Where does the end of the world
Meet the beginning
A bottle of rum
And an expensive cigar
Talking with a man
Of letters and rhymes
Adjacent holy writ
And bread and wine
Praying to a God
Of incense and of chimes
How is the map laid out
Betwixt fairy and the earth
And the conversations
That lay us all bare
I will not swim the Tiber
It is not mine to swim
I have my confession and
It is sufficient
But we battle not men
Of earth and flesh
But those of Our Church
Those men of the dirt
They that do believe
But do not believe
That second of greatest
Demands
And they devise
Dementia among us
Derision and dysphoria
And we hide from them
Noah rode us through
The floods of disbelief
Into the promised land
The covenantal relief
How does this coffee
And a guy with a mandolin
Intersect
With salvation
Man does not minister to men
God does
How Long Does It Last?
I wonder.
How long does it last?
How long does the trauma go on?
How long does the rapture proceed?
How long does the euphoria persist?
How long does the angel dance with me?
How long does this fascination last in eternity?
What is the puissance of an extravagant experience?
Do we fare-well the amazement of our generations
when we depart this mortal coil?
What transcends from this place to the next?
What lasts?
The last ship?
The last spike?
The last wish?
What is beyond the pale?
Don’t get me wrong, I savor the Savior.
Don’t get me wrong, I dream of the deliverance.
But what of these sacraments
Of the earth?
And I refer to a lost one of ours,
His cigars and bourbon.
He wasn’t entirely wrong. These things are here.
A note, a scent, a permanence that
Transcends.
Like the incense on the chain,
Swinging the sacred into my space.
Ours is that,
He transcends.
So has he placed among us the
transcendent?
I suspect there’s something
in that last spike, last ship, last moment.
Something that lasts, that becomes longer than this.
I wonder.
If when the ship lifts, are all bills paid?
Or are they immanent and awaiting the next arrival?
Or is the ephemeral but disposable?
Like our tiny microcosm, tossing everything but the sink?
And “you can’t take it with you,”
Does that apply to our notes? Our scents? Our permanence?
Or does it only fit my lunch, or my wallet?
What remains, and what is lost?
Is my evangelical pre-mil dispensational disposition lurking here?
Is it not a gift of lasting latency
to savour, to love, to slip into our deepest pockets
that which drives us to the very center of me, of me, of me?
Lord, thy will be done. Amen.
Holy, Holy, Holy
How can I bring my voice to raise
A single word to thy praise
When my feet I cannot conceal enough
My face I cannot seal
From thy majesty, thy searing gaze
What word of hope is there for me
To reach thy ear in praise
Undone am I beneath your throne
I know no thing to lift me up
My soles are seared upon your ground
My eyes are blind and cannot watch
E’en the shadow of your passing
What breath of hope is there for me
To whisper among your hosts
My sin has poured upon thy fame
A tarnish I cannot remove
That were it washed before my eyes
At once I must expire
Have mercy on me o Adonai
What worth have I to thee
To fall under thy holy train
Despite this dearth of any good
In me that warrants thee
May thy name resound
Throughout my soul
By grace, mercy, Lord save me
Eternity rests in thee
Without thy cross my sin besets me
I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up; and the train of his robe filled the temple. Above him stood the seraphim. Each had six wings: with two he covered his face, and with two he covered his feet, and with two he flew. And one called to another and said:
“Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts;
the whole earth is full of his glory!”
And the foundations of the thresholds shook at the voice of him who called, and the house was filled with smoke. And I said: “Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!” — Isaiah 6:1-5
Paper Screams 