BRONTOSAURUS HEAD

The head of the Brontosaurus erupted in debate spewing money
Sufficient to make some paleontologists’ living for a generation
Disputes between Diplodocus and Apatosaurus founded careers
Like echoing museums and marble floors endowed at great expense
By Foundation money dug up from trusts held of bones in marble mausoleums
Bequeathing Jurassic skeletons cast in plaster (priceless petrified bones coffered)
Camarasaurs and Albertasaurs petrified along with zooplankton and algae’s
Fossilized extract fueling the Canadian economy in that same province holding
The Tyrrell Museum’s complete Tyrannosaurus skeleton with its detached head
Heavy as unintelligible words detached from syntax and evacuated of the themes
Wallace Stevens faulted Robert Frost’s poetry for—poetry made neither a living—
Who spilled words on paper like colors on an abstract painting’s canvass evacuated
Of recognizable content, more art history than paleontology, also palaeontology—
Unrecognized by spellcheck as an extinct word dug up and displayed in a muse

MEDIA CHRISTIANS AND CHRISTMAS EVE

Today is Christmas Eve.  Christians celebrate Christmas.  I don’t wish to impose my holy day on the rest of the world, but it seems like that’s the way things are going, these days.  Nevertheless, I am grateful to live in a free society that allows me to celebrate according to my religious tradition, as I think all religions should.  I called tech support for my computer a while back and got a tech in India.  He turned down the volume on his end to dampen the background noise from the Durga-Puja festival which was going on in his neighborhood.  He and I had a wonderful conversation about Hinduism, which I had studied in grad school.  I even have a statuette of Sarasvati on my desk—the Goddess of learning, music, and poetry.

I self-identify as a Christian.  A Christian of the Swedenborgian Denomination.  Let’s establish that from the get-go.  Also, I am a Christian pastor.  But what does that mean?  What does that mean to you?  What does that mean to me?  It may very well be that what it means to me is not what it means to you.  The operative question is who gets to define what Christians are?

Unfortunately, I believe that the media get to define what Christians are.  News media tell stories about Christians—often in relation to politics.  And I think that a lot of people get their ideas about what Christians are from new stories.  However, we need to understand that the media are profit-driven enterprises.  Their reporting has to sell.  I’ve spoken with journalists who say that anger and outrage are good “hooks” to draw in viewers or readers.  If that is true, then the Christians we will encounter in media may well be Christians who generate outrage, are outrageous.  I hope that, as a Christian, I do not generate outrage.  At least I try not to.

Then there are Evangelicals.  I have issues with evangelism, itself.  I’m sure that Evangelicals are as sincere in their faith as am I, but I tend to resent people trying to make me think as they do.  I am a student of religions.  So I have a keen interest in others’ understandings of ultimate reality.  But I prefer to learn about others by inquiry, not by their imposition upon my free thought.  You can see Evangelicals on street corners yelling at people and shoving tracts at you.  Since this kind of Christian is loud and prominent, many define Christians by them.  My frustration with this is probably evident.  Also, there are televangelists.  Anybody can turn on their television and watch a program featuring a Christian preacher.  Often, perhaps usually, televangelists tend to be Evangelicals, which I am not.  I have a friend who owns a multi-million-dollar cigar company.  He always tells me that I should become a televangelist.  He says that that is where all the money is.  He also dated an Evangelical Christian for a while, and keeps telling me what he thinks Christians believe, though he is not a believer in any faith that I know of.  But I don’t hold to a lot of the tenets his former girlfriend held to, and I didn’t go into Christian ministry to make a lot of money.  My Christianity has little in common with televangelists.

For me, Christianity means living by Jesus’ teachings about love.  And I understand that to mean love for people inside and outside one’s own belief system.  The Good Samaritan was a Samaritan—a race despised by the Jewish Orthodoxy of which Jesus was a member, but not a strict follower.  This tells me that Jesus promoted religions other than His own, even religions despised by members of His own Jewish Orthodoxy.  So for me, Christian love extends to all peoples of good-will: Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Taoists, Jews, atheists, and peoples of good-will whom I haven’t mentioned.  And love seeks to establish friendships, and to promote good-will.  When I say that I am a Christian, sometimes I worry that people will understand that to mean I am a media Christian, who seem to get all the press, or an Evangelical.  Practicing Christianity for me means seeking to find good in every situation and to be an agent for that good.  But I practice quietly, privately, and some might even say in stealth mode.  My Muslim friends, my Jewish friends, my Zoroastrian friends, and my Hindu friends enjoy my company, I think, and I their company.  That kind of harmony is how I understand Christian love, is the kind of Christian I try to be.  I am a definition of Christianity as much as are televangelists, Evangelicals, Catholics, or media Christians.  Maybe that kind of Christian, and there are lots like me, doesn’t make for good news stories.  Any more than the moderate peace-loving Muslims I know make for good news stories.  But that’s no reason for me to stop calling myself Christian.

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are times especially for me to relax and let love be, to let myself be an agent of love, and to remember and renew old friendships, to enjoy family.  As a Christian in this world, it is a time for me to reflect on Jesus’ friendship with Pharisees, tax collectors, prostitutes, rabbis, Samaritans, and Lebanese.  In a broken and fragmented world, Jesus yet has a message of healing and unity for Christians and/or others of good-will.   

A DIALOGUE OF UNITED STATES HISTORY

I told the French tourist I met in a bar that he had it all wrong
He said that the United States was founded by criminals kicked out of Europe
Later, I read about forced labor in Virginia imposed on British criminals
Deported British criminals condemned to indentured servitude in the United States
Who bought land and settled upon serving out their sentence

I told the French tourist that it was Pilgrims seeking freedom in the New World
He didn’t know that America was a Protestant colony
That began in the east and conquered the west
Despite all those Spanish Catholic city names already in the west when they got there
The settled land, missions, and mansions confiscated upon their arrival

Colonists defined the Indigenous Peoples in categories deported from European philosophy,
The Pilgrims’ descendants wrote peace contracts with fraudulent intent
Breach of contract, broken word, and the deported First Nations are defined as criminals
Forts, armies fighting to keep the broken peace treaties on the warpath
And yet each year we fondle the Thanksgiving story about Pilgrims and benevolent Indians

British Protestants founded the new colonies in the name of African blood
And enslaved African human beings laid the bricks of Jefferson’s Monticello
Who, in turn, wrote them out of his Declaration of Independence
While European criminals stole, sold, bought human lives and established these United States:
Conceived in slavery and dedicated to the proposition of disparity: of, by, and for criminals

PLOUGHMEN DIG NOT FOR ME

Businessmen do not drink my wine
The man in the suit has not bought a new car
From any profit he made off my dreams
Though dreams I have, have dreamed, dream

I’ve imbibed conventional wisdom’s grasp on the vitality of dreams
That dreams make a life out of otherwise existence
Aethereal dreams awaken into materiality, matter’s reality;–all real
Nobody can doubt the reality of a dream and live

One doesn’t dream in terms written by dollars and status
Defined in the lexicon legislated by ledger books
Businessmen withdraw from intangibles that weigh golden hopes
Dream reality resists materialism and yet materializes

Whole symphonies deconstruct as ones and zeros in a cloud somewhere
And Bach’s C-Moll Passacaglia is pulses of air
But digital scans and air differentials don’t explain to ears
The mystery that is a melody—even if construed through standing wave proportions

Sometimes my pen dreams in ink dots materializing on a musical staff
The keys on my piano reverberate beats my heart feels
Manifesting the immaterial into the physical world
While air waves question what they, themselves, are doing

At other times, words grow out of my consciousness
Planted in ink and tree pulp tending to a poem’s making
My pen glides across the blank, white sheet in dark lines
To become a dream of some distant reader in my mind: a virtual reality

Nobody pays me for my dreams.  No.
I grunt and sweat under a heavy timeclock on my back
No ploughman digs earth for me
I’ve dug my own footings on which the whole world is built for me

My grandmother told me I wasn’t very good at making money
When I was an impoverished grad student
Even now, I don’t make much money, nor have creditable prospects
Yet I’m good at making, dreaming, making dreams live

Making for me is as making money for businessmen
I’m good at living without much money, without much interest in making money
Dreams pay me more than dollars, when I have money
I lack really for nothing but dreams fulfill

THE MYSTICISM OF US

It’s a strange mysticism, about you
Sometimes it’s like you’re not another person
We’re so close, I’m you and you’re me, too
One current into which two streams run

There was a time before you, which was no time
Time began the time of our lives blending
The ordinary world became sublime
And moments, days, and years have no ending

That space in which the clock’s hands cease to move
Is when I’m with you; then time is our own
And we make heaven of our faith and love
In a kingdom bounded by our union

I got by before you, you before me
But time was meaningless; moments absent
Looking back, I see my life as empty
Successes seemed so unimportant

All that changed when you dawned like the sun
On the darkest morning of the year
And our two lives intertwined into one
Each in each other makes our heaven here

WINTER INDOORS

Outside, the snow witnesses the cold
Early on the clock, darkness falls
This, the Solstice, the year’s darkest day
When we anticipate the coming of Light

The light of a small candle flame
Set before a Sarasvati statuette, Goddess
For students, musicians, poets; for me
In my indoors, today, I contemplate poetry

Made not of special poetic language only
Or a language obfuscated out of meaning
Rather, rhetoric coalesced around meaning
Truth in perfect words

Musings shining in my small Christmas tree’s lights
Every cloth gnome, owl, snowman, and mouse on it a gift
A cup of tea on the end-table next me
A pad of paper, my favorite pen, and ink on the page

Settling into a season I’m reluctant to accept
Seeing it coming in the early autumn sunset
On an outdoor patio of a favorite coffee shop
Thinking, then, about the candle, cup of tea, Christmas lights

Just as well, I don’t have any money
And COVID has closed most businesses
Locked us down, mandated us homebound
I take refreshment in the piercing candle flame

COFFEE HOUSE

Way back, I went to one Coffee House
Folk music, acoustic guitar, harpsichord
Hot chocolate, and coffee; dim lights
The only Coffee House I ever went to

            they don’t have them, now

Simon and Garfunkel; Peter, Paul, and Mary
And there was Dylan—Coffee Houses and folk music
Poetic, political, sensitive, intellectual, gently passionate
Or so I hear, but for the one I experienced

            passing away as I came of age

I knew rock concerts in stadia, electric, loud
I went to them when they were underground
(Jethro Tull barely filled the cement floor with folding chairs)
Now rock concerts, rock-stars are mainstream industry

            underground surfacing into pop-culture dominance

Music calling to my youthful intentions heavy and I followed
Bore down on scales, arpeggios, mambos, and fugues
Theory filled my interests; I practiced hours daily in late youth
Until two roads diverged; I divested my passion of full-time art work

            conscious submerging into secret recesses, private

In maturity I must modulate my practice time
Rest and build up piano-specific muscles otherwise unused
Not unlike the arthritis in the great E. Power Biggs’ Bach fingers
My wrists, shoulder, hurt, ribs stiffen

            to replay scales, chords, changes

Modulation of effort’s tonality
Depressing keys, depressing decrepitude
Making music’s exercise caution
Within all this beauty, this duet of body and keystroke

            we all call music in our cultural forms’ venues

I recently checked out a new club
I couldn’t follow any pattern to the loud bass tones
A woman wrapped herself in a flag while singing
A song I couldn’t pick out any real melody: only notes

            looks like things are going that way now

I went in and out of a club
Lights flashing, beats oscillating
I think they call it Techno
Bodies bumping into shots dancing

            Looks like things are going that way now

PRECIPITATE

In the chemistry lab
I have observed solids
Precipitate out of solutions
Flaking out of liquid

Watched many different precipitates
Float down, materializing solids
Emerge out of dissolved
State into solidity, precipitate

And snowflakes are precipitates
When supersaturated air chills
Water crystalizes into solid
Flakes lilting in air

Beautiful, floating, dancing swirls
Render in me peace
Watching out my window
The delicate descending snowflakes

Just a chemical precipitate
Like any other solid
Flaking out of solution
In the chem lab

Depending on the eye
What will be seen?
Snowflakes, called a precipitate,
Crystalline flakes dreamily falling

Drifting flakes’ floating beauty
Chemical equations possess beauty
Conceptually considered intellectual beauty
Reflecting the flakes’ beauty

Not that magical spell
Snowflakes cast on me
Watching out my window
Through my peaceful mind

ON THE ACUPUNCTURE TABLE

Challenge

It is a challenge for me,
As and because I so often challenge myself,
To lie and not move on an acupuncture table
With fine needles in meridians for 40 minutes

Challenging, to do nothing, motionless, for 40 minutes
And what do I have to do?  Shift?  Watch TV, motionless on the couch?
I heal and restore ch’i flow, prone for 40 minutes
My mind blanks and goes I don’t know where, stress relieves

The Hindu Balason Nithya healer scanned me with her third eye and said
I put pressure on myself (she almost said, “stress,” and corrected it)
Her insight astounded me; her call, so right
(Though her guru, Paramahamsa Nithyananda, fled India on rape charges)

I can’t seem to rest and go about the task at hand
Always there are new challenges, a new way to
Make myself anxious, upset, disappointed, with accomplishment’s attempts
And also elated, thrilled, satisfied, with accomplishment

But I’ve been all that before, even in my early 20’s
When I once wrote that I’ve had it all enough for proud contentment
Then, the Balasonic observation manifests again in me—probably
Why it’s hard to lie motionless on the acupuncture table for 40 minutes

Salve

It is, perhaps, something different
To configure my consciousness for happiness
And even as I ponder this, happiness cracks through dour
Cracks through pressure upon the self

Since that happiness nature gifted me
Abruptly caved with bipolar depression
And dancing through the day stumbled
Crashing pleasant drives to do, drive crashed

Craving accomplishment as its own only reward
(I had nothing else)—the ordinary happiness
Gifted us all by nature that made bartenders glad to see me
Such a dance, too, made it difficult to be still

Passive knowing supplanting activity begetting
Now that conscious configuration of consciousness requisite
To render happiness.  And why not crack through dour?
(Without getting into too much trouble)

As a madcap without Hal’s royal safeguard
Can engender, has engendered, by this cutup
When I fancied myself my own legislator
Endearing trouble to this now reflexology of mirth

Reflecting that mirth be a matter of adjustment
Of only consciousness, and it may be that Creative Energy
Is configured toward our several happiness, all
If we but configure toward Its end

THE PLACARD’S LIE

I recall a placard
That said a knight’s
First charge was to
Protect the Catholic Church

I knew this was
Is wrong.  Knights protected
Their liege.  Only Templars
Protected the Catholic Church

This placard was in
A museum of armor
In a city dominated
By the Catholic Church

On my birthday my
Girlfriend surprised me and
Took me to that
Museum because she knew

How much I loved
The Chivalric Romance genre
From a Harvard course
I was taking then

What still bothers me
Is why that placard
Misrepresented what is true
In that Catholic city

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