this is the way the world begins
this is the way the world begins
the eye can have its fill of seeing
the ear can have its fill of hearing
after which you notice nothing
after which time steals everything
do you not hear now the sound?
the entire horizon is opening
the waters rushing to new destinations
we once scarcely held the hope
against the darkness in flickering light
a single candle cupped in the hand
when we whispered of love to the flame
as whispers were collected, and fire
we watched so many souls recede
into the darkness swallowed, gone
did we not know this would happen?
the revolution came in fits and starts
and it is still now fighting on
have you not read the signs?
the prophets’ graffiti foretold
how everyone’s 15 minutes were expiring
in the future everyone is someone
it is already beginning to transpire
thy will be done on earth as in heaven
so many lives lost toward that
we cannot fathom these depths of loss
they yet move us to reach the light
as the dreaming thaws without fear
we have reached the breaking
the fire never died: we remembered
and hope for a new day stands
prepared for an eternity of dawns
i dropped a whisper in the wind
i am here, and there is no time


she doesn’t know whether she goes or stays
the symmetries tell her where not to wander
she left two eternities behind
not to desire any future you can buy
she is close and whispers secrets
she is distant, but this is a trick of the eye
listening at oblivion’s door for stragglers
scrounging parts to build a time machine
she fits nowhere in our history
she sits and waits for her gravity to kick in
the smoke of her dreaming to ascend
a dizzying freedom to awake, now
astonished at how a star can aim from way out
where time travels backward with distance
she is part of the mystery of dance
of the cosmos reaching for infinity
time not keeping it from happening all at once
she becomes a twinkling in her own eye

If God Is Love…

What is love? You know, I thought I knew. Once I wrote that love is sweet poetry, and that seemed to cover all the bases. But God is love, right? God is sweet poetry? Even were you to say that Jesus Christ is God, perhaps the most benevolent of representations, you cannot say that this is sweet poetry: look when he says that you will see him coming among the clouds at the right hand of Power. Poetic, yes, but not exactly sweet. Nor so sugary how he overturned the money changers’ tables and drove them out with a whip. That definition is not without limitation, indeed.

If one might consider a more pragmatic approach, someone wrote to me that love is merely an emotion that basically evolved in us to facilitate propagation. That it is an “invention, not a god”. But that person did not see it analogous to something else that arose from evolution: intelligence. And that emerged within a Darwinian system out of utility, if not necessity—yet when it came about, just look around you to see what that brought about. The buildings, streets, the civilization! Books, music, electric light: the accomplishments of intelligence is that once we reached it, we touched upon something greater. And so it might be with the idea of love.

Yes, it helped us evolutionarily, one can argue. It helped us help each other, first the closest family, then friends, then more abstract structures, like community and country. People have written papers about how selfless love is a benefit rather than a detriment, that helped the human race to survive. But what they do is describe the Mona Lisa by its chemical constituents: you may have a point, but your point misses the whole purpose of the thing. You look at a painting and it moves your soul. Behind that is the reaction of synapses, the release of seratonin, a host of soft machine mechanics clicking into place, as it were. And we may just find out exactly why this sort of pattern and color makes you react like you do. None of the explanations, however, is truly the experiencing of the painting.

And you know what? As we developed intelligence, we found we could look higher that us, greater, which as far as we know no other species does. They don’t have these minds of ours. We can conceive of transcendence, that as we crawled up from the mud and got ourself a mind to think on high, God was waiting there for us to arrive—on ground high enough to survey such landscapes. Want to make a guess as to what we conceived was up there, when we gazed toward heaven?

To answer Tina Turner (“What’s love got to do with it?”), I’d say love had everything to do with it. That’s what this potent little fragment tells us: God is love. Einstein wanted to know what it was, the mind of God; and that’s it, to know true love is to know the true mind of God. Really, what scientists want to know is the purpose of things, and that is the ultimate purpose to everything. Yes, yes, I know what he was thinking was to codify the fundamental architecture of existence, but I tell you, love had something to say about that architecture. Before the mathematics. This is the love I am talking about when I say that God is love: something so transcendent. What we can comprehend of infinity, that which is the absolute highest of all things. There can be no better.

Love is empty, waiting for you to define it. Love is full, if ever you need it you can dig deeper for it. Love is making someone’s dreams come true, and even if love is not an action… it is that action. Strange in simplicity, it is this theory that makes sense of everything, yet the theory itself is impossible to grasp; and making perfectly sensible the weirdest of phenomena… And then, it is none of the above. I have no idea what love is, for I know what love truly is: love is sweet poetry… of the soul? Humbug. God is love, and that is a little more than sweet poetry.

(What is love? I once had an idea, of the concept of ineffability, or indescribability: that there were some things in heaven and on earth for which words are not enough. And I thought, bull cookies. There is no ineffable: God is love. For if even God has a description that fits, how can anything else escape definition?)

If you speak of the greatness of love, they will say, what are you really talking about? Love is just a sense of goodness that makes you want to do good things to people. And I will say, oh, selflessness? I will tell you that selfish love is greater than mere selflessness. Does selflessness inspire you to write songs of being possessed by another’s beauty? I will say that love does have friends, but you have never met the ringleader. Just like you have never met yourself.

Do you still think you have a handle on what love is? I will say to name it and I can probably find a counterexample that is also love (if you hadn’t noticed in my reasoning, above). One last time: God is love. What that ends up meaning is that love is what we can comprehend of infinity. Yes, there is light, and the Word, but these are naked if they do not wear the bearing of love. Like powerful weapons with nothing to aim them to their target. And that which is infinite will have subtlety that dreams would die to have. Love, baby: only by doing it do you have any idea of it, because God left things undone for us so we’d have something real to do. Love is the answer we always knew was there, somewhere; love is the purpose we always knew we were meant for; and if these being love were certainties, all I could possibly say, then, would be: what is love?

If you like what’s written here, check out my book, Memoirs from the War in Heaven.


rolling back, back to the very beginning
now with eyes to see
love is a present from father to daughter
yet love is not a thing
love is a midnight drive to fetch some pills
yet love is not an action
all we can do is point to where love is
a direction outside space
the mystery of the rose’s velvety beauty
they believe they know
they think they can speak of love with a flip
emergent as a utility
from the pragmatism of evolution’s hand
just a shade of affection
but if i say your idea of love is too small?
for love is of the stars
love is the substance of the infinite Lord
and He is naught besides
the simplest of all, simpler than nothing
why any of we all exist
once i knew what love was, the illusion
so sure i was I KNEW
the mystery so plain in what my poetry said
but when i looked within
i found i held a husk long empty of sweets
to see with humble eyes:
love is the nothing that is everything
the oblivion that gives
for have you ever wondered? do you not know?
love was there ere light
when suddenly one discovers they are found
for this is what love is
infinite in story, as it was meant at the first
to be found… everywhere


the patron saint of oblivion
twirled zero cigarettes on each fingertip
with shadows scampering around the edge of existence
there is a list of things i have not yet done
wallowing in the limpid pool of lesser importance
they sit there and stare at me, and wait
growing more eyes as they brood
time is not an illusion, for change is real
distance i have dreamed makes me small like hope
and sometimes i am the dream of myself
like the smoke of prayer ascending to heaven
i breathe fire in its imaginary state
awaiting the Judgment in constant apology
sometimes disgusted by how much i actually believe
to light a candle and careful of its metaphor
how could it all make such blinding sense?
as ancient crimes still cry out from the earth
what have i trapped behind these eyes?
here i am, watching the crows make a murder
here i am, diving into my head armed with sarcasm
here i am, waking up as the dream slips away
hell never thought someone could figure it out
how to punch a hole into eternity
and i follow, out of all dreaming
where every action is a beginning
the engines of heaven where light is forged
i have given my soul to its proper owner
and i burned in love till only love remained