3:33:33

the moment of a thought

of some stirring of wonder

of images of a world cut

sliced by forces both bad and good

both in whatever directions they take

to heal the illness of the human snake

of us pretenders of the best of most

hankered down with tortures in mind

laying in us as if some illness or bomb

some good Friday execution show

lifted on high as prelude to the ghost

we sit upon our stolen thrones

awaiting to be proclaimed a king 

*Who would want to drink at a dried-up spring?  In the spiritual order everything is spontaneity and beginning.

-Jean Sulivan

*Faith is not communicated by means  of doctrine only, but in spite of and apart from it, to everyone who believes that something opens up beyond human experience.

-Jean Sulivan

nonsensical tort

how many faces

how many faces

how many faces look past us
staring into many faces
that look like madness
washing upon the noses of noise
with coloring jokes
and visions in red?

how many can you imagine
here  there  wherever they stare
crazily you'd say
toward those things over there?

go! search the limits of madness
in the legends of the sane.
go quickly while the gas blows
and i am fuming apart



*The rebel is uninterested in ordinary purposes: growth, the standard of living, success, respectability. How could she feel guilty about this when she sees so many others passionately concerned about them, and with such high seriousness, finding them the only reason for existence?  Her mission is to point to absence - it's not exactly her mission, more her nature.  Amidst prophets who have become publicity agents, she invites us to make the world revolution in ourselves.  Her only merit is to accept silence and solitude on days when she is tempted to quit.  But no one should mistake her for an ascetic or a sage.  I'm impressed that she wants almost nothing. She hardly dares call herself Christian. Another word would be needed, more modest,
-Jean Sulivan


*Be suspicious of the rebel who uses her insurrection as stepladder.
-Jean Sulivan

locked in the prisons of lust and want, of needs and gravied-envy
some where in the disturbed rooms of the universe
find me the naked voices that cries, "Free!" "Free!"  "Free!"

find them, find them quickly
that I might freely walk where the stumbled children run
where the ghosts of pain stalk the caged and limping clan
and I'll spit upon their eager stare, their lumbering dust
when like angel fish they swim in and out of victims lives
wanting everything, everyone, every-every they can hound
and as if on broken bones build stairs upon which they walk

oh, the screaming seeping through the walls
sounds like children playing in the open fields
they're the language of naked voices not free
prisoners chained in isolation wards

who cares? who cares?
they're clothed like the rest of human kin
staring without hope for some change in the air
for a key that might set them free
bursting gates, wrenching bars
flattening hills, supporting dikes

they scream, scream, scream toward the strangled air
toward absent ears in their empty world
they scream as if music was the song
emitted from throats that have no space to float

but life continues on
on until the parousia breaks
breaks open the dungeons in our minds

"a fire!"

what's to be said

holding high ones red-hand

waiting as the buildings burn

falling

smashing the sorry-heads of the thin beggars

expecting the black-hands of executioners

longing and fuming like free tigers

with revenge upon history's sequestered deeds

"please, no!", might be spoken

or nothing perhaps but "oh!"

how thorough their wretched bodies burn

as we stand  in guardian gear

before the catafalques bearing their whitened bones

their lost and near forgotten charge

their slaves postured on the auction blocks

wanting release from the buried mem'ries in the sea

and the battered souls of their human kin

aching for their home

their fields

making new flesh

for their brothers and sisters to mend

oh, how high the raging flames unfurl 

what does one hope to find in silence:
a revelation floating on air;
some sound that's beyond revelation;
an emotionless guilt emitted by a crowd?

oh,the quiet of our discoveries!
the hidden movement of failing arms:
how these sensate trappings flail us
causing us to hide from their useful thrusts

i shed tears at the release of some longing,
of a girl who's well less my age
whose black face and hair and grace
touches the secret longings of the race

and though her voice stretches to the ceiling
where the ears within the hallowed church
hear the sweet reminisces of our swallowed his'try
shout hallelujahs, laughs while trickling tears

silence sits within these joyful hearts
rumbling for the release of childhoods' ghosts
which is each and ev'ry colored pris'ner
staring through her verbal prison

in the woods that we walked
to this moment of celebration
in the silence of our hearts
with the scars from our hearth



*Is it so terrible to enter eternity while still alive?
-Jean Sulivan


*Hardly anyone wants "truths made for the feet, truths that can dance".
-Jean Sulivan

ascension blues

before the moon rose and night disappeared
Jesus rose on an orange streak of day
plucking clover leaves before doubtful eyes

with 40 days and 40 nights of off-again, on-again sights
with fish-frys and rumblings about a kingdom come
twas time to go, push off above
kick back, fly high, say good-bye
split the scene and return above
leaving these independents to muddle on their own
spilling blood and building up
speaking truth while skirting lies

he promised an Advocate that'll come in view
to guide them through the bumbling life
a Spirit through them who'd infiltrate the world

so lest these crown him and mar his quest
he beat it out of there, lifting in a flash
with angels watching, stiff in shifts

he blew the scene as the disciples watched
they scurrying south toward the upper room
moaning Ascension Blues as only the disciples could




*It's not enough to transform apostles into community organizers, to have Jesus enter Jerusalem on a motorcycle, or to turn Simon of Cyrene into an immigrant worker.  It's right to admire the generosity and rigor of activists and agree with their criticisms of Christian society.  But at the same time something is missing: they believe too much in their own analyses and proposals, they identify too much with human hopes.  It all lacks fantasy, humor, and ultimately, interior freedom - eternal life here and now.
-Jean Sulivan


*The Holy Spirit is not necessarily linked to miracles or prophecy, as Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians, but to active love and general life-orientation.
-Jean Sulivan

*From

the orange

knows

so does

the onion

so do

I

when

I

embrace

gently

the silence

-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

*Blind

I do not

hurry

because

listen

more

because

touch

more gently

because

I long

to

see

-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

ascension

up Jesus up
rise before the knuckle-heads know what hit 'em

push them off into the frightening night
beyond the scenes of dark and death
into hungry towns of gin and dying

send them out while mem'ry eggs them
send them out into the world of our making
where hatred's  bold and violence real
where blood spills and lying's easy

as your feet dangle from the engulfing clouds
send them toward coffee shops brewing with snares
with tongues of fire as the Spirit seers

but don't look back cause you'll drop in shock
to see what's been done with the promise you've made:
our burgling the poor and coveting wealth
cloaking your dreams neath rivers of blood

but alive somewhere with the grace of suff'ring
some Elect pray down your merciful love
off'ring forgiveness and love as your kingdom-vision
somewhere tween fissures bisecting our minds



*The apostle of our time does not have the social prestige of earlier times; he is incapable of glorying in his role of crying victory, thereby arousing envy or hostility.  Living more deeply, he experiences his own unbelief so well that he is the brother of atheists and unbelievers, not just in intention and words - that is, in illusion. The Word of the Gospel and of the Church has become so much his own that he is a humble innkeeper who rejects no one, whom one feels the need to visit, whether to be quiet or to talk,  just as one visits a healer or guru - although he has nothing in common with a guru.  Lucid, cured of many hopes and fears, no more virtuous than anyone else, capable of solicitude and silence, without need of recognition, skilled in reading on someone's lips words other than those that were spoken, in gently uncovering the lie within sincerity, he's not afraid of enjoying himself, without which one can't give to anyone else.
-Jean Sulivan

the "never were a people" people

we never woke to the question

 of why we kill each other

we, the "never were a people" people

the violent sea encrusted us 

wrenched our tongues, ruined our cults

shamed our mem'ry, entombed our hearts

visual nightmares we became

bought and crushed in kind

with cursed flesh and raped minds

hating ourselves, we're an outside people

hooked on cash and guns to our heads

cloning Thurmond our peculiar pride

our heritage's been can't even when we can

disturbing the shamed while entertaining lust

tempting death and cutting up

oh, what his'try won't tell us

and what mem'ries contextually hide

encased neath dysfunctions learned over years

a negroid people of shades many disliked

how difficult in democracy to incorporate 

no matter how right our flesh or proper our fare

can't love black, only the whiter flesh

a people caught in the slaying of kin

bungling our way to the economic top

but somewhere in the midst of our shadowy cross

the faithful poor mirror the body as one

somewhere tween heaven and the longings of earth

what we seek are sweet words, lying, at best

that melt the wax while walling up truth

burying images in a cauldron of dross

so listen hard to the difficult truth

discard the pablum served with lye

and crave true stories that strengthen the heart

*Transformation of mind and heart, interior justice, that's what concerns apostles.

-Jean Sulivan

*-As long as the priest is primarily a functionary of the sacred, the professional of the parade-ground - that is, as long as he constitutes a caste - Christian communities will not arrive at real responsibility any more than the soldiers of a regiment, in spite of all the adjustments made under the pressure of circumstances.

-Jean Sulivan

letter from prison

i.

it wasn't as if we didn't see them
we walked past them as if
they weren't there

they were in front of us, in earshot
and wanted to get our attention
or something like that

they were tall and skinny
pale and talking trash and
never  said nothing like hi
when i spoke to them about
using the word nigga

i confess my sin
i shot them where it hurt
for i forgot myself
being angry real quick
cause it seemed they forgot themselves
and mocked us blacks
as they was white and in their box
and we was out, like nowhere near
even in pretense or suppose

ii.

jail, however, may never
explain the pain, their lies

these lay in the heart
on a sofa or a lounge
bottled and shut
their poison locked from release
dependent on the speaker's words
too set them free

made no difference cause
my anger was visceral
and needed to stand tall
when the air was hot

for what else was i to do
but be loyal to myself
and shot the fools?

a patriotic cancer




*Transformation of mind and heart, interior justice, that's what concerns apostles.
-Jean Sulivan


*As long as the priest is primarily a functionary of the sacred, the professional of the  parade-ground - that is, as long as he constitutes a caste - Christian communities will not arrive at real responsibility any more than the soldiers of a regiment, in spite of all the adjustments made under the pressure of circumstances.
-Jean Sulivan

As strange as this

Friendship is rare

Fellowship rarer

Brotherhood impossible

when you flee the one

you slept with many years

Talk never heals the rift

Healings hardly assured

Release would be reward

but sin lives off fear

a parasitical strength sucking

as a ghost gnawing at your side

Lost above the stars

a wayward plane shoots across the sky

blowing snot from its

nose

It's as strange as this

*Waiting for Warmth

the water is running

as I stand before the mirror

waiting for it to warm

to wash, shave and comb my hair

waiting, too, for something else

a coldness in me to go

in the light of a love

that won't run out as I grow old

in this winter a stillness stirs

my eyes pool

a spring clears my way

washing me with tear

-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

*Hatch

what

the winged life

wants

is

to be

outside

in the open

commerce 

of hearts

where

nothing

is

bought

or

sold

-Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

*Pity is appropriate for dealing with individuals, not situations.

-Jean Sulivan

heartland

you slipped into my second dream

as if someone known for a log time

a muse born of ecstasy

suddenly needing to reappear

to talk to, listen to

walk with from room to room

bespeckled and pleasant-faced

slow-paced, observant

we moved about the eerie space

conversing in the heartland of grace

shifting to where'er it brought us:

a mud bank, a school, a broken home

until the time arrived to break the mood

and i awoke wanting you again

to traipse as far as a dream would take us

*Believers who are mystics have always been a lowly race, repressed for a long time.  Such confidence, and obedience not necessarily passive, is the path of a very difficult race of people who are in touch with the absolute.  They are usually people of silence, without necessarily being quiet.  They show a certain healthiness, a disinterest in religion and doctrinal abstractions that will save them.  They start off in the right direction.  It seems to be enough for them to believe without too many illusions in the spiritual experience of their Church.  Although they've never had an illumination, a loving faith is at the center of their life.

-Jean Sulivan

heartland

you slipped into my second dream

as if someone known for a long time

a muse born of ecstasy

suddenly needing to reappear 

to talk, to listen to

walk with from room to room

bespeckled and pleasant-faced

slow-paced, observant

we moved about the eerie space

conversing in the heartland of grace

shifting to where'er it brought us:

a mud bank, school, a broken home

until the time arrives to break the mood

and i awoke wanting you again

to traipse as far as a dream would take us

*Passionate love is only a momentary eruption if it's not expressed in fidelity.  But fidelity can just as easily mean ossification as love.

-Jean Sulivan

*...faith is always a beginning, a succession of beginnings.

-Jean Sulivan  

to want what You want

we gods will be gods 

no matter what

but 

"All matter of things shall be well"

in spite of us clowns

the wonder is
that You love us

stuck in the mire of our stinky lives

in the stench-ponds of our shit and graves

carrying on 

loving like no other would 

a red tomato

brightening the potato patch 

Mothers Day

Those strange days:

the fire underground...

the eerie brotherhood...

an oasis of peace...

We grew up

searching for what we missed

for the end-time redemption

when ev'ry portion of being

is handed down on gold plates

melting as the years eased by

Don't know what to feel

Each bone is chopped gravy

sliding about on orange crates

empty-spaces of our hereafter

But some promise will slide into view

and we'll touch the longed-for paradise

I sit here weeping for what was missed

longing for the ne'er to be enriching

tears tearing up lost dreams

and my spirit wond'ring when to fly

That time, that time has arrived

and I'm ready to step empty from walkabouts

to find a new space for living

allowing some peace to settle in 

I didn't raise the flag

when the corpse was lowered

when the body became seed

planted for another war.

I wept as the volleys rang

and the awesome silence revealed the truth.

For these dead are fodder

feeding the machines of revenge

are raked into piles like dry leaves

to be burned on the funeral pyre.

There's a question that I raise.

There's protest of this charade.

Why aren't the marshals of this holocaust

the first ones in the grave?

*To want to bring the Gospel back to its source - to let it be difficult, to refuse to turn it into cultural gruel - is this showing scorn for simple people?  For how many years I've heard that refrain.  The simple people, it's worth saying once more, have a spontaneous affinity for spiritual things.  It is the enlightened ones, rather, who think they possess the meaning of the message and keep cooking up gruel for the unsophisticated. They're the ones who show contempt by treating people like dunces and justifying the repression and guilt which consolidate their power. When I hear them I think of an old man leaning over a child and using baby talk; there's an ironic gleam in the eyes of the child that says, "Lay off, dummy!"

Genuine love of men  and women is shown first by rejecting the crowd as such.  That's what the Gospel does: it leaves the love of humanity to politicians.

-Jean Sulivan

Seeing through the blood

In one word, tears flowed as blood
spotting  my face, my flesh, my outer garb
as ev'ry inch of reputation built o'er years
washed down the drain of history.

Truth will do this to you
when the mirror's cleared of deflecting jell
when scabbed sores drain clean of pus
stored o'er the pain of covert sins.

Truth will be this as a word
of sorrow for deeds in ignorance wrought
or curiosity in search of light
for in blindness humans fail
are clowns in sad-face stumbling in the ring
searching for some treasure hidden in the soul
or resting 'neath layers of a burdened heart.

Truth's a word of freedom from the crucified
a dirge rising from the fallen blood
a song for the sinner and the sinned
beyond barren musings of a  faulting mouth.

For it's seeing through the blood that counts
that lays the path for a story's telling;
there the Spirit soothes the rawness of the shattered soul
reflecting rays of the exposing Sun.



*Whatever shows itself in the light of day begins as a passion in the consciousness of an individual.  None of us realize our own resources.  The more we reach into the basket, the more bred there is. We give what we don't have.
-Jean Sulivan


*Leaven has to be leaven: that's the only thing that will lift up the mass.  Pressure techniques are the worst kind of betrayal. "Go, teach ye all nations" - but you have to preach inner change.
-Jean Sulivan

Is freedom a return to bondage?

When from our exile

we run screamin' and fussin'

it's not because we hate llivin'

but that the barbeque's gone.

We sit at empty tables

wond'ring what happened

on the fields of the slaughtered.

A depressing state of aloneness

longing the abandoned Massa

while starvin' on the savannas

awaiting a motive to claim it

permission to want to live.

What might we be in Egypt

while Nile rivulets run sweet

where frog legs abound for breakfast

and the Massa makes us clean?

Is this a place for visions?

Is wisdom worth seizing here?

Is freedom a return to bondage

when the Lord has set you free?

There is power in that moment

when truth might cause you bleed

when visions are looking forward

toward unimagined lands.

*I see the Church discoverinrg a style.  Let it cease to tire itself out by repeating laws and principles.  Let the Church give life to its own, to those who come to it freely and joyously.  Let them grow in the good and evil of life in this world of horse-racing, lotteries, TV, and pornography.  There's no time to lose by fighting all that.  Vice is natural, futility is natural.  Let the Church provide the powerful nourishment of the Word, which is always critical, but at a deeper level.  I see the Church detaching its members from structures of profit, conventional security, and mythologies of happiness in order to make them spiritual nomads, capable of commitment without illusion, always ready to absent themselves in order to go somewhere else, straining for the impossible and necessary.

Such joyous men and women exist, capable of invention and fantasy, both close by and far away, unpredictable, alone or in hundreds of scattered communities.  The thousand hearts of the world koinonia beat in them.

-Jean Sulivan