logos, (Greek: “word,” “reason,” or “plan”) plural logoi, in ancient Greek philosophy and early Christian theology, the divine reason implicit in the cosmos, ordering it and giving it form and meaning. – Britannica

I could knock on your door again,
but it wouldn’t be there,
that door in my mind,
red with golden trim.
You remember brown with bronze outline:
Either way,
imaginary doors of long ago
cannot be opened
to the sun that now shines.

For I only walk through opened doors,
the ones that invite me,
and the ones that let in the wind,
and the starlight of the moon,
birds enter,
feathers fluttering
as the heart in love.

There is, after all, only one true door:
all the others lie.

But you seek love in churches and steeples,
stained windows that contort the light,
and you imitate pictures of Egyptians,
crafting your wild heart in animal skins,
the jewelry of Madonna,
the moves of Michael,
Nirvana who suicided,
cheap costumed diamonds made of glass,
shame and distortion,
in the forms of a sleeping God
who wants to learn how to perform,
how to struggle in the storms,
punishing Himself for the same.

Oh, cruel and devilish Father!
How they worship you!

Children love the characters in books,
the heroes and the heroines,
those who died upon the cross,
those who were many:
Pythagoras, Yeshua, the sons of God,
the ones that have no name;
millions transfixed waiting for the stars,
as Time’s generosity wanes,
millions more linger on the shores,
languishing, eyes glued to the horizon,
the shores of Acheron,
awaiting what will save them
from this dire creation.

Dante saw.
Dante knew.
The women forget
And they dress their children
and their men,
in makeup and swag and pop music,
music written for those who wait,
for those bored by the birds
and the insects,
the cat and the dog,
the great waterfalls:
wonders that make them blink.
For they are frozen in time,
in fear of time.

The logos is the word
and the word is the logos,
the imagination is the world,
the imagination of a God
who creates the beautiful

and the horror


But without woman,
none shall pass,
and none shall be born.
Oh Sophia, who has forsaken thee?
Who has imagined suffering
without Buddha?
Who has denied your children the great Tao?
Who has failed to teach the power
of the rivers of Xi,
the rivers that flow as your blood flows?
Who has given purpose to suffering
as relentless pain and punishment?
Who will tell the West that its heaven
is the gateway to its hell?
Who will tell them?
Must it be woman?












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