit visits in quiet
moments and with tender breath
(goose-pimpled flesh
his only
visible
trail).

The four elements of Earth, Water, Air and Fire found unification in the fifth element, or fifth essence, most often referred to as Aether; though, it is sometimes known by other names such as “Idea”, “Breath” or even “A divine thing”. The Latin term quinta essentia is that which exists outside of the material world and is thought to be heavenly—possessing the power of life (the breath that animates). From quinta essentia we get the English derivative, quintessential, and so is the divine to the creative process that uses as its medium the other four elements to find its tangible expression.

The number three in all cultures seems to have a mystical almost magic quality. As a Christian, it speaks to the Trinity, of unity in diversity of the distinct but indivisible; so is there almost a holy trinity to the triumvirate universals of Truth, Beauty and Goodness. Each is quintessential to a life with meaning, and each must be considered in relation to the others to be fully comprehended. For sure, each can be looked at and classified apart from the others, but none of them posses any persistent value alone; the Beauty found from knowing the True gives one passion in its pursuit; it is the transcendent Truth in a thing that makes it palatable, good and even beautiful. In fact, Beauty and Goodness (or Justice), are the necessary actions of the Truthful as it finds a manifestation in the everyday. Ergo, I have three things to which I bow and constantly submit my life and my art; these are three things that stamp my everything: Truth, Beauty & Goodness coalesced in one being—God.

I have found that I too wrestle with God but not like Jacob who wrestled for the blessing; I wrestle that I might avoid any blessing at all.

Jacob        
wrestles           with
angels;              I…I wrestle
with                   myself.
Knees               raised, legs
wrapped,          body tensed,
breathless       to touch
the hip               out
of joint              so
as to      receive
some
blessing that
I  cannot     grant.
Folding              in and
over               myself…
rolling like a                 möbius
(I fight the          perpetual fight,
pose the               perpetual
question)            and thereby
thieve    unendingly my
own     despised
birthright.
In this             I am
undone;          in this I
avoid forever              God
                                    face-to-
                        face.

“[We are] children of nothing making gods from the voids in ourselves. Creating heavens from the seeds we were not patient enough to grow…”

Sad Poems: Suffocating in Cures
—the alcoholic poet

Warm, soil rich…nail staining, crevice penetrating
Hand cupped earth…it reeks of decadence. It will grow
Anything! Anything will grow here (wild, brambled-
Growth if there is no care). Long rows of furrows, great
Wrinkles like a consternated brow…or deep sulci
Framed by mounds of grey matter that cry for just
A little seed. It is not the seed or the earth
That matter (the mind yields up it’s strength to both
Thistles or thoughts, alike). It is the dirt-caking
Labor that produces. It is not the green growth; it
Is the knees and the hands loam-brown tinted that stain
The lips and teeth tannic-red; it is the yellow-
Brown tinged rag anointed with sweat and toiling oils
That savory sweet floods the nose like a burnt off’ring
To the Lord; it is the spilt blood that waters the
Cursed mind to move sapling thoughts through the surface toward
Harvest as first fruits to cast on the living altar.