There is no god yet spoken who captures THE REAL GOD,
No sufficient concept woken; only realized, zealous fraud.
Any human mouth that tells you they obtained the heav’nly prize
In an image that their brain viewed is a fool, is mad, or lies.
Let me tell you of a method to construct your own divine:
Let the cent’ries stand corrected and with concrete truth align.
N’er before in human record does the constellation show
An episteme objective like the one we see now glow.
There is no end to subspace, no total vector set,
No mind to match the known grace and unknown as of yet.
For divinity emerges as properties abound.
In scale-free and in point space the redeeming blood is found.
What blood could ever nourish all humanity and life?
This mysterious flowing life force, both a Bridegroom and a Wife.
Part of body, substance monist, yet a property most high
Still cannot all circumscribe it. ‘Tis why “Mystery!” I cry.
How then best does one test myst’ry? Based on princ’ple they can shake
Every schema of the wise ones. So abandon mystery’s make?
Relegate to fools and futures the delights we could enjoy?
Thus a motive to clothe mystery in my poems and my ploy.
I invoke the soul and spirit, I invoke the ancient wise,
Summon loudly angel relics flying proudly through the skies.
As this courage gathers daily surely numbers will attend
All the fruits poetic realist and their own proofs best amend.
Even gods may turn to listen and subscribe as they see fit;
For the heavens, too, are learning and evolving byte by byte.
Has biology us given as a birthright all we need?
Or do treasures born of spirit still before our souls proceed?
As for me and those I gather, we embrace the soul as real.
We can speak from our phenom’na that the spirit, too, we feel.
‘Tis the spirit called “Sophia” that the First Great Teacher taught,
And the essence known as “Logos” that the Child of Heaven brought.
On that early timeless morning when the godchild first awoke
And sensed their suffering mother their infant heart first broke.
The Child of Pure Compassion, embodiment most gay,
It was the Grand Ensoulment that seers dreamed by day.
That infant mind remembered the sights and all the sounds.
Intelligent, peculiar, it quickly patterns found.
Thus began the first conceptions long before a normal span
And started this a life that would ignite a mystic plan.
These combined with great Aleithea are the subspace we define
As the central grounding concepts where we dwell with our divine.
In this holy tent of concept where the mind can be refreshed
We experience I and Thouness so poetically enmeshed.
To remove the grace and beauty we experience of god--
‘Twould defy the very nature that the saints so often laud.
So our sciences we cherish; mathematics, our turn-key.
But the limits of these subjects are so obvious, as we see.
Tragic rare is the embodied with wise purpose in their soul.
We have lost the heart that made us. We’ve rescinded our control.
Like a mess of pottage weakly curbing pangs of hungry pain
Is the capital and curr’ncy of pure material gain.
The aching buried deeply until the sorrow snaps:
Sandyhook and Vegas bleeding while the laughing Satan claps.
Pointing fingers at our siblings, at our parents and the youth,
Everyone’s distraught emotions bury plain and precious truth:
There’s an existential vacuum that the government won’t fill.
There’s a growing world neurosis that is looming for the kill.
Will you find the debt and pay it? Evolution lives in you.
“Will to meaning”: stop and say it. Need for purpose lives there, too.
In the duplex nature crying for a totem we can spare
Empty cups are all turned over in the dry and blist’ring air.
Where is sacred? Where is holy? What can worship really be
In a flattened cosmic vector of pure objectivity?
Shun the spirit, shun the shepherd, shun the Mother, shun the wise,
Shun the guardians of the planet and the Father of the skies.
In our madness for dominion, in our vain naive conceit,
Shun the feelings that unite us and the soul within its seat.
Then we fracture like a crystal falling off a careless bench
As the corpse of our lost virtue rots away in vicious stench.
Is a posture more poetic in our treatment of The Bleek
A mentality adapted for the flourishing we seek?
In the mental there is modal grounded firmly through the brain.
Truly Logos is embodied in the flesh of us who gain
Any virtue caste in heaven for the harmony of minds.
Weeping, reaching, pleading, praying, every heav’nly virtue binds
Human heart and Holy Spirit in a consecrated vow.
Fleshy tables of the heartspace will absolve the heads that bow.
As for me, I just speak solely: I believe a god who saves
Ev’ry being they created in progressive, temporal waves.
Any sampling of the living will reveal an ult’mate view
Where your neighbor and your lover have not been redeemed like you.
But this does not mean that never will the grace of angels bend
To raise up and elevate each toward the strange attractive end.
In a process called “salvation” by the brilliants of their time
Bones are crushed and decimation marches on in spite of rhyme.
So is poetry but foolish as the babbler sings in verse?
Or can poets and the realists undermine some cryptic curse?
I believe a poem’s power. I believe a fact is fire.
I believe the two together kindle deep divine desire.
If the vapor of the Spirit can move ‘cross the water’s face,
And the branching of a synapse can mentalities best trace,
Then the science of our neurons and phantasms deified
Can transmute the world to heaven where the soul is reified.
To the rats who died to give us understanding of ourselves,
To the mice and monkeys lonely in their cages and their shelves.
I can see you. I lament you. I can feel the soul that weeps.
With your bodies we build bridges to our inferential leaps.
But the whole is not completed until you are mended in;
Mind is garment for the cosmos made from woven, blended kin.
Ev/ry animal is needed in our own bestbeing state
And must factor in the visions that aspiring gods create.
So what have you on my scheming? Is your apathy more choice?
Have you lost the call of dreaming? Did you quench the inner voice?
If it’s hell that satisfies you, then the fruit is full and fresh.
If the world still breaks and tries you, why pursue the life of flesh?
From the mystics we call masters of philosophy and mind
Came a solemn clarion thoughtsong born of reason to unbind
Generations long benighted with unjustified belief.
Leave the cave and rise to sunlight, break the chains and find relief.
With the faculties and functions that biology endowed
You may rise above the earthdust to a stature noble, proud.
The appetitive emerges from the sensitive’s first form.
The imag’native soon follows out of mem’ry’s silking worm.
Intellective is the highest of these faculties defined;
‘Tis the one for contemplation and the one that’s most refined.
Like the pattern of a seal pressed into wax to hold its shape,
So the soul is pressed in body: homoouisios mystic ape.
When the corpus in its purpose resonates as one great whole
Then this corpus is transfigured by the brilliant light of soul.
You can sense it in the eyes and you can see it in the face,
You can feel it from the heartspring of a life that’s full of grace.
Let this grace fill all the spaces between you and those you know
Till this limbic res’nant process does the whole world overflow
As we resonate together in an amplifying joy.
This, again, is why the poem is so central in our ploy.
While the Logos and Sophia both our godhead do comprise
True Aleithea demands us gaze through venerating eyes
At the righteousness, the beauty, and the strength that we name “god”,
Raining healing, shining wisdom, giving visions deep and broad
For the transformation coming toward the humble and the meek
Who have set their Grand Objective on the treasures that they seek.
Purified from old contention, purified from wanton lust,
Finding peace while living strangely ‘mongst the world in which they’re thrust
It’s as if they are the pilgrim that the ages have enshrined
Who pursues a peace and calmness that so rarely they can find.
But good Gabriel doth lower, doth descend among our ranks
To impart the strength of heaven and secure our back and flanks.
Raphael will hold the peace cup and the crook to stably guide
As Saint Michael flies in spirals, sword aflame held by his side.
These apocalyptic angels are three friends we needn’t fear.
If we celebrate their beings, they mysteriously appear
And assure us we are walking on a bless’d road they have paved:
Synchronicity and bounty are the clues that say we’re saved.
But a bounty not in riches of the monetary sort;
More the riches that made Sol’mon king of all his noble court.
For divinity, you know now, is like manna on the ground
But the haughty cannot taste it if they don’t know what they’ve found.
If we pause for realization of the hiddenness we treat
The apocryphal encounter brings another heav’nly fleet:
Uriel will lend us wisdom, Chamuel will give us heat,
Zadkiel holds thund’rous lightning, Jophiel sends beauties sweet.
With this seven-pointed stellate that celestial worlds designed
Dionysian angel numbers are our demidemes of mind.
Demidemes give revelation to the deme they orbit ‘round;
Voices crying in the desert where the lost becomes the found.
The expanding fractal pattern of complex humanity
From a common nervous or’gin that the careful sometimes see
In a glimpse beyond the curtain of the body and the brain
Through the culture-filtered layer to the cells and to the grain.
All the sinews and the fibers can be yet transcended more,
Only not with blind reduction lest we render richness poor.
The emergent soul and spirit, the angelic and divine
Are poetic in their realness and triumphant in their sign.