Biochemical

Not like a night terror
Insomnia strikes, a nocturnal error
Brain chemistry out of whack it may be
Or some external force driving me crazy
Rambling poetry comes out of me as I unfocus
Unconcentrated flow like hocus pocus
Magic envelopes me, pushes me forward
Tells me to take it easy or to go on hard
As I feel it climb from my soles on up
I take myself out of the equation so as not to interrupt
Inspired creativity captured on the page I see
Intriguing rhymes and complex schemes unintended symmetry
A flow so neat and versatile, useful
Straight from the universe a cosmic push and pull
I’m more like a chisel than the sculpting man
Just a cog in the wheel of an overarching plan
So my rhymes like innocent crimes seem to terrorize
But with a fresh perspective you must see with new eyes
That my lyrical tapestry is a majestic vision
And so it is to all who adjust their position
The words like mad birds flying back and forth
Me I’m just a messenger for all that it’s worth

An excerpt from “A Prophet’s Reward” by Hugh Nibley

Before considering the test of a true prophet, we must make clear the fact that a prophet is a witness, not a reformer. Criticism of the world is always implicit in a prophet’s message of repentance, but he is not sent for the purpose of criticizing the world. Men know the world is wicked, and the wickedest ones often know it best. To denounce human folly has been the avocation of teachers and philosophers in every age, and their reward, surprisingly enough, has not been death but usually a rather handsome fee. The age of Christ, like the nineteenth century, was a remarkably tolerant one as far as ideas were concerned. On the one hand we find quacks, impostors, and miracle mongers flourishing throughout the Roman empire; and on the other, traveling philosophers and high-powered professors indulging in the most unsparing and outspoken criticism of all established institutions, sacred and profane, while the world applauded. It was not the Sermon on the Mount that drove men to crucify the Lord. It was not for their moral tirades that the prophets of old and the Apostles were stoned. In the age of Apollonius and Dio Chrysostom people liked nothing better than to sit in fashionable congregations while being scolded by picturesque crackpots. No Christian writer ever made such devastating attacks on prevailing manners and morals as the pagan satirists did; no Christian apologist ever debunked heathen religion as effectively as Cicero did—with perfect safety. Ovid was banished, not for criticizing the corruption of the times, but for being too lenient toward it, thereby thought the authorities, encouraging vice.

What, then, did Christ and the Apostles do and say that drove men into paroxysms of rage? They performed tangible miracles such as could not be denied, and they reported what they had seen and heard. That was all. It was as witnesses endowed with power from on high that they earned the hatred of the world, of which John speaks so much: “We speak that we do know, and testify that we have seen; and ye receive not our witness” (John 3:11).

“Many good works have I shewed you from my Father [says the Lord on one occasion]; for which of those works do ye stone me?

“The Jews answered him, saying, For a good work we stone thee not; but for blasphemy; and because that thou, being a man, makest thyself God.

“Say ye of him, whom the Father hath sanctified, and sent into the world, Thou blasphemest; because I said, I am the Son of God?

“Therefore they sought again to take him: but he escaped out of their hand” (John 10:32—33, 36, 39).

On another occasion the enraged multitude cried, “Art thou greater than our father Abraham, which is dead? and the prophets are dead: whom makest thou thyself?” (John 8:53.) When Christ in reply said that Abraham had actually seen His day and rejoiced, while he was before Abraham, “Then took they up stones to cast at him” (John 8:53—59).

And as soon as the Apostles said, “We are his witnesses of these things,” the council and the high priests “were cut to the heart, and took counsel to slay them” (Acts 5:32—33; italics added). Again, we are told that the multitude “were cut to the heart” when Stephen accused them of rejecting what had been brought “by the disposition of angels” (Acts 7:53—54). But the last straw was when he had the effrontery to say, “Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of man standing on the right hand of God. Then they cried out with a loud voice, and stopped their ears, and ran upon him with one accord, and cast him out of the city, and stoned him” (Acts 7:56—58). If Stephen had spent his life, as innumerable philosophers have, denouncing the vices and follies of the age, he might have died peacefully in bed. But those fatal words, “I see,” were his death warrant. And what did Paul say to make the Jews cry out in utter horror: “Away with such a fellow from the earth: for it is not fit that he should live,” as “they . . . cast off their clothes, and threw dust into the air?” (Acts 22:22—23.) What indeed? These were the unforgivable words that made him unfit to live: “Suddenly there shone from heaven a great light round about me. And I fell unto the ground, and heard a voice saying unto me, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And I answered, Who art thou, Lord? And he said unto me, I am Jesus of Nazareth, whom thou persecutest” (Acts 22:6—8). Paul could have won his audience over by speaking as a scholar, but when he bore witness to what he had seen and heard, he was asking for trouble.

Eternal Progression

Don’t mind what i say because it doesn’t matter, put your mind over it and your head above the chatter as you look on up and rise to the top you realize there’s no ceiling and that this doesn’t stop though at time the acceleration may make your heart drop, this is the only way you can avoid the flop
chorus:
There’s no end to infinitely (I’m sure most definitely) The human mind can’t comprehend that which lasts eternally (but that doesn’t mean we can’t discuss it) So sit down and contemplate| and our minds we satiate (that which we extrapolate| about the world and our fate)
Expansive and sweeping the life that we’re leading leads us to conclusions and like rude obtrusions the burst in unexpected and act like we should have known and perfected like none of our actions should be arbitrarily done except for the times when we’re arbitrarily fun the acceleration to the end brings a message we then send
chorus
The gift of our intelligence communicated is like ordering at the table when we’ve been waited and the one who waits on us is who we must then trust because later the waiter takes an elevator and becomes a self traitor denying that he ever got what he intended to give, he intended to live in such a way to be kind but instead waited too long and ruined his mind
chorus
The time is far spent, so little remains, but you have to take time so that you can explain how aeronautics don’t matter to a paper airplane it’s more like that way that you fold paper cranes, origami is one way of your staying sane to create that which has found place in your brain and that which forever might there remain something about which you don’t mind nor complain
chorus

Via Domesticos

No dates, no t.v. and no cell phone
For two long years been on the gospel roam
Sharing those things that I’ve been shown
Now showing those things going back home
The time is past like a blur or a dream
Twenty-four months aren’t as long as they seem
No more fearing a t.v. screen
The change in my countenance like a halogen beam

The returning
It’s relearning
It’s continuing the things
For the happiness they bring
A homecoming
And a departure
Bittersweet, goodbye and meet
The past and future

sugar coasted

Gilded memories of simplicity
Made and meant for pipe dreams
So nothing is quite as it seems
fogged up remembrances

Like faded photographs, burnt edges
Found in a dusty chest in the attic
When you open it like clack clack it’s
automatic trunk opener

Remote start like the beating heart
When you and your sweetie are far apart
You hand on to the memories, photographs
experiences and stories

true art

lines of paint, carefully dripped
criss-crossing, contorting, combining
patterns begin to emerge from colors
the canvas itself revealing hidden art
the artist simply adjusting the light
to see the masterpiece inside
so the sculptor, as he chisels
does not remove, but simply uncover
and the poet does not write
but reveals the words in each page
or the stories in an inkwell
so our creation is simply
unveiling Gods hidden wonders

Setting the scene

The suns rays break
through the cloudy sky
shattered on the ground
as shadows bespeckled with light
moving across the firmament
the afternoon waxes full
the clouds break; the sun exposed
bursting on earth’s face and ours



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