will and conscience
curse on the golden serpent
labour pains poverty of minds
labor and hardships promise of
the destruction forty days of rain
thunder lightning and deluge white
dove he was an alcoholic
One dispensation full of grace
As gothic as my savior’s face
A trenchant shadow of the things
That law and grace can only bring
Christ in sorrow tempted me
From sin to splendor’s twinkling
A romance of such perilous times
Yet time itself is not the crime
Somnolent souls my Savior guides
Through thralldom to the gospel light
In this dispensation
My message to the future generation
In this dispensation
It is reality and positivity
For life is full of tragedy
Neither the sword nor the gun
Can save you under the sun
Don’t be deceived by their titles and riches
For knowing the difference
Between good and evil is the key
That which unlocks the doors of eternity
In this dispensation
Life is full of illusion
Know that not all that glitters are gold
The truth is difficult to say but be bold
For life is full of oppression
And affliction
So learn how to speak the truth
In this dispensation
Old Dispensation returns for the West
old dispensation
returns glory abroad at
home poverty
Underneath a gorgeous forenoon sky,
In a lush and cool garden of delight,
The green pheasant lifts his exploring eye,
Calling his all wise sage beyond his sight.
His melodious song praises the divine One,
Whose luminance descends in a beam,
Touching within the shrine bright as the sun,
Turning every thing gold as in a dream.
The Lord rests now upon His noble throne,
Calling all to climb up the stairs of stone.
There my reverie of Jesus commenced--
The glory of His office deified,
His knowledge of man’s history there dispensed,
His science of the present thither described.
Wisdom of the future was His display,
Myself humbled to receive His cachet.
Five years of learning was spent at this shrine--
Proving command of as many disciplines--
Crossing the bridge from human to Divine,
His acute knowledge of miracles begins.
Then writing for His testimonial,
Also history that brightens the wise,
With focus on the rites ceremonial,
And how theocracy does authorize.
Divine authority added to His reign,
With the King’s seal He departs the domain.
hope burns hot in the hands
at the touch of the seven cards
of the day's tarot. pain waits
dormant throughout the flesh
under the state of a false sense
of alleviation.
the lovers are turned up first
striking on the wooden table
as a denim clad messiah in Beirut.
the fool comes from face down
along with a flush beneath the sternum
of adrenaline. death turns out to be
the pinnacle card daunting its six
captives under an omnipotent cast.
the four remaining cards below
rest unturned leaving an incomplete
reading
the mug is raised.
loose leaf rosemary and thyme tea
scalds the tongue on the way down
the torso. a throbbing battle of pain
and endorphines are left in its wake.
the cards are shuffled.
pleasure flourishes inside -- a taboo
marauding and championing
the moment -- before welcoming
normality again.
it's back in the sackcloth bag
for the tarot which is then buried
under a birch tree.
there it will decay and nurture
the tree's roots now
unfettered, hidden and untelling.
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