There is no comfort in heaven, because I cannot envision it.
If we don’t use the earth, who will? Is simply a scorched earth the best we can do?
Why wait for the vultures; when we can be our own just deserts?
Damn this scrupulosity. But if God won’t judge me, who will? I can’t remember the last time someone found me lacking for all the things I want to found lacking for.
He loved you more than he loved his nature of holiness (though he hates your music, your irony, your stupid haircut).
I’m through running. Not because I’m brave but because I am worn out. Not because I’ve won; just that I’m the one. There was no where to go but here.
Even after all our promises, we rise not in flames, but groggily to another grande caramel macchiato.
How long did he think they’d last,
the gold teeth years when you’d eat Cornish hen
and dabble in consumer electronics,
matte-black and Japanese?
He learned about intake manifold gaskets and
engine coolant temperature sensors and
did not go to college and was satisfied in
knowing what it took.
Spools of magnetic tape rewinding,
the analgesic backward burbles of brooks.
He knows that those
boring, storied glory days
will concede their distance.
As if their easy luxury was a thing that could
in fact roll back:
An automatic mini-van door.
Also then, a thing learned about the sun:
(In the dark, when I was twelve )
it would die
and convulsing, eat the earth.
Did it keep me up, buddy David, thirteen, wise and wired, wondered?
I could see his eyes were on their toes,
darting around in the dark. Couldn’t actually see
but knew they were racing to put a back-up plan together.
Maybe we would fly to Alpha Centauri in a Lego spaceship.
It doesn’t come back.
The 1980′s, or this side of the sky.
I tremble for God’s arrival, he doesn’t come back either.
It’s like living in a light bulb, with the leaves
Like filaments and the sky a shell of thin, transparent glass
Enclosing the late heaven of a summer day, a canopy
Of incandescent blue above the dappled sunlight golden
on the grass…
– From Sally’s Hair by John Koethe
A mix for Summer 2014. Tap the bottle and twist the cap!
How easy it is for Man to create something more beautiful than he, why not something smarter?
There is no peace, just awe.
All beauty hatches from a goose egg,
or is embroidered with a thread of gust.
So all glory goes to the stitcher.
Feel good hit of the fall:
all throbbing bass and sudden tears.
No life cycle, just corkscrew gyres.
The beauty of the world is the same beauty of anything,
coming through its onceness, its infinite almost the sameness
The beauty of the world is 7 seconds of a cartoon about trains
illuminated in an olive mini-van’s dusty back windshield after sundown.
In the Silent Night
Lo, in the silent night
A child to God is born
And all is brought again
That ere was lost or lorn.
Could but thy soul, O man
Become a silent night!
God would be born in thee
And set all things aright.
15th Century verse