Poem: Divine Digestion

While reading Johannes Scotus Erigena,

I was eating a peach.

"...and eternal he begins to be,

and immobile he moves into all things

and becomes all things in all things."

God has become this peach I am eating.

God is sweet, and I am licking Him.

I am ingesting the divine

and am making it into me.

I am becoming divine.

"...the creator of all things created in all things,

and the maker of all things made in all things;..."

I perceive the creator and

the created in this peach I am eating.

I lick the peach to catch the juice;

I run my tongue up the canal

carved by my chin-wetting bites.

I hold the nectar on my tongue tip

feeling the twinge of the sweet acidity.

I lounge, intoxicated by the infinite.

"...through a certain ineffable descent

into the things that are,..."

Our sight falls upon only material.

The cloak of God is woven peach fuzz.

I strip God to the seed.

I hold the world

between my teeth;

a stone.

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Poem: Planetary Bubbles

Bathing when I was young, I blew
bubbles clustered from my hand;
oblate (tubby) spheroids floated
out my summer window–unmanned.

Tiny worlds, individually thick and buoyant
swirled with iridescence. A cover of clouds
cloaked the brewing soup below–
a fact hidden to all, but known to be by me.

I created these worlds by breath
and blew them into the Milky Way
to be caught and played with
by my suns and gravities.

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Poem: Little by little Hank gets to Heaven (Hank - part 1)

I routinely scavenge the dumpsters behind
those apartments next to that Safeway downtown.
It's an easy way to avoid the Good-Will.

Today I found half a bottle of Windex
and a toothbrush and gave them to crazy Hank
so he could clean the maggots out of his leg.

But he pushed them back at me, unwanted,
and muttered something about God's weird way,
Hell on earth, and redemption of human flesh.

Old Hank, he believes in God, a loving God,
but not a God of Good-Will or of giving,
but a God of taking and transforming.

"The maggots don't bother me much," Hank sighs,
"But at night when I sleep, I hear the flies—
the winged angels whispering to their young;
Soon you will fly, but not until you're done."

The hungry cherubs, plump and milky white,
chewing the fat and seeking the light,
making Hank's flesh into their own,
let him know substance is a material loan.

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Poem: The Sun is the Flashlight of God Checking his Favorite Terrarium

If the firmament exists,
and we are enclosed by a glass globe,
then God sits, gazing in, outside our sphere.

If we cock our heads to the sky
and strain with our electronic ears,
then we can hear the echo of His last sneeze.

If we fix our eyes to the night stars
and focus with our sharpest lenses,
then we can see His crystallized phlegm twinkling.

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