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i know now that love sometimes makes a promise it cannot keep
sometimes you must say yes
when you mean no there is a kindness that you never learned in the lie
for how can the soul be content with less than god?
I hear the burble of his voice, its words indistinct, and a laugh cascade lazily again through the crowd.
lost mother and father and town the children and wife and dignity i
will never have and i cannot care to miss—just dust on the road behind us
have loved you more than i have loved anything. you can’t forget
the whole of my life before and since i have broken every promise i ever made so that i might more perfectly serve that one
but my heart is so broken broken is not even right. it is a pulverized thing. a bruised, uncabled tissue, its fibres relaxed and purpling with pooling cooling curdling blood. fruit rotting to succulence
it can’t mean that so it doesn’t mean that and it’s all forgotten while the snow of history falls on the living and the dead
how is it that they could kill him but
i am what died
be as kind to others as you are to yourself be as kind to yourself as you are to others that’s it
pile up the holy books like driftwood on the beach swarming with lice and crawl with them dig and bite and try to find something to eat in the ink and hair and you will go hungry language picked clean to the bone
who could write love when the sediment of history is crushing to powder to new stone turning marvels and monstrosities to marble instead let the mountain and the rock hide me let the water cold and new trickle amid the dust where i finally sleep
and let the mulch of me the amber sap extruded into souvenir bottles ...
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love is what ruins. love is what costs. love is a flaming sword at our backs a garden left to r...
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i am lost but even in the wilderness, i would know you
how much more true a relic of your crown to leave the bristling spiky hole
in the roof
letting heaven fall till just...
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But the joy of Satan in standing on a peak is not a joy in largeness, but a joy in beholding smallness, in the fact that all men
look like insects at his feet.
The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.
god is love. and love is just this: it is yourself breaking apart
shaken to pieces refashioned entirely and made new love is suffering for each other god and man and life
there is still hope no matter the damage the storm has done
grace isn’t just that is the point of grace
don’t pray in public those that do have already got what they wanted out of it and it had nothing to do with god
kids get it ask for what you want and expect it feel deeply that’s what the world should be now i catch you in museums and cathedrals dandled in your mother’s arms holding a pomegranate you slobber with toothless gums or sneaking gifts to german children and wonder what it must be like:
to grow young again
she made of herself a prayer and she would not have flung away the dignity she had fought for, though i
surviving is easy it’s the other thing that’s hard
nothing is housed in churches and temples and holy places that is not housed in you
can you worry yourself taller?
keep at bay the white of your hair? fear not and keep your faith in what the thief cannot reach and the moth cannot gnaw
resurrection leaves its scars
maybe i will let you wait for me this time
guess we both like the feel of power’s dick
engulf me in the abyss of your goodness
are the indexes of you the bodies you touched and entered and passed through
if i can just die holding you if there can be no moment i wasn’t no measure of it every second i am not touching you is a betrayal so much worse than his
when god died he died whimpering
and people go after the lance for centuries the spear of destiny not grasping it’s the weapon you’re supposed to leave behind in the dust they seek for the living among the dead
a soldier refusing to serve injustice would be a miracle wouldn’t it
didn’t see a miracle. just a dead thing a maker unmade for the strength to walk away saint longinus pray for us
i don’t believe in miracles
i’ve seen too many of them seems to me if i were god then miracles are just what you do to clean up your own fuck-up
you are devils quoting scripture to your purpose you are hearts without love tombs of whitewash, gleaming in the sun full of dead men’s bones
