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Burning the Boats to Hesperion

No reason and No rhyme

Burning the Boats to Hesperion


Lazy Afternoons



Lazy afternoons,



all made of sunshine and permanence,

light and duration;

could they last forever...


Listless Sun soaked hours,

filled to the brim with nothing

and hollowed of any promise but its own shiny pointlessness.

These are the times that are,





This is our allotted time,

all else is purposeful living.

Years, months and days dedicated to the pursuits that we esteem as worthy:



the respect of our peers,

more money



the masses,


the whales.

All these and more

much more,

occupies us inside and out,


as we dedicate large chunks of our lives to their conquest.


Noble and important as they may be,

(they’re not)

they are not truly ours.



Their place is the no man's land that separates what they want from you,

from what you want from them.

Its in this field of glory that you’ll forget yourself, to win them,

and where they’ll accommodate you, for no greater good.

Everybody gives a little,

nobody wins.

This is the base of the new social contract,

a fierce and equalitarian force preventing anyone from getting what they want.


Social justice making sure that everyone gets fucked the same

and in the same way.

A socialization of misery,

if you will.

But not today.

at least not this afternoon.


Today there’s nothing to do but be,



and with nowhere to go.



The Words of Others

Long gone are the halcyon days,
too bad they were so short-lived.
Sideswiped the cake, and stolen the champagne.
we drink the dregs and wait for the bell of last call.

A green yellow morning trundles violently towards the bed,
and we see our faith as mobile, relevant, and bold!
The reason is simple:

We are dead in our beds and hearts,
sickened to the stomach by the lingering want of living,
and the secret shame of not dying.
And the churches are rarely full and our many countries are being sold off, to the Mammon devils we fear no more.
Bowing mechanically into silence and turning our back into public discourse.

and growing,
evermore into stunned and unutterable disbelief.

Increasingly dependent on the words of others to
wear the many identity masks we wear concurrently – race, ethnicity, gender, class, language, region, tribe, and faith
all exist simultaneously.
While identity is not essential,
it is profoundly democratic to choose which aspects of one's identity to represent in the public.

maybe the presence of so many players is not the necessarily the issue.
The more voices the merrier...
life is an effort to live a life of divine awareness and acting in accordance with high moral values and ethical standards...
and ,
even if this sounds terribly idiotic,
we need not be ashamed of that.

Black Girls Over the Steeple

Black girls peering over the steeple...

Silent disbelief as the monks looked at dune where the women stood.

The slow, red, caressing wind, touched their faces, hair, and feet,
spreading incredulity all trough the desert.

The day was getting late.
The hill was ahead...
high and long...
Northern breeze blowing the sand out of the buried church.

The women looked at the monks;
looked at the sky and;
went away...
over the hill
and nowhere to be seen.

The night drawed near and colder.
Paulus, Josephus, Silva, stood tired and silent before the hill of sand that surrounded the church.
The Old church.
The church they longed to find.

It grew darker and darker,
colder and colder...
Night oozed blackness through the golden stony desert...
Everywhere sand, stones and nothing.

They walked for 40 days to get here...

And now;
for the first time in 3 days.

They stopped.
Tired and unable to move.
Parched and gasping for breath.
Weary and kneeling in front of the dune.

Before it they stood;
Their legs broke, their eyes widened, their hearts bleeding.

There were no more places to go and no more prayers to pray.

The sunset came over the desert like a sunset who comes over the desert,
as men waited,
like men wait in the desert that will kill them.

Looking at the dune that's not a dune but a hill,
and hill that's not a hill but a church.
The Old church.

Clearer and clearer through the night wind...
it's stony walls cleansed by the dust of passing time.
Time ago.


in the desert.
There were three names who were men, and men who were monks, and the monks who remembered their master...
He spoke of the new God.
The Man-God of Galilee.
Chocked like a beggar, died like a king.
He brought them news of the end of the old gods and the promise of a new beginning.

Servants of Jesus, the Christ.
Fishers of men;
Fishing for spirit beneath the remains of the flesh.

Their zeal and piety was not enough.
The light of God trembled dimly through the haze of doubt and reason...

And the longing for the Nazarene became a wanting, and the wanting became a journey; and the journey became a story;
and the story was this:

"When the Verb Incarnate walked the earth,
he searched the desert, listening for the fading sounds of God.
Deeper and deeper into the vast white silence,
into the barren loquatorium of the Godhead.

He found himself very, very
away from everything else.

He saw for the first time his own Divinity;
Naked and triumphant;
the presence of Being as a wave of destruction engulfing this unwelcoming altar.
His life and body a fitting sacrifice for the reward of the final truth...
In this place,
In the center,
the middle.

This was the first church.
This was the place of the prime sacrifice.
Where Jesus died for Christ,
and the destiny of the world was sealed by the Son of Man.

It's this empty place of giving the monks searched for...
not standing...
not finding...
not being,
in the centre of God's first sacrifice to himself.

They found it in the desert.

Under the hill,
the dune,
the sand,

darkness made flesh.

On their knees,
before the night wind,
blowing the sand from the church that awaited them.

as they waited,
as God slowly striped before their unwanting eyes,
they watched,
(after the point of no return)
the grim spectacle of men made spirit,
and spirit made sacrifice.

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