*...a preoccupation with sex causes alienation, but a constant anxiety about purity can easily do the same.  Beneath the struggle for purity a more decisive struggle takes place.  It is not purity for which we must fight directly, but spiritual liberty.
-Jean Sulivan

*One of the most obvious signs of the spiritual sterility of the West is that in the minds of most people, love has only one meaning.
-Jean Sulivan

*...my curiosity is always wide awake.
-Jean Sulivan

I am

I am revolution

 an uprising to the power of three 

the One here and there 

the One speaking in We

you are wish fulfillment 

creative molding of a dream 

your pull is to be Me 

but you lust Supreme

your fate's in evolution 

in your eye turning viewing the world about without greed or alibi

my revolution is Jesus Me who became you without snaking his spirit

follow him

violently the wings beat
o'er the grave of
the dead virgin Mary

'twas a summons, it was
the call to rise

thus she rose on the gale
of a personal invitation
on the summons then carried
by messengers from on high
to enter the aula
of the divine restoration
the promise laid before
the shattered human race

she left flying with hast
as on the road to Judah
to assist the pregnant people
bearing Christ in their breast
the off-spring of Adam
bequeathed 'neath the cross

this was it
to be mother of all
to ripen the holy
stirring in their wombs



repeat after me
my lips are moving
something like thumb-prints
charming my flesh
something fingering me

my lips moved
but i know different
and so will you
if you simply listen
with unplugged ears
that gather sounds
hearing the person

repeat after me
I AM MORE

i am more
than flesh-colored bones
afro and american
by descent an object
for subtle abuse

open your ears
and melt the cold wax
coating your heart

the cloth covering your eyes
shed
then sit yourself down
let us begin to talk

Humanity was - before humans were.



to throw open ones arms and walk out the door
breathe fresh air and face death
to be free to beg
release the Spirit
be dependent on the Good:
this would be Magna Carta
a declaration and new beginning
a counter-cultural curse
to be judged, rejected, despised

how long could one survive
doubting in faith
believing with doubt

Jesus might appear
kiss your lips
pat your back
and take you home

then  you'd be free
to pray for those
who cursed your tact

the piteous cry of a besieged hawk

reaches the ears of the falconers

as the prey plants teeth into its feathered breast

revenging blood once drained as food

cracked reflectors

images of light playing on Valentino's skin in the still-day time

is the movie screen imagery of shadowed blushes painted in blood

collateral gods ruling the world from pools of water filtered with mud

cleansing questions avoid the flesh when the orderly mourners enter

disposed

and dispossessed

searching

for the disposable

Hmong

the gathered

among

trinkets gathered

among

junkies and the banished

where will we end

up or down

lost on the street of innocuity

holding flares

or guns

or both with knives

saying

no harm'll be done

we're innocent

dressed in pink

softened brood

softened stool

softened

you're safe

and you'll be well

until...

they come

until...

they come...

until...

you believe

valentino

Valentino hands his mate a tainted rose to incorporate into her dreams

to punish the bad whose pawns turn blessed nothing into religion

i could climb through the window of  my soul

the fear of losing power already lost

mouth dried by the nervousness of exposure

i want to feel the day without fear

as if God were coursing through my blood

a heat on a muggy day

to sweat the poisons clinging to my cells

trudging through the graveyard of my emotions

searching for the tombstone chiseled "Sunshine"

i'm lost in a grove of overgrown flow'rs

neglected like a child whose parents ran away

why is there an officer in this swamp of bones?

is there treasure hid worth guarding the graves?

will he lead me to the shadows of my longing

through the fetid pools devoid of light?

somewhere in this miasma of concerns

ghosts lurk, flitting through the myths upheld

lost since the first internment, they seek companions

to release them from their sequestering cage

so i enter their silent movie, the script of which replays my life

and with a rose clenched tight between my teeth

dance as bloodlets weep from beneath my lips

now as mourner, i pass those whose gold-bands rust

carcases, dressed in earth, boxed in decay

giants no more, who can harm my battered flesh

my soul flares with tango passion

no longer condemned to be among the frightened

but looking at fears that choked my freedom

toss the rose upon the tombs of my fright

entering the window, reconciled to life

*God has hidden from us the secret of things to come.  If we were only supposed to serve those who are going to persevere, the truth is we still wouldn't know how to pick them out from the others.  Even if it is only for an hour, we must relieve the pain and sorrow of our neighbor.

-Jean Sulivan

*...how does one continue to give without developing calluses on your hands - and on your heart?

-Jean Sulivan

Arthur

He was an occasional, a drop-in of sorts

an audience of one, till he exited for home

A comment-maker, a jokester of sorts

he spiced the gathering kibbitzing me

We met between words, in a play of words 

like Stew-art and Art and Sure and smiles

We met 'tween words he rarely spake

between the lines the poets' spoke

midst sound of poets and their metered rounds

Attentive to laughter, attentive to modes

a holiday of sound filled the room with glee

the evening enriched by a convention of lips

With palms encased one hand in another

I bowed in silence, curtsying to his soul

the grammarian-air breathing his joy

till we meet again in the arbor of poets

*...human beings have less psychological freedom than is generally believed, but that spiritually they are infinitely more free.

-Jean Sulivan

From the writings of Jean Sulivan

-When you get to the bottom of something, you always find someone who has been hurt.

-Whatever good we do remains good even in the midst of evil.  The important thing is not to think too highly of oneself.

-Ever sense He is risen, every one in the world is Christian.

-Is there any point in having firewood if there's nothing to light it?  Why have well-marked boundaries if there is no road?  What is life if there is no joy?

-Rebels are loners.

-All that interests him  is helping someone to live; that's the beginning of morality.

-God has hidden from us the secret of things to come.  If we were only supposed to serve those who are going to persevere, the truth is we still wouldn't know how or pick them out from the others.  Even if it is only for an hour, we must relieve the pain and sorrow of our neighbor.

-...human beings have less psychological freedom than is generally believed, but that spiritually they are infinitely more free.

-It is not the extent of vices or virtues that account for the misery or grandeur of a person; it is the depth of our detachment in regard to our virtues and vices that shows an individual's nobility...

-The passion for money, whether earned legally or not, is infinitely more serious than the weaknesses of the flesh.

Unable to lie

I cry up front, before Scrooge

like some prophetic sage who's lived too long

who's seen too much of transgressions past

who sees hist'ry's feet walking toward our door

her bones a-glee at the plague to come.

It's a fright to know events before events  

events predictable as sunsets on a cloudy day

to view the scenes of carnage before the would-be-gods

repeat the un-learned truths hist'ry plants along our trails.

Yes, gods we'll be, dread and lead by later gods

till some light blinds the darkness of our fame

light blunt enough to force us see again

the trails of blood  floating 'cross our dilated eyes

coursing through the veins of our vexed delusions;

and the paths upon which our visions collapse

will be salted with the bones of our heroic illusions.

Now I, Wisdom-Woman, unable to lie

close one eye as the other pops open. 

with eyes askew.     spying for another country.

is this escape?

does curiosity demand a face?

the line i walk is a razor.     the sidewalks are closed to my passage.

health is on the auction block.     where do

the scapegoats sleep?

silly talk 'tween factions.     passages into the night sky.

dreams unfulfilled with nightmares.     drained passions hoping for reprieve.

gaps emerge in conversations.     thoughts are plagued with doubts.

i must believe God cares.     commit suicide before murder.

art for the mass-hysterics.     the engulfing silence nibbles peace.

circles chew the lines.     myst'ry hides

behind glass doors.

the end is far away.     the beginning never ends.

who'd think you're crazy except the insane?

the state of the world is better.    drink Sanka.

the nonsensical is sensical for toes with sense.    see through your toes.

looking to the past

as if to bring forth

the swamp monster

that created you

or calm the creepy

things crawling in

your soul this hour

or embrace what

beauty dwelt within

the ugliness of it all:

all of this is noble and

a fright to make one

hide again or burst

forth again, renewed

alive for once 

in life

i could climb through the window of my soul
the fear of losing power already lost
mouth-dried by the nervousness of exposure

i want to feel the day without fear
as if God were coursing through my blood
as heat on a muggy day
to sweat the poisons clinging to my sells

trudging through the graveyard of my emotions
searching for the tombstone chiseled "Sunshine"
i'm lost in a grove of overgrown flow'rs
neglected like a child whose parents ran away

why is there an officer in this swamp of bones?
is there treasure hid worth guarding the graves?
will  he lead me to the shadows of my longing
through the fetid pools devoid of light?

somewhere in this miasma of concerns
ghosts lurk, flitting though the myths upheld
lost since the first internment, they seek companions
to release them from their sequestering cage

so i enter their silent movie, the script of which replays my life
and with a rose clenched tight between my teeth
dance as bloodlets weep from beneath my lips

now as mourner, i pass those whose gold bands rust
carcasses, dressed in earth, boxed in decay
giants no more, who can harm my battered flesh

my soul flares with tango-passion
no longer condemned to the among the frightened
but looking at fears that choked my freedom
toss the rose upon the tombs of my fright
entering the window, reconciled to life




*Moment

at any given
moment we can
become transparent
without the wind stopping
or the waves counting on
themselves to be waves-
a naturalness in
the way change
and change again
rises from a thousand
campfires on an endless
plain before the oldest
battle to discover the brilliant
emerald valley at the end
of a momeent of
nothing but breath
I hang on
-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

small minds

the time is not ripe for the adventure of peace

small minds swing on the play toys of power

history yet nurses on the blood of the envied

her roots entangled in the bones of the quelled

the conqueror's of evil bind the dove in chains

her olive branch stripped to whip the bad

the righteous empire uses the trappings of faith

to dispose of God, their collateral pawn

their every move reflects the will of God

on their journey to victory, in the excitement to win

they chase the leaders of the world they choose

clothed in the muck from the swamp of their lies

kingdoms lay on the gurney of destruction

wronged and mocked by infidelities to justice

small egos rule the halls of conquest

their ribald spirits re-imaging the world

through tales their blind tell themselves:

that the darkness they see reflects the light

along this  path many nations journey

in pursuit of empire fashioned by their hands

rulers of fancy chasing the need for image

they guide their flock toward an acridly flavored life

i'm in a hole beneath this earth

my sissified stance following me

ev'ry bit of failure i find

within my sissy-self

Christ shoves me toward the hill

where i haven't the guts to spill

to walk mightily in his footsteps

boldly through his blood

where i enter the earth to bury my struggles

i trip o'er Christ's nails and pleas

take me far away from the Three Days of darkness

take me far from the Three Blind Nights

i hate to walk with the cross askew

i wish springs would pour o'er my feet

bearing within my bosom as in a sack

i stumble along the road to life

with fragments of evil

a lust for blood

a taste for liberation

the fruits of the Curse

but what do i want?

is it here in the baggage of time;

the dream of my fathers' enslaver:

to be a master, to direct a life;

to trust a God nearer than a breath?

i sweat as if i weren't a broken vessel

leaking and seeping at the seams

earthworms nibbling at my feet

death enclosing the hole

with Death i descend into the pit

Life gathering me into its folds 

                               proclaim

this we must always proclaim

in spite  of our weakness, our

perversions, our addictions, our

fears, our culture, our aversions:

that God created the body good

as an image of God's self 

and we must honor it in respect

without shame, glorying in 

its mystery and the joy
that it brings now and forever

midst our

tears, the

spilling of

our blood,

the pains and

joys of living

you, God, are

silently present

weeping and

bleeding with

us joyful in

your love for us

as you call us to

awaken to ourselves

which is to awaken

to you ever

by our side

*Everyone carries within him/herself the imperishable Spirit.  The inner Observer of all that goes on in the mind and psyche of humankind and in the operations of their organs of sensation and action.  Because of its presence within the innermost heart, and however veiled it might be through effects of forgetfulness, it nevertheless still communicates to the soul a thirst for transcendence.
-Victor Danner



one of those things

jesus walked through the front door of a church and stumbled
the congregants arose and shooed him out the door
he sat at the entry pounding on the iron doors
hoping someone might come with a glass of water
he tried speaking but abuse was poured into his ears
wanting to say i'm more than you imagine
but who'd listen once the cops were called
their sirens wailing as the priest raised the Host
they dragged him down the steps as a loiterer
shoving him into the wagon, beating his head
while all in church proceeded peacefully
believers happy that their worship was clean

What do you gain by winning the world but destroying yourself?
-Mark 8:36


gargoyles watch the corners of our lives

1. Home-front

vigilantes guard the empty streets
guns in hand, poised to shoot the shadowed ghosts

creative initiators of group think

secret codes summon comrades to arms

their eyes watching strangers passing by

insiders pass inspection by winking their eyes
they're the ones with guns fixed at your head

big brother peeps o'er our shoulders without shame

eyes staring at us as a warning

trained to pounce on words deemed illegal

ready to drag us to the cages of the condemned

it's freedom that must be preserved at the price of condemnation
freedoms founded on judaic-christian codes
laws, once decent, now packaged to exclude
selective suppression to preserve the status quo

2.War-front

bring home the bodies aerated by bullets
tell the nation of their noble cause
they tried to break the systems of domination
join the enemy to view life through their eyes
unaccepted were their efforts at equality
they sealed their efforts by firing their guns

3.  Church-font

upon catherdrals' corners sit gargoyles sporting smiles
grotesque and comical, inviting a quest
why do the nations rage, sending their young to war
while the initiators of conflict rest covered in their beds?

though wars are won one dead soldiers at a time

the knights are guarded by the gargoyles of stone

their names erased as we trod upon their graves

i sit here funky
in a not so easy easy-chair
tired, back aching
thigh pulsing, bowels not moving
waiting to awake enough
to read or stand or walk about
while thoughts and problems
pester my mind

i'm tired more than an ox circling an immobile stake
grinding corn of which it cannot partake
am i sick of conscientiousness
conscious enough to do something like
form a club, write a letter
go ballistic, be depressed
something on a Monday afternoon
listless in the summer heat
listening to myself complain
about this and that

where is God when you need him
as if needs the only use for him

perhaps i'll feel better
once my constipation's gone
and i am up and about
spirited again

When people are saying

"Peace and security", 

then sudden disaster comes upon them

like pain upon a woman in labor,

and they will not escape.

-1 Thessalonians 5:3

i pray against empire

against it's pledge of universal freedom

a copy-cat mickey-mouse way of living

where ev'ry mall repeats another

and we kill ourselves striving to look alike

"God, spare the world this imitative curse"

i pray against empire

against its pledge of universal freedom

informers with patriotic scent

stir toilets to analyze ingredients therein

where ev'ry enemy of mine will be theirs

and i'll be suspect when i finger their friends

i pray against empire

against its pledge of universal freedom

protective pulp circles the fearful seed

and like religious kitsch fills its emotional needs

moments of humor are primed by sitcoms

the last laugh for all being History's ghost

i pray against empire

against its pledge of universal freedom

the poor are snuffed, intellectuals spurned

the arts are targeted as corrupters of youth

the military machine drives the minds of most

distinguishing not between friend or foe

i pay against empire

against its pledge of universal freedom

peace and security no one can give

when your mind's not free and your spirit's chained

for fear smothers freedom, love frees one up

the kingdom of the human always tragically ends

i pray against empire

against its pledge of universal freedom