Can a Man Live--two lives?

Human: The Intent Thereof

Can a man live?

Two
Lives
For a period of time without
One
Life attacking
And consuming the other?

Part the First

I have begun a life in the Spirit and am
Finishing in the flesh; my end is destruction,
And death awaits me-for after this…
Judgment!

I am such a man in pursuit of the
Winds of ambition;
They are indeed fleeting and after all
Is said and done-
All?
Is vain!

Is there an example I should follow;
A High Priest and Bishopric to my soul;
A man who knows my pain, suffering, and
Disappointment?

My creed is Catholic,
Universal suffering in need of complete
Salvation!

He is, that High Priest
In the line of Melchizedek;
He is the one to whom
God, that Prime Mover

And Play-Do Maker, said,
‘You are My Clay.
Today
I have become your Hasbro’.

And again, ‘You are
A Priest forever
In the line of
Melchizedek’.

Then Justus, this Clay-Maker, is both Divine
And made in His own
Image.

He who offered prayers, delivered:

Pleadings, with love, cries and tears;
Is the
vessel
Chosen?
By You it is!

To re-present, in wrapping,
Humans?
Being in their dealings

With God?

In my folly, unlike Erasmus,
I had rather praise Wisdom and
Know what is
Right,
Know what is
Wrong;

Through obedience I have learned
The art of suffering;
Through suffering I have learned
The human chase for the skirts of obedience;

I have taught others
The Way,
But have lost my own;
I am-

Lost?

Like a babe who desires the milk of the
Logos,
But still content to drink milk
Beyond my well-tuned years of experience;

I can preach solid food,
But cannot partake of it;
I know about much and much is expected
From me;

Here then is the
Conclusion
Of the whole matter:
One is to follow

After God,
hard,
His Christ, true freedom,
With Salem’s Shalom-
Repeated Peace!

The Father in His Liberty,
Draws me upon the Son;
The Son, in turn, grants affinity to
The Father;
The Spirit acts between them.

Part the Second

God provides;
His literature to the masses;
His messengers, aflamèd;
His Spirit, with much grace and truth-
Prometheused!

I reject such fruit-for the hand that picks it,
Soiled,
With original dust,
Wills me to treason,
trial,
trumpet;

My flesh lusteth;
Earthly pleasure inflames my heart;
Scabbed I be, calloused from birth;
Engenderèd is the flow of youth;

Like Chaucer’s Reverdie,
In April’s showers of lost soul-gazing;
I have
More!
In common with Luciferius,
Than Satan,
Less
With Judas, than Justus;

I am a mess.

It is impossible to restore to
Repentance
Those who were once enlightened;
Impossible to bridge the chasm of the
‘What if’ soul;

Lost?

I am,
To this world or the next;

Tasted?

I have,
Of things to come:

Heaven,
Angels,
Valhalla,
Power,
Deus Pater.

Our Father?
Piacere, mio!

I am like Odysseus passing through the
Kingdom of the Dead,
Blessed!
By Circe’s wind;
Oh! How far indeed have I
Fallen!
Fallen!
Fallen!

Not unlike the Wandering Jew in
Search of Lost Tempus;
In search of the Prince of Barters crying-
‘Take, take! My life for a life!’

What then is man that thou,
Deus Pater,
Art,
Mind-Full
of
Them?

I take interest in the stars,
ignoring Socrates’ diatribe,
‘a Waste of time’!

Indeed, fairest Muse, there are many wastes,
Lands untreated,
But, He who placed such twinkling sights,
is due
Our praise, with
Up! Lifted orbs and bloody hearts;

Part the Third

I long for peace and harmony;
They are for War;
I long for the rhythmic workings and underpinnings of
Logic and Faith;
Fact and Fiction;
Reformation,
Revolution,
Transformation!

These are Foxe’s Martyrs,
Recorded with shaky hands,
Of a time past,
It is finished;

If words hold Power,
Then I shall be remembered,
Please?
My diatribe and song,
From a discourse of a
Vita Nuova
But one score, nine, and counting.

Fickle then, the man,
Designed to sip from the caffeine of
Experience;
The opiate of the being;
Human?

In this way La Vita Nuova
Del Mezzo Cammin, a middling
Of hope and repeated
Esperanza!

The Blakian contraries discovered in
The Ancyent Marineare’s woes;
The yield?
This present realm, an Age, where there is nothing
New!
Under the Sun!

Part [at] the Last

Terminus?

My poetic Edda;
My heapings, congeries, like Shakespeare, Milton,
Or Aquinian Philosophia;

From my stable, very stable hand;
My wayward, very wayward heart;
My electric, saucy, pedantic mind;

And these three exist as one,
In hope,
But the greatest of these,
Is the least of these.

I shall write a fiction and
YOU
Shall read it!