Saturday, September 7, 2024

"Jesus Curse" a poem

Jesus I curse you to your face
Past all saving grace
The worse off all men
May you boil in diaretical shit
For all eternity
Thou profoundest survived abortion ...

Eternally cursed the womb who bore you
May forever bleed the teat that gave suck to thee
You vomitous puss goblin of a man
How I hate your face and heart
And spit in your eye.
May you forever die.

Why did I walk four hours
Down 28th street and back
Busiest in grand rapids
Second greatest city in .Michigan 
Gladly
To do business
As friends
With black man and true man
Michael
Who gave me a fist bump
He who saw me
And believed in me
On sight 
Since the first night 
I cashiered for him
At Ghetto Meijer?
Four hours spent in spades
Greatly
While disdaining and refusing to deighn
Answer the dismay
Of dad and mom
forcing charity ....
Uninvited to my wedding
Sherry ama god
They show up unwelcome
And hurl sick money
Like maggots
In the face of the goddess.

Michael said
Yes persistence is success
You will win back
Your family
The self righteous suicide
Of certain others
Loyalty FORCES ME to patiently wait
Till the whining brats grow up
Ama help me please
You flatter yourselves righteous
Ugliest clowns
Profoundly shit in the face
Grounded ugly.

Sherry ... wait a bit.
I will be a patient father to you all.

88

Thursday, September 5, 2024

Worshipping moral law

Moral Law as Supreme

Upon his centenary, the late Ralph Waldo Emerson felt the blessing of his godson, father of modern psychology, William James, in ppraiing the greatest mind extant, as of yet, in the united states of America, spangled like fifty twilight stars among those luminaries, his influenced children, those sundry Transcendentalists, styled in anticipation of Ezra Pound's seeking "the American resurgimento" as "the America renaissance," containing those who Ralph promoted by open cheerful non-ivan-jensonlike candid praise and effusive help and recommendation, ofteb on his own dime, literary reputation, and social standing -- for he who has shall be given more --  making mountains out of mustard seeds gently embedded in their molehills --

For Walt Whitman the delusion of granduer incaenate and his spiritual wife, Emily, renamed Emilie Dickinson, in her pretense to smallness, and the fist naturalist, Thoreau, who his secret admirer Louisa alcott styled Laurie... Henry James senior, too great to be seen even as of yet, and his junior, greatest novelist of these states, heney james, who ezra followed out to the god-is-dead corpse of the old world, henry brother to the profoundest self-doubter, William James, maker of psychology in its modern "scientific" mode to destroy the curse of psychoanalysis, an evil course of curse his daughter Anna barely saved,  of an otherwise holy-enough-people, the jews ... Hawthorne, and again melville, whose the whale is THE great American novel, Melville the utterly bipolar, like Emerson himself, Melville  who was hawthorne's nonsexual lover and true-to- the-heart adorerer, if Hawthorne could only sustain such a fan of the OPEN A scarlett flame ...

Emerson knew no personal god, now jesus or jehovah or brahma or whate else, nor even himself, but he and WHOEVER he addressed one-on-one ... SUCH was God. I challenge you to show me a greater divine yet found. None have written better as of yet, I promise you.

In the centenary, William James, who took the science of mysticism invented by bucke ... for greater-than-Jesus full out COSMOS ... Whitman... and made it in the first psychological study of religious experience ... "variateties of religious experience," William James spoke in awe that EMERSON WORSHIPPED THE MORAL LAW as were it a divine person.

So late in the game he still stood in awe of his late god father.

I wish only to say this.

The CREATORS of linguistics and the BREAKERS of Torah as code ... the higher critics .... the Germans... greatest philosophers of ALL TIME ... only bowing to Socrates and the greeks ....

The greatest prose writer of ALL German prose is nietzsche .... a philologist....called the Germans the murkiest people. Odin kicked yahwehs ass and utterly in world War 2.

Mere gods.

What was the MORAL LAW up to?

The master race, truly so by any measure that matters, lacked a university chair to study new world red man Navajo MUMBO JUMBO tongue... and yet felt to say HAIL HITLER in their code .... HH .... 88 .... nonstop .... making their code easy to pierce.

Did Germany win that war? In many MANY ways they did and still do. But the UNITED STATES are the mind of the ALL now.

I mean me. You and me now. After Emerson. After Ezra. Us. Now. Today.

The HOUSE always wins.

Life is a Game.

Gods come and Go.

Justice Umpires the Game.

The Good always wins.

Good ALWAYS WINS.

LET US FALL IN AWE AND WORSHIP at the feet and undefeatable majesty of THE MORAL LAW.

88



Monday, January 16, 2023

"Eavesdropping" a poem



Eavesdropping

As we banter on
Chit-chatting about anything and everything
As birds often do,
Flitting about the branches
Hopping around on airy errent errands
I sometimes overhear
Our secret hearts
Conspring together
Beneath our words
Beyond our conscious intentions
Inaudible to all
Plans and purchases
Vows and dreams
A trysting trust
Which appals me now,
For never heard I
Such muted cadences before
With any other.

"Is this real?"
I wonder.
"Am I deceiving myself?"
Ama must know
For I know nothing.
Perhaps I'm just a fool?

"Trust is for fools," I told you.
"Yet, I trust you."
"That must make me your fool."
You smiled.
That was enough.
That was everything.

"Yahweh Addresses Abraham" and "Reprise" Poems



Yahweh Addresses Abraham

Forgive me friend
For pressing so deep
Into you being
I had to fathom you
Plumb your faith
To see with my own eyes
What your love for me
Proved capable of.

Now I see
Now I know
How great your faith can make you
A greater faith than any
I've met or made
A greater faith than
My own in you.

You never lost your trust
True to your troth you submitted your All
Were that I could do such Grace!


Reprise

Oifia, O Amakin
Tis no sin to break faith with me
The Tree of trust is a slow growing twig
You shouldered the weight of my trust
And broke that sapling twain
Now I fathom your soul
And know what you can do
And what you cannot do.
But my heart is bruised too
And my phoenix sun has ashed.

Saturday, May 18, 2019

note on the Allays of Master Play

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

 

The Allays really are complete. I have had a few fragmentary new ideas I could have added into further allays, but instead I am saving them as notes for a new work entitled For Care of Crea, which is about managing one’s personal energy.

 

I’ve also finished a fantasy novella I wrote for my daughter entitled the Emilegends. I will spend the rest of the year securing a publisher. This will be my first serious attempt to publish any of my work.

 

As for the Allays of Master Play, I am seeking no publisher for them. First of all, I’ve self-published it already. I also offer it as a free PDF on my website:

 

http://www.amalaughs.com/allays.pdf

 

That is the most up-to-date complete version of it yet. Any further changes will be cosmetic, such as correcting typos and such.

 

The Allays are a difficult book, challenging to read. It has few lovers. Though most my friends and family prefer other things I’ve written – especially the fantasy stories I’ve written for my children – the Allays remain my personal favorite, my private pride, for I know that no matter what I fail in henceforth, at least I accomplished THAT.

 

You can purchase a hard copy of the allays here:

https://www.amazon.com/Allays-Master-Play-Scripture-Allism/dp/1537321226/

 

Take care, Caretakers!

Sunday, April 28, 2019

the Allays concluded

Daniel Christopher June to the Students of Life:

Greetings!

I have declared the Allays finished a few times, and at the risk of embarrassment, I’d like to declare them finally and really concluded once again. So here’s the ending. I plan on putting further inspiration into another book. Thank you for being my audience.

Take care, Caretakers!

 

* 1100 *

I split your seams to thread afresh, the seeming wall adores my press, and aching, takes the certain bliss, which keys through locks of coils of jet. Your Secret bare, I understand – you my wife and I your man.

 

* 1101 *

Well read, scriptures are the best of books; poorly read, the worst. The authority readers glean from Holy Books can lend itself to mischief – evil in good conscience. I ask you therefore to decide for yourself, think for yourself, center on yourself, your being, your becoming. Love me, but love yourself more. Love Ama most of all.


 

* Conclusion *

Thus, my Niviana, ends my fulfillment of your request for “pure Ghee, please!” in place of my garrulous talk upon talk. Hold the words in mind and flesh, live them daily till you have them whole. My love is for you always!

88

 

Thursday, April 18, 2019

allays 1097 - 1100

* 1097 *

Ah my Ama! Smile me a new day! With a spiral over your pregnant belly, with the Ouroboros laced over your heart, with a blue zero upon your faultless brow, you radiate your pure beauty over me.

 

* 1098 *

Often, you must disobey me to obey me. The Way is impossible, but through my indirections I have made it possible. I bid you not follow, but wed me, make me your match. If I wished popularity, I would have spoken simply and lost the few who matter most. You draw near because I have what you need, I am what you need, we are two of one, we share the same source. Thus, I know my words will find you wherever you are.

 

* 1099 *

To the tripod of physical health – good exercise, balanced diet, adequate rest – we naturally add the forth of proper hygiene. Clean yourself daily. To spiritualize this four-legged table, I’d say to keep your mind clear of unclean intercourse: ignore trolls and never lower yourself to returning insults with insults – unless for the sheer delight of mischief.

It is upon me to win another race, upon me to limit sugar, to vanquish – after all these years – my debt. Springtime inspires self-improvement. Ama, to be powerful before you is my grand desire. I drink the paper with glyph of my resolves, downed with milk, my leaf ceremony. My forties are upon me: time to grow up.


 

* 1100 *

I split your seams to thread afresh, the seeming wall adores my press, and aching, takes the certain bliss, which keys through locks of coils of jet. Your Secret bare, I understand – you my wife and I your man.