The Petrology

Michael Bolerjack

The Petrology © 2013 Michael Bolerjack

Table of Contents Preface to the Work as a Whole Peter the Roman The Overture Part One Part Two Retraction The Petrology: Introduction The Petrology: Chapters

Preface These chapters of poetry and prose, sometimes almost fictional, situated near the name or vocation of the one known as Peter the Roman, had their beginnings in the Fall of 2012, as I was ending the first phase of the work given me by the Lord Jesus Christ, that is, The Complete Apocalypse, and beginning the second phase of re-invention, A Time For Everything, that also included some passages from a work written as notes, but of which very little was made public. This work of Petrology was founded after a false and disastrous start in March 2013, which is preserved here as Peter the Roman, a perverse prologue to the Petrology itself. The Petrology is based on the notes from 2012, put through the blender, along with observations and material that came forth in this new context. The Petrology received its christening on the morning of Easter 2013 with a first installment of the introduction and eleven chapters, and proceeded rapidly from

there toward the projected goal of a “thousand these,” which had been in mind since 2011, after the apocalypse had been written, but before any of it had appeared before the public, which commenced on April 24, 2012. As a whole, the work since then crosses several genres, and does not distinguish between poetry and prose, prophecy and memoir, philosophy and journalism, and has been written with a variety of styles and tones. It has all been based on a life of prayer, though, as at times becomes painfully clear, I am a sinner, not a saint, and it is only with the great help of those in heaven and their forbearance with my terrible errors that I have been able to do anything. Among those on earth, my wife alone deserves credit and thanks from me, though many, whom I do not know, may have helped the work along during the time it was being published. The work is dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, who does not need my praise, but whom I will never stop praising and thanking and loving. Michael Bolerjack

PETER THE ROMAN

O Beltheshazzar, master of the magicians, because I knew that the spirit of the holy gods is in thee, and no secret troubleth thee, tell me the visions of my dream that I have seen, and the interpretation thereof. Daniel 4:9

The Overture

Thous and Thees For God and For Her I wrote on the 25 Years in the And bricks and mortar To dedicate Told, mind you, they sent a calf, young and foolish, To defeat HCE The Highly Compensated Employee From Howth Castle and Environs, cause the course of the ricorso does not, never can, will not by any means Circle back around To an Apocatastasis, No de capo, Not again again, neither do I hope to,

For thouendsthee And every good poet must be ste set tse stet against the wake, Away alone along The Thing we call world ends more like Yes Than it Ain’t Is to a T, the tt, the anti- the tain, the tain’t? Reading, For it is all teletyped Cept the stakes And putting it all in the machine was the best thing I could do, For look at what became of written reading and Language,

And the world, it too in a, I mean l The bender, I lean, And remember Her, She knew something we didn’t, But Susan knew, And I will not forget her or our sins, For God put me, Hear to remember Her, For you, For Ever,

For Man is the animal that makes mistakes, And he came to be, Leaving after he wrote his Apocalypse, That the world does not end with a whimper, but set his might On that They repeat the lie, now Sooner Every fire shall rise to Linger not In waste Of The shoring of runes but A temple not built by hands But Of some finer thing Of something fine to finish Knowing,

Yet Elegant, So Intelligent, And mixing Mememoremee and desire, Like the graduate students saying Chaucer and Eliot to me in Recital, Around the table knowledgeable, In seminar, And I disseminating on the deLimitation of the working of Art symbols of, That it we neither intend nor unIntend, Like A process of the organic,

One you know all Too well, And the professor Glared, And the students Laughed, But I was surprised at the un-doing, For I had neither intended it Nor not, That was to have been my exemplification. And so I was, and quit what they did not requite, Quieter, Qui etre, Being the one more sinning than signed,

Having in my confused way shown them, though I knew it not, that God is already doing an infinite number of things simultaneously, As Thomas Aquinas mentions at the end of the eternity of the World as we know it, And that, being the burden, In a virtual argument from design, Even if it looks like we are in the l bender, l bent, Truly, We are not, We only look like we are when we watch ourselves in each other. Therefore, whoso looketh into the perfect law of liberty, and continueth therein, he being not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work

Part One

Exemplii Gratia And then went down the ship, set keel breaking: O, how I rejoiced, the coming of Francis, But the sweetness of the scroll Turned to bitterness in my belly As I realized that in place of one There were now two, Both styled HH His Holiness, Both titled Pope, Both decked out in white, And that the second, Jesuitical, Had sworn absolute allegiance To the first, So

That what we had in Rome Was now nothing short of the infamous Gog and Magog, And the one directing him, Behind the throne, Behind the thrown, And the imbergoglio, then, Had only just begun, In that fathers had said Beware of two, And revelation did not deny, But proclaimed Even the eighth, He is the Beast, Now, in the see of

Fiction, For the roman Is nothing but, And written out As dead see scrolls, Contains the novel apocalyptique, Which even far-sighted Nostradamus did not Descry, For there was never to be, And this never was, Worked out at lunch in 2005, To come to fruition eight years later, Transposed heads, A tale of the narrative history in Reverse, passing through the Worm-hole,

But within these majesties Between the jest and Jesus Fell a jester and a Jesuit, And more to be of these Prophetic, Whether they were two Or but one, And if the latter, Then a retainer kept on wearing motley, For the benefit of, But not any more than then, So that no king he, But to gnaw is not to know, Contemptible, traitorous Ratatouille, To shake, to be disturbed,

And even then subtle doctors wrangled in endless disputations over angels and pins, But that eristic would cease, The scholastic would cease, In the chaos affirmed that the pope is a devil And things are not what they seemed. To usher Eris, Whomsoever she is, And her design, which is not without God, So that all things work together, And the Lord God is doing an infinite number of things simultaneously, Frighteningly enough here with me, or Such it seems,

That thou, Dark lidded envisioned came to me To do or undo To make or unmake me And even lain I but proclaimed Christ And awoke none the less, Despite the wear and tare. How long O Lord And how many times Will They try me To take me Down,

Yet Paul said he will give you a way Out, And a bishop not unbeknownst said The lesser of the two, And damned desire Even inward is her name and image, So that, If it be possible my king Jesus, She is inscribed, Sire, In reifications elect, In the literal play and the wake of, Yet I had my cake without confusion And did direct her, In heresies, she,

To prophesy unknowing as I did In An Icon from an Evening in Glas And say F-ing Roman How was I to know I did but name Francis In a figure, As Eris so-called embraced, They prepared a mask for the Pope, And no one fell all over themselves, Not to my knowledge, To pin Malachy on him, But that name too was a mask, And as I already knew, The last name listed was either a pius fraud Or meant to conceal the truth, But the eighth,

You have your scriptures, Let them be read, The rewriting will proceed, RNA, f-cis how ever you may parse if cs or in another words, scilicet, to wit, namely, if, the rewriting is allowed to run, in the text of consciousness, I scan fr Far sin C? Not to be mistaken For,

Scorpions and scimitars, To be met At the point of attack, So that, They change their names, Conformed, Confounded, They did hide behind white while Promising, The veil is evil, Live, And vile, And so with oracles that neither Speaking nor concealed, But give signs, O, Christ rent it, And so again,

Pull down thy vanities, Pull down, For the temple is not made by hands, They may not usurp it, But, In the exterior show of Pomp and circumstance Even Robert Mugabe murdered his way To see the coronation, Exception made in the case of Religion, So that murderers wait on the veil And serve, All gather to the roman, But, We’ll go no more a-,

By the bright of the boon, All things great and small conspire To rewrite us, But God in his wisdom did something for me, In that, To undo the rewriting, He Rewired me against the coming, As mind they say, And so did plant Himself in me, That prayer is not habitual, And I hesitate to say hypoStatic my mind is not, but the gifts and the call of God are irrevocable, Lift high then ye ancient doors, Enter in the King of Glory,

Who is He? He who made them will also unmake them, Yet, All Israel, Beautiful bride, Is saved, No beauty in the roman thing, Dead old men, Dead fathers, Who dress in beauty that not one Possesses, The antichrist complex In complexity, But His bride, unblemished, Sheer simplicity,

Not only as if to be, So that, God wills Demonstrations of Eris, And Rome unEmended, Does both know and not know the gravity of their situation, For the Pope, You either Believe in God or in your Self, There is no other choice, And they say one and do another, In a tertium quid, The Worst,

Eris so mingles in synthesis Suspension And synaesthesia, That they may confuse the smell of incense with genuine prayer And bells for the voice of God, To be heard, If they have slept with confusion, As we know from the children, Eris had her way with them, For Francis, Is he not the fairest at the judgment Of, HH, his holiness, heil heil, which is not to say Hail,

With Mary to not be confused, But in her army Am I, They did pervert her image, So that she seemed a thing coming to me, In horror, To serve the mother of God By rejecting her semblance, In séances Sweet, She was not, And even if Jacob, So inscribed, After Leah comes Rachel, So Christ may have, Too,

To the brides of Christ It is permitted, And every anti-type is every other anti-type, We have no angelic papa, Though he is Francis, He cannot wed, He is foresworn, And in that many practice hallucinatory sex, Autocephallic, Yet, They will come to a head, All is corruption, tainted, as once it was all merely vanity, Quaint and long Ago,

In seizures of eristic, She sexes men of the cloth, Suze, As I absconded in the letter a, Eris, In her confusion, Is essentially not who she seems to be, Dark lady of the sonnets, Wouldn’t we love to, but In the triangle, He was told to sire, But would not, Rise, Rise, She in relation to the King even in his resurrection, Is re-, but,

All reconstructions are furious ejaculations of her coming confusion, So that love and strife themselves are mingled now, And O may the Revelator Be their separator, For love of strife is damned Confusion, And it is a good thing war is so Horrible, Lest we would love it So, As the perpetual sword of Cromwellian owed Is Eris, Erections,

All ambivalent sexuality, Confusions, Is the beautiful Eris, And her slippers turn this way and that, And rise sire, She, But siren, Everything strange and tempting Calls, And some mistake that call for a vocation, As The petrifications, In which her confusion is not Absent, So that, Fit caption,

She is not a personification But in pontification Finds ample expression, The bitch, Dark lidded thou, Artemis, Aphrodite’s Even in the Hippolytus Opposed And in Phaedra, Are acting damned masks, Every goddess is every other goddess now, There is but one, Opposed to God In Electra’s Ire,

So that, Go ask Oedipus, Irony is but damned confusion When unaware, And Eris, Wires us in the disconnect, Her W Writes Even in the rites of Rome, And just this junk-heap on the ground, Heraclitus, Is her call to suit Villainess, Lady Macbeth teach,

Tomb, If I be not mb Embrides, Embraces, Eris, deShe derides behind decision In her point of madness, Bridles Brides, So that she may be the riders of the see, Sister, Eris is a saint, Doing God’s will, He tries me.

As I said, Along aside abrides production And irony to me prophesied her Even there When the time arrives, For revelation is about nothing if not Strife, And God inscribes Eris there, So he bought a sword, She being not mere confusion, But as strife, A saint rife, Eris is neither true nor false but both at once In the deconstruction Of the code of unction,

Can she be the Shekinnah As the divine confounds men, Beautiful in her absolute contradiction, Like God in a way, Patriarchs and priests do wed her And I think not all unaware, For sire, She Desires, And as the one who shrives, Arrives the goddess damned of cheap grace and the fairest flower of her race, Not to be confused with Mary,

For Eris is not Queen, No matter how she strives, And so sirs ire and enmity against all hierarchy, For without which she is equal to all, And we may all be then such highly compensated employees, Rivers, Seen she, And as thousand these, Would return to her Father Forgiven, For farther Forgives Even her orgies,

Go Eris, Run into your see, And be at one with authorities and gravities And priestess prides And discoveries discreet Eroticism To Her Babylonian-ish garment And her wedge of gold did but call forth a silver rod in order not to doubt happiness, In the judgment of, Fires, To have been salted with in tongues of flame and in that place they confuse hell, so

If where Peter is, there is the Church, He is a pet to Eris and her to him, A match made in, Pet Eris, the Eris, Heiress, Eris she to Roman rule, Harlot, She In Mystery So that in her smoke rises, And if I may be so bold as to assert, Eris is the Church at Rome, The very whore of fornications, nothing but Desire, Erised,

The whole damn thing, As The one who inherits, Hint of sublimity, The ruins of Rome, The distressing guise of Christ is not a beggar in Calcutta, But the Pope’s Desire, In essence not different from confusions of celibate men celebrating mass in ritual abuses Of pedophilia, The crises Of the conscience and consciousness of the church of Eris Arrives, Desire’s deconsecration and deconstruction,

And Oh my God she is even Irrefragably inscribed In Paradise, As even Mohammed and the heuristic houris know, For in Eris, Is a heuristic device to be? Trial and error wed, A logical path to solution without proof, So that, There is no paradise in her throne, Yet she is thrown in paradise, Dappled enough, Bride stripped bare by the piety even,

So that praise, If I raise it be not misunderstood, O, Lord, don’t let me be misunderstood Stripes, Inculcate, And God chastises her to save her, weds her in the wilderness, Forgives Eris, And saves her as if by fires Passions, destruction, sin and sweat, How sweet to be desired it seems, A paradise, And love’s delicious confusion in I know not what to come,

So that, Priests, scribes, Pharisees, Cast her in her bed, And roll dice At Investiture, Pope Francis, Peter the Roman, Syncope, of her name Will preach an argumentation Leading to, Ermines on Benedict’s back, So men lay with, The heiress Of heresies, her lies, milers At the mill with,

So, Marries Eris mars, Eris arms, Eris rams, Which is to say Paul Celan in those uninterrupted dialogues on the petrified blessing did prophesy, O, Eris, don’t they steal your heart away, Winners, Numberings Come up, Noble prizes, All, Her physique, her chemise, Knows no peace, But literature’s, Another’s stories,

Is to have re-inscribed the tradition, Differences, They say, Eris differs, And built her edifiers, Not like Wisdom with seven pillars, But, Cries Eris, In a voice strange but pleasing to the ears of men, She prophesies, And they, Not unaware of their guilt do welcome doom, And do not warn the others, Theirs, Serious, Eris, O, us,

The repetitious she is, To wanderings in, Revisers, revivers, rivers, And death by water And death by fire Are they not the same in her sweet confusion? The series The serial in which we live, The plus one, The signatures, Arsenic, and her gown grown, wound to wound me, she tomb lidded and heavy dark draught of biers To struggle in her as even she does in me, Incorruptibles,

The worthies, And the righteous, Even sinners, All called, And what’s in a name? Strife, Crises, The bishop of Rome, If the pope is the devil, anything is possible, So posits Eris, If truth tires, If love tries but fails, If despisers cannot hope, There is She, And she hires,

For men, even as they strive, cannot Without her, Though peace someday, We pray, But while she pries, There is no rest for the wicked, Though the wiser may understand The disparities, In circles they came to be entertained, And so fell out theirs posterity, The right honorable, Scriptures, All became writers, Her scribes, Greetings, Waivers, Viewers, The lifers in a,

So that, Joyce inciters, In Howth Castle and Environs, How the last convene sir, is by none other than Eris, It is in her most unfortunately, On Rives, Eris, To not be lighters, She, Rivers me not home, to Tiber’s Whoredom shore, Saint Peter’s Basilica, The bestiaries,

Merely to have said There is Is to have said the Eris, Thee sir, On the rise, he shirted by Nesses’ Attire, Caught in the writhes thereof, O, her environs envelope, As texted, And we but texturized, Made ready for the feast As if, Brightest and bested, breasted the beast, a series of errors, priests taught to, fought to, brought to buy, the fairest

Catholic fate Catholic fatality, So swerve of shire and back again, Transcendentalities, To have tried and scented the end, Is without end, Not erstwhile she, Having the prices of the princes of the church in analysis, Princess Do, Holds them in derision, Laughs behind, Derrieres, Without analogies, Or apologetics apologizers, Hypocrites, Incisers,

Insiders, Foretelling dreams on the island Who is not she? Ferocities wed, I have warned her yet, Made both war and love, But then that is her all over, the eristic lady, And to fighters who fight against her and to those who submit, Who, then, is unvanquished? She even if you ask for birches will wear britches and be a switcher beside, So, She cannot be overcome either way, already she is the containerings,

And the fescue of a knot, A thing not amenable to the cut, She, pointers in jointures ever, But she herself escapes, Doing the cut of circumcision, But no less, and even more so, Of the circumincession, As if, Miracles, She could be, For God To combinations and consistories unheard-of, To make and unmake creativities of Man, And that being good and evil at once, She reigns,

As if to be, In the laboratories, And oratories, In all our stories, Darling Princess, Be damned, Bed amend, Amen, Priorities Poetries, In this If I be one and she the other, God may still have mercies, Kingfishers may still arise, But to another, Mother Blessed, Am I in question, Who am I?

Is then to have asked after The Promise, And the whom I am, How but the shadowier she came, As paradise, as promise, as praise, But if I could ask my queen, none other, or even then my king, none above, about this Princess, Would they claim her? For she lives Here, In that, There is, Marriages of heavens, hells, elsewhere besides,

And yes I was promised her long ago, the princess, daughter of the king that I would wed, though I was also told that very few successfully complete the passage, But she is, Otherwise, And did stalk me like a prey, disguised always, never naked, And in the chaos I find her, But a bridesmaid And if I call her Rachel, Will she still come? And if destiny is strained, And few there are that find it, I could say this is what I did to her when I found her, for she shrieks the mulberry in me, and strikes me not too dark to love perfections,

In that Shrine, There is time, There is being, Forgives, Witness, w sent it, Writtenness, Went nets, sent, So that she, in extremis, is not against the providences of God I have found, though others know it not, and plays her part in the passion of the time, Confusion to those who would wish the fairest, But some sublime dark night or eroticism not unlike the crises in prayer,

For a knowing, Not known to those that do not hazard, As I have chanced, Not known to those who have not practices to match the decontrol needed in unknowing, God taught me that, To lose a religion for God, Christ and Mary even, The thing taken from me by surprise, Having been urged on, I will always love my exemplars, friends, saints the more, and on these distant shorings of the ruins after Rome, To love, Not the one responsible, but yes God always first, for it is He, in the end, and for His glory, but to have loved the one called Eris without respite, pet to me now, heresies of frailties and forgiveness,

That I came to know, As experiences of something like God working the world in mysterious ways, O, you, my saint, Eris, Sister she, There is, And in so saying the posit of the primaries, Let’s as the winged dance in setting suns, As a circumincession of god made by god, That is, To see in her some absolute shown, And find the god beyond god, Who would have me risk in order to, Inheritances attain lightness’ somberings.

So that I, Having beheld the Merkabah, In my name, And wheels within wheels, And charioteers of fires And so enflamed To have climbed, To have been entombed And risen, To have had the charge, Nay, Of her electricities explicit, And to have so sworn and warned, Would speak, then of The prettiest, So that she too may be known.

Now, She uses confusion as she is so used to, But was not without a plan, A stratagem, Knowing full well that nature, That sinful nature, That seeks its own, And in sowing her seed of discord, Yet is not the cause, For the virtuous are not moved by her question, And she winnows these, A fan in the hand of God, To separate, Not fair from foul, but Interests,

For our God is a jealous God and wrathful And rides, He it is that scatters and gathers, He it is that gives life and takes it, Ashes and dust, Turn again, sons of men, But Peter Pantheist, In his pantheon, Did hold fairest Eris in eristic and made such war on confusion as to confuse that war with the gospel itself, As the Benedictine said of that most beautiful thing named by Heraclitus, The junk-pile, And would defend the natural order, when obscurely the riddle spoke otherwise,

And if God does not treat the Romans As he did Nebucannezzer, And put them out of doors, There will be no end, But, Like others, I pray, in seriousness, That the inversion of Be sweeter to Eris, That I may, In so doing, Give glory to God, And that it may be possible, God triest the reins, In hearings before His throne, in that the apocalypse so-called in uttering’s Babble, Is but the separation as it Arrives, And Eris is that chance, as such, So embroideries she, Heuristic Aristotelian Prostitute,

In the contradictoriness of the logic, In the adulteries, bitterness and sweet, In the Eucharistic, So that, We shall gather by her rivers, O, dirty rivers, brides all to the see, And at the alterations at the altar, In liturgies, In rites re-written, In sacraments decomposed, In the Latin tain, Meant for L, Having been a Jonah, Having been bewailed, Having struck out across Nineveh, Old artificers,

Having been prophecies arm, Having seen the coming of glories, Having not once, not twice, But three times embedded the fiction of the fantasy of the falsification of the examination, Yet, They say if you sincerely seek the truth and do not violate your conscience you may be saved, Even then no guarantee, And whosoever is with violations and violence let him speak now or forever be held in peace, Still, There is truth, And no one who makes a lie will be in New Jerusalem on that golden day without, So,

What is Eristocracy? It is the rule of rules that there are no rules, not at the present time, not since 1939, All hierarchy, rules, rulers, is offensive to the God who will level all, Pull down their vanity Pull down their high places And raise the low, And Eris then came into view, Amidst the chaos, Which the Roman Church sees, approves of secretly and uses for its own ends, while at the same time issuing proclamations and denials of the very means they use, Erosions, Erections,

Both at once, Sometimes Son she is implicit, I Eros, son, I erect, son, So that Eris may be found, In corrections, Unlike those time brings according to Ratzinger, The emeritus, Eris mute, still working, behind the scenes, Resignation, The ringers in the towers, So singers, sing one of Zion’s songs, Here by Chebar, Here by the apocalypse wheels, Seventy-five years in circumference,

A world wide, And the center of which was twelve years ago, almost unnoticed but for the Vitim Event, But a herald hurled at earth, like others, so that God raises all that fall, But will be the cause of the fall and the rise of men, a sign of contradiction, Israel. La, Eris, The working of His contradiction, Yet, All Israel will be saved, that is the promise, the prophecies will be, there is, in the Wraiths wiser

That compound thing of which is said the ghost dance and of which they see supernatural and by which they obtain information by, Like Saul bewitched, Yet David, And Michael and Gabriel in Dubliners, Among The Dead, So that, We live and move and have our being in God, which for all appearances is a vast, allencompassing network, more than a text, but that too, Which is both good and evil, all the time, at once, so that the sirens wail at night, but why do they call them sirens? And so ingrained,

The mixture so acute in our crises, That if he could have, he would have named her not differance, But Eris, But being oblique, like she, more or less, he preferred to toss the apple for her, and pay her silent homage, as her scribe, A thing I do not do, believing in the genius of the work, not I, nor Eris either, But one pure, undefiled, honored and obeyed, Who through many means set me to the task, So that, Arts rise, roses risen, St. Sartre’s stare, and all that went into the apocalyptic, from the point that silence was no longer possible, and in that, She gave me fire.

For Mary loves truth, But Eris prefers stressing and straightening, Despite complexities for which she is known, And the confusions she is thought to embrace, Which are not always brought by untruths, But by debate of so many truths, So many points of view, And she it is that holds the contradictions of life firmly in a disparate set of circumstances, So that, The warriors do not displease, And peacemakers are abhorrent, But what is special to her As a goddess Is the war between the sexes,

And sexuality as a medium for Her disruptions, Disorientations of the psyche, Through the imagination, For there is a fantasy of envy, And proofs, And power and sex join, often to destruction, The emotional life that grips us, There is Irrationalities of the boudoir, A philosophy of the bedroom, And at times bedlam between the sheets, There is Then, a category into which fall The cruelties she brings about,

And it may be that her dissertation yet to be written must include interiorizations Of an eventful trauma so imposed, Yet, All this too is truth, Which does not eschew, For Eris, Who, like Popes and Professors, Uses truth as she likes, Though she has no aversion to lies and Those who tell them, And if I digress on this point, It is but in reciprocities Sake for the aggressiveness she has shown in her Desire to destroy me,

Which has not always been an unpleasant experience, But which I may have to pay for, Later, Despite the wish we all have that the settling of accounts be always deferred a bit longer, There is Perishability, then, Perish the thought, And in that prism, all enterprise ends, Interpretations are no more, What seemed an endless text at play becomes a book sealed, while other books are opened, For good or ill, We rise.

But to have Eris in Spring, still, To have gatherings while I may, Is it not to be in love again? I see her faults, but Overlook them, To my perilous siege no doubt, Come, To forget the impostures in Rome awhile, Though she is complicit with them, To reflect, To remember that we, when I first knew her, did eat one another alive, Consumed and consummated, And I only hold her off now to write, Though her designs and deviousness

Are without number, And show plainly in figures in the palm of my left hand, more so than the right, Because, She loves war, And I do not give in to her very often, Only having been overcome, Vanquished in battle, Never surrendered, Like an Aphrodite she waits for me, And uses sex, Not for pleasure, But to some end she knows that I do not, And I suspect she was behind it all, More than an aspect of the feminine like an anima,

An indefinable inscrutable dangerous thing That we sometimes call Desire, And she is the embodiment of that as strife, As Aphrodite is for love, The restive sisters, Who want worshippers At their shrines, And in perversities I have known both. Though Mary, once when I was despairing Because of Aphrodite And the burden of desire, Recalled me to my task, The same as I now perform,

Glorious Mother, begin your reign, take us out of language, someday, For silence, For you, Forever, And deliver me from Roman rule, Roman rites, Roman priests, Which, through the teaching of concupiscence do betray me to the Goddesses, And would make you O Mother into one yourself if I did not know you better, And the women who choose you not as model,

But the divinities, That they are, I know not how, Their dark lids Their gowns gathered in folds to unfold There, So, Mary, Pray for me, To increase the spacing of the erasure, to fight and not to quit, to not cease from mental war, even though at times, as at Scylla and Charibdis, I have given up something in order to survive, and lain with Nausicaa and Calypso and Circe, and even now long for home, the place I left at birth so long ago, but have not forgotten, the abode of the saints, and you.

Glories, A word I found in Derrida before I found it In the Christian context, In which I profess I was ignorant and late in loving the lord, So that later, at the seminary, I did discover the Glories of the Lord, The herrlichkeit of Hans, So that, When a one-time professor I met on the street near the university where he dwelled mentioned a Hans, I blurted out Von Balthasar, But he said no, Kung, more meaningful to me now,

And I repeat the term at some distance from the events, Out of fascination with the thing I cannot hold, and wary, Having twice lost my faith, once years ago for a Sartrean and Freudian thing, More lately though, In the fetishes of the Buddhist goddesses and the rites peculiar to the Tibetan sect of that religion, In Tantra, Yet, Though I know it was said by the Apostle that if I glory, let me Glory in the Lord, And too,

Let me meditate on the Glories of Mary, Still, I find in the letters of the word a cabalistic Insistence On the heiress, That is to say, Glories, O Eris in the GL, the very thing invented and inverted by Derrida in the Glas, The diabolical book as it was called, the analogy of an analysis of the anal, Of which in remembrance of things behind one is not unaware, In Sodom, As in Transcendentality, scent the end and reasonings not averse,

There is, Rapiers to repairs, To be cut up, then, or hoisted upon, In that, Signifiers, to go to church as, Magisteriums, Is not to say too much, Yet, Paolo and Francesca, adulteries pursuits, to have orised in her frail infidelities finding the waters however turbulent so sweetened, That however she is tressoning, in her distresses yet I discreetly, Drives, The autonomous that is provided, manifestly, in mood, feeling, hunger, nourishing pleasures sense,

Is to say, We seem, collectively, to be driven by, and no longer know whose hands are on the wheel, Apocalypse Wheel, Of which our epicycles partake, and all our little stories not amounting to much at the end of, Yet, We will always have, being romantics, whatever Paris we once held, So, I rhyme her, If this be glories, I would ask after light, but even more so after praise, to which she is not uncommon, as gravities come straitening across my skies,

And she is a black hole, The crossing of which tries the event horizon, So that, Praise be heard in Israel, At the moment of the end, The antichrist complex originates the complexity of the time, And I do not give glory because of that but Respite it, In that the brides are utterly naked and so to glories thronedom run, to be paradised praise, And it is way past, When the time comes, and the end of histories, That we may dance, yes, Yet you,

Never virgin, Never once unknowing, Said never say never, To peter in his pandemonium, pandering to witless witnesses, having petered Pandora, So that The Erotic Eristic Erinyes, We may believe, Are in reverse, And justice being swayed, They have been loosed upon us, Heiresses to the destruction of the democracies ideality, The rivalries of my verse, The Valkyries of the apocalypse, And in the confusion we are free, they say, to love but Eris,

Bestrewn, bestride me, glories imbroglio, Beauties, and the risk of beautifiers, To lose myself in her honeyed head, And wail, Ambergris, How un-platonic she, in the Ahabian desert, Utterly white, And relentless, Like jezebel, So to be Elijah armed and call down fire to destroy the prophets of Baal, As I hope my offering to be consumed, I don’t want ecstasy, She destroys me. Eris has one love,

Bound, Dead from the waste down, But evil then is evil now, And time is the evil, To benefit the doubt, We step out, Into eternities, Which limits time, seals it, to prevent the return of evil, But then there is always the veil, And inside one thing is every other thing, In mixtures, To be refineries, Of Eris, As the prostitute of toiletries,

And so to prepare a face to make the faces blush, if they could, in sin, the thesis of, the dialectical diabolical, the falsifiers, Fausts and Falstaffs, Yet her Hamlet knowing, There is a divinity that shapes our ends, roughhew them how we will, And it is not in curiosities to consider her so, My rough end, Tries her fineries, As the fine finish of the roman late silvered poets, Slithering in, Motions not unknown to Lilith, How can beauty be so evil, when it is transcendental, too? Must one then exclude all that, or is in God who makes and breaks and takes all, accordance of the totality within His infinity?

If she is, There is, in her, my spiritual exercises and exorcisms, As the founding Jesuitical father to Pope Francis taught us to, Imagine, Discern, then the consolations and desolations of the furies, And can you then decide, can you know conscience well-formed, and is desire un-founded, and is God neither simple nor complex, and is He the author too of this symbol of His sole authority, and in writings writing all, total predestination, as He is good but creates evil for the prophet, and it is all good because God wills it, so in quietism I would abide, For Eris,

There is, In monasteries, in nunneries, for get thee to, as in chanceries, even more in archdioceses, In grand masteries, in orderings of fabled dionysians, In hierarchies, in other words, their own undoing, which is not moral but mystical, For the world and the churches have long been winking at the wake of atrocities committed to the catholic cause, Bad morals not being the objection, the rock on which they founder, Rather, The mystical strictures of the Teresina, A mystique and mystification, Shattering the Petrine petrifications,

Their blessings turn to stone, Within the adherencies, And there is, respite to the plot, So that, despite the eternal city, And in the amazement of the labyrinthines, Which they love all too well, so as to lock with keys the faithful, and call them mysteries, The truth still was in plain view, Purloined, yet un-hidden, Because of the word, the text, the sign, in which subsisted, In which was still, until set free, In that, By the late principle that every other is wholly other, in imprecations implicated,

There is nothing but References, By which no deference any more to Rome and the fascist basis, That would bind, So, Set out from the binderies, yet still as can be read, she and I, To come, The problem of messianicities places squarely the Faustic vision as the plane of sane is, I cite I, And who is not prone to such repetition, To their drives, Yet in messianism incomplete, and perhaps though revealed yet incompleatable, at least as yet

so unfinished, a fragmented faith, then to come, still in force, As heirs to the promise we hold, and produce performatives, The cypress doctrine in ciphers and Aphrodite’s not to be out-done, Still figured in Artemis, the virgin, the warrior, the chaste, Dim emblem of my queen, Mary, for whom I am writing in everything I write, for whom I, if there is anything good to come, May hope, more than a help, more than an intercessor, O armor and my boast, Somehow she is mother to all, the innocent and the not-so,

For her son came to call sinners, And she called and calls me, Righting my wrongs, Even in that I hope in my passion for Eris, Who, we see, desires progenies, to play in the house of the damsels in demise, So, Being sent apostle of the apocalypse, I found this tressed and naked girl in the midst of the mire, and she in celebrations wake, undistressed, quietly enjoying the show fall, Now, I could quite wish, Fulfillment mine arrives, She, Flowerings of the absence still to any reason to,

That in realities we may embrace, so showering me graciously to behold, in a king swann fee, she O debts me, for varieties sake, as verifications, As the premise, Of a logic undescribed, So pictures of her, in her images more knowledge, yet it is by her four limbs I hold her bare, to transubstantiate her, give her form, to incarnates, Of carnalities, sheerings to the, And so bright bliss, To the forgiveness, To the promise of the same, To the war and all, To pastries and to the consummation of, That in service to be, so expires, silencers of, as in the fragmentations resigned, scriptures, we are heirs too

So that, Humble in sight of Heaven And to be always aware of the same, That nothing will have taken place outside providence, All embracing, All consuming, Consoles me now, Having taken a bite of the proffered Eris, In her prostrations, pretensions, in her relievings, A veil as in little Egypt lifted to kiss the kisses of Sweet infidelity, beloved infidel, Mightn’t it have been wiser to wait? Until the holy sees are dry, drained to the dregs? Song of Songs, not out of place, blackened bride,

The most mystical texts are sometimes the most erotic, And the joys of the virgin saints in love with Him, taken in ecstasy, Even as san juan de la cruz describes, or the sculpture of the wound in Avila, Is found in others, damned sinners they would be called, who chronicle for instance Madame Edwarda, Whom I was not long in meeting, and who in persistence, stays as Eris, This has been in all places at all times, even in the Holy Bible, Revolutions now turning not the drama wheel of dharma but the Apocalypse Wheel,

Kindled by desire, as we must needs be, The Divinity, is at work and as the breaking in of is made known, So that He will surprise us, For God made a plan long ago for everyone, not just Israel, not just Rome or Mecca, And this is not a generality, but so specific in particularities that there is nothing outside of his text, Experienced by me as the texture of reality, and I find Him and all the supernatural everywhere all the time, So great is the care of Heaven, Look around, the fields are white to harvest, whether the Pope knows it or not, The world was made with these ends in view.

There is no cause for mourning, though every day we somewhere weep, And I speak not of dispassionate indifference and the tranquility of eastern cast, Rather, with Paul, rejoice, and I say again, rejoice, though we are in chains, yet we will be set free, And I will show you great and mighty things of which thou knowest not, Jeremiah’s Lord said, And I think not in a threatening manner, so breathe once in a while, I tell myself, and in a way I cannot specify, have no fear of judgment, For perfect love casts out fear, and God wants children, not heroes, and children are forgiven most of all, perhaps, simply because they are children, so the law cannot apply

And, having found it not absurd to assert the identity of fiction and reality, In that, God, known as the ultimate authority, in the Author, Absolutely, Of everything that was, that is, that will be, without exception, Just as a novel has an author on whom the text depends, And in the text of God, what I call the texture, we live and move and have our being, Even Eris, So that,

In discord and concord, In peace and war, In Christ and Antichrist, The bending of the bow, The way up and the way down, Beautiful chaos, Sublime order, Or is it the other way around? There is more than reconciliation, And the time only seems to be out of joint, Despite fascists in Rome And terror everywhere, And the host of insecurities, Hunger and pain, boredom and unemployment, Yet,

Even with desire, even with suffering, even with the massiveness of the corruption and violence that we abhor, There is the hand of God. And with it He writes, The texture of reality so fine ingrained down to the play of chance as in cloud formations seen, Secret indications of an ideal not to be feared, But loved, In visions however they come, not without memories, but that only as a backdrop, for these dreams, these visions permeate the world, are interwoven with, And are in excess of what was called mysticism, without ecstasies, without trance, the ordinary is extraordinary, and the life is, As a fabric more divine.

She, Is not Eris as I was led to believe, In fact neither of them are Eris, Neither the one seen by day Nor the one seen by night, And as much as I hate to, I may let Eris go, Having never known her, Except as the combination of four letters Led me to, For the vision, That I was sure was her, the one by night, Greek goddess gowned, And brunette, Is not a cause of confusion but the cause of my Desire,

And led me directly to this work, And is holy, And is why I think of her as they do, As Goddess, But only briefly glimpsed, yet impressed upon my soul, she is not for my destruction, A prayer, A promise, I don’t know, But I believe, While the blonde in the afternoons is Something else, And Eris makes three, Now,

All this will be expiated in sequels, But I, Called as witness, Called I think by Christ, Stand outside the church I once loved, And testify against it, Even in the joyous selection of the ersatz Franciscan, And hold in abeyance much of that catholic teaching, now suspect, On my island, Where I am experiencing something like visions or mystical insights or hallucinations, Maybe even wishful thinking, So that,

In the theory of spiritual psychology I have been developing out of the tissues of my own mind, Since 1989, I have experienced in myself the opening of a portal to another reality, And in that Christ, And what Catholic priests and spiritual directors identified as bona fide states of prayer, Infused, In which Heaven has spoken to me, as one person or another, Twelve times since 2006, Yet,

Many strange and inexplicable things too have occurred, Not weird, but miraculous, as I intent on my vocation carried on, And visions too of various sorts, along the way, So that, To echo one priest about me, Why me, for I am a terribly sinful and selfish man that God must constantly remind and reprimand to keep me on track, Tempted constantly, And often falling, Though I may be learning to tango in this beautiful chaos Mystic benightedness

So that, With Gag and Magog ensconced in adjoining suites at the Vaticana, And the acting pope here in exile, Practicing with Petrine supremacy in one hand, and tapping out a post-apocalyptic comedian divine with the other, So that yes, Cyprus, is the reason for the acts of literature known as realized symbology, Asking What World Jan Do? When the fishmeckled church at Constance deposed popes right and left, while killing him, rightful heir, at the stake, Huss,

Maybe to unpack the cabal in their names would be enough, But, My God, To those to whom it is not apparent, It will never be perceived, no matter what I say, And to engage in the Petrine wars on this penisolate, Having bruised and battered, not to say bartered, my way out of the eristic heresy, And still not knowing the identity of the blonde who strafes me, I have begged the questions in prayer, But await the Word, So that,

Having been the witness, been killed by the beast, and revived, Having seen the earthquake of popes departing and arriving, And my self felt the rise of joy followed by the fall of despair and anger at the roman charade, For he sits on a half a billion dollars and prays for the poor Practices austerities by allowing a photo op of a hotel bill paid, And those betrayed in the dirty war are cited more by rumor than by fact in the media, Though the denials are printed verbatim, but the book on the treason never quoted, Then, I will not be styled His Holiness, or wear white, nor go by the name of Peter,

But if the genius of the work is still the genius of the work, Mary, Peter the Roman yet exists, And he ain’t anywhere near the imbroglio in, For Gag and Magog to have been revealed In Pursuance of the parsing, like him, like his name, as Abigail told David, When the King would cut off those who pisseth against the wall,

There is, As I once would have said to slyly drop the name of the Goddess, In all of this here the outstanding piece of bad news, In that if the imbroglio of Gag and Magog speaks ex cathedra the church is fried, So, Scenario, there have been but seventeen encyclicals of the antichrist, fourteen by the Pole, three by the German, when there should have been four, But that fourth summons, long awaited, oftdelayed, announced, but undelivered, Devolves to the Argentine,

So that the Roman Cerberus may have its three heads, And so bark like hell as the ark goes down, And not an Italian in sight, No mea culpa they, No maxima, maxima, they, We’ve had three non-Italians in a row, so they cannot be laid the blame, Though that College of Cardinals just quit on the job, didn’t have the stomach for it, and took the easy way out, It having been decided, anyway, over lunch in 2005 when the imbroglio threw his support to Ratzinger, The ship’s crew must stink to high heaven, when captained by Ahabs like these, so call me Ishmael,

For Jerusalem then, I know not what other name to give the woman of my sleeping vision, The beautiful, The bride, Who so fired me with desire, Not Eris, For having sown creativities here, not confusions, she is that she is, That she may be, But that damned Jezebel has go to go, The other one, Intent on fornication, Ever, So, At antipodes in the wasteland,

In a glaring post-apocalyptic tale of seduction, And believe me, Tempted, too, by the fruit of another, The heiress of chaos, I stick to my guns, Back me up at the gates of Rome, And having wagered Petrine supremacies in the stakes, Not to be confused with Pascal, a reasonable man, but they were all reasonable men, So that in fides et ratio, the raison d’etre was not the argument concerning faith and knowledge, Far rather, An extension Of the Magisterium,

Of its scope, its domain, even beyond its competency, To judge philosophy, That is, The antichrist wanted, explicitly, to tell us How to think and what to think, There is no thinking outside of the church, And where Peter is, there is the church, But Peter the Roman having been side-stepped by the charade, and one drafted, impressed in his place, It is not how to think or what to think that is suggested to faith and reason, but the philosopher’s role itself, To ask questions

So, If I am Ishmael, And perhaps alone left to tale the tell, Who are they but Blakean Daughters of Vision, Not to be confused, Eris, with those horses on instruction Vatican-wise, As vernal, As printemps, Priestesses, Goddesses, Shapes, Forms, Figures, Play,

And who would not be a mystic in their presence? The persuasions of the feminine, Not unknown even as the virgin martyrs of the Catholic Church, Whose deaths most of all converted the empire, For the death of fragility, Tendernesses torn, Was no match in men’s mind for the Forcing of, Known later in the days as error has no rights as consciences were forced and the church did not suffer martyrdom but did cause others to, Lest it be forgotten, As no one should ever forget the Holocaust, That burnt offering,

While I, in sin offering, praised a beauty insubstantial, in a way, But having posited the conjunction of fiction and reality, In that we are all written things, And in that my lines have been composed for recitations, As Father said, Actors, His friends, like me, unsuited to the working world, So I, in fathoming both conscience and consciousness, in experiments with truth performed upon myself, so tested the stride of the mind, as a poetess said, And she and I share in common being struck by God,

No uncommon femme fatales, As they did, I think, mean no harm, But practicing abandonment and I did abandon my practices for them once, That as my spiritual director said, the way from search to arrival is by way of Surrender and abandonment, And in mysterious ways divinity unfolds life’s plan, And there is more than is dreamt of in your philosophies, So that it is not near my conscience, and have been promised that I’ll be judged by my works And fear not toil and trouble, nor stand on a bank and shoal of time wishing to jump the life to come, For yes the time is free.

Erstwhile heiress, So that, Eris has her fee, A heritable estate, But did not the lords of the manor, Signors, claim the right to break the maidenheads of brides just wed, First night, while new husbands lamented alone, cursing them, And the church of which they played signal parts in the economy of gracious priests, Long, long, the taint, Then, But that raping is to be a reaping in Rome of what was sown,

Shown, As Gag and Magog have a date set to confer, no doubt reason for the deferral of Francine in making no changes to anyone in the curia, But since the Desert Fathers did nothing for show, they and the Desert Mothers, These were Christians, And the Vatican is nothing but Show, So show us miracles Francine, which the Benedictine could not, You dare to call yourself by the name of the man who single-handedly held the church from falling? Did God call you to repair it? We will see a fine imbroglio in the chair,

Bergoglio, Jorge Mario, In the name game, you take ma, ma, from Mario, Hyphenate Bergoglio, Make it plain, Magog found in the name game, And drop the J, what’s left but that Ogre, same as the last one, Magog, To broil you say, with what’s left over, Then broil the J, Jesus, Ogre Magog Broil J, (yet) O Ire, In the name game

Pull down, ye said, Pull down, thy vanity And pound the level sand to see And level to the ground it may be And you taught me that, so Her dark lids, and the bindings thereof, O heaviness of desire, to wait upon which, And hers the envelopments, grown dense To realize the love of Goddesses, Sheer madness to Elijah coming to last, And not just as a figure of speech, As one might think poetries would, To rise and fall with her in me, If not ineluctable and inescapable, At least a most inordinate aspect Of this my prophetic vocation,

And O better maker, Thou makest me I know not what or when or how or why Nor who, Is the muse, she shape-shifting, but always beautiful, and relentless in her beauties So, Sublimities task, negotiating the daughters of vision Since I put the pictures of Mary and Therese on the wall ten months ago, And could not stop writing even if I had been so told,

And did love the little flower, and not only as if, and would not release her angelic passion without being blessed, And so wounded, To combine saints and sinners in one embrace, to bind me to a virgin’s love, And to think her the princess, wed now symbolically, to be consummated in heaven, Man, you must be mad, So, It was not she, was it? Yet I fell into showers of roses, and it was 1260 days exactly from the kiss of her relic to the consummation of the witnesses at the election of Francis, She did not abandon me to sheer abandonment,

And I still hoped who entered her, And the circles of, For the goddesses make absolutes, That I must disobey, Them, And in an ethic not unlike to that of a man on Bloomsday, (Not coincidentally 6-16, and Joyce so deeply interfused with the antichrist that they are lost in discernment,) I may sleep with them and in morals be depraved, yet in terms of ethics, be still a good man, But I wonder then, on the relation of the muses, the goddesses, the daughters of my dream, To marry the genius of the work, For I have seen her say that she is not,

But I bracket her denials, And so sooner kneel, To have been warned against idolatry, and are the goddesses not, And even in the images imposed by those opposed to the iconoclasts, Caught, In a net that serves so many so well, more than echoing a strange figure, But in the earlier original draught of the fisherman, before having heard the call of the, To be so weighted, to have almost capsized, I see, even more then applies to me, his words, Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man, and replied the Christ, so he would never leave him, despite denials, I make you a fisher of men

To have razed the ante-Petrine, To have been called, And so to have called out, To pronounce a better maker, And so to Eliotic can’t, How much more so, I? But in a perverse inverted mirror of the times I fell asleep looking up at the picture of the Virgin on the wall, Over and over, They, whomsoever they may be, Did try me in my Marian devotion, As a wanton goddess became she, And so led directly to my vacation in Buddha-land,

To escape the temptation that was the worst, Apocalypse was all over me, And I did so live it, without respite, And, I was told, for one and all, though grained with salt to be taken so to taste that scroll, That the dead may see, And the sea may give up her dead, As the successors may give up their deeds, Therefore, If the Virgin had not prayed, I would have fallen like Joyce at Nauisicaa, And somehow reconciled sex and religion in art and life, even maternal, even incestuous in an incest, unthinkable, unholy, un-forgiven,

Which did not come to pass, because of Mary, not despite her, making other negotiations of the divine desire, yet, the very thing I am liable to, aghast, Is an emblem of those poor fallen men, the priests who fondled children enfolded in sacraments even on the altar, sacrificed they them, though they no doubt preferred the seclusion of the seal, So that, The temptations to power and wealth and fame and prestige are all of them bad, but we think them not extraordinary, coming with the territory, Yet this pagan thing, the temple prostitution, and the sin of sex in the sanctuary, so chosen to destroy the church, damned near has, And though I hate it, I might understand the temptation and capitulation therein, the darkness of desires

As Ezra in his harem With three wives he, And another, dark-lidded, Invoked everywhere all the time, So a better maker, To be better made, And like him in all things but Fascism, And anti-Semitism, And even perhaps usury, Foregoing greed, Did cease on ceaseless shores and sands thereof, and from mine eccentricities, And amidst the seeming of poetries, Scandal, madness and vainglories, Cantos on the chaos,

He would have Eris, too, and was not Uninfluenced by, To like Nietzsche recognize in the supreme will to power, being stamped upon becoming, And a schematizing of the chaos, To make the patterns if we Cannot find them, And who, given time, given death, given the chance, would not from fabrications more divine make a gown for Goddess? So laid up in heaven, though Plato is despised, do the forms, then, show no respite, so that the God, neither He is free, Or in a sublime Lability, So very strange and changeable is she,

That she descends upon the flesh of mortal women and enkindles in them the fire of her divan loveliness so a Pentecost may then be, And I know not holy, nor unholy, The pagan goddesses, to duple breed, evade the strictures of morality, and go straight to that fourth thing, Mystic, The true marriage of heaven and hell, Of the desires morality demarcates as carnal on the left and spiritual on the right, Yet, Thou, dark-lidded, in folds both serene and tempestuous, at once, A promise, a prayer, almost, in thee, as has been said, it is my life’s values, my dehiscent victory

Closer To serene, She could almost say I brought him, And to sin, In Egypt, So that, Psyche in her veils, Psyche for to see, Did walk in beauties before me, Did turn and walk away, But only for to be so followed to a place of more privacy and consultations sweet, O, how she did lean in, To make a meal of me,

And pursue a line of questioning to the witness I almost could not withstand, Yet, Smiling she, sure of victory, that I too had wanted, having been literally struck and nearly felled in the presence of this Goddess, Signal grace or Sign of disgrace, That I had fought and overcome so much to sit before again, This time, though, alone, and altogether ready for the feast, But, My answer was but demure, and I deferred, And escaped to my Jerusalem,

Though I recall, and not in fantasy, that she not unlike Lilith did wound my loins round in the redness of desire stamped in the titular damnation of the land she prized, So that out of Egypt called, Even gazing at her Pyramids, I remember, the mysticisms of her embrace, as from an embrasure she spied me in the presence of others, Or did I in circumspect surveillance, unsuspecting happen upon the secretedness of some serene, And see a face no other man had, a face to never hold and so, what passed for Psyche, in kind, in her thought that hour, A sphinx I saw, But answered as a king to be

Shames Of the royal court Of Guineverres Set to see Imperiled siege, To sit O, damn the lot, So that, They would foist upon me a queen, Hoist me as chattel to her sweet shards And slice me deep and wide as one Cut through Georgia to the see And witnesses shake savannahs And deltas of Venus opening For even the grand night Was made unholy by adulteries,

And her green eyes shine, And her long tresses, black, And a mouth made to moan, not silent, Nor only seem to, in such utterance calling, For she was the unholy royal, Come to me in my quiet, in my despair, Come to me when I, at point laid low and wishing almost to deaths desire, And so laying down and in a swoon, did see to my surprise her as she appeared and that not in glorious, but in her highness, Seduction, And plis selon plis, Did wind about me, Like the folds do yet enshroud Ophelia’s still and lifeless body, victim of a love given to madness

So that, As fire came down, As Moses Parted the sea, So Mary, Parts the see, Not to be forgotten the sweetness of Our Lady and the gentleness of her love, Yet, They said, two swords have we, Lord, And He said, it is enough, So Christ has wielded, so that Mary too may wield, as Queen,

As on the chessboard, Her power shown, To destroy the covering cherub long ago condemned, That would prevent salvation, That would lock out truth, And entomb the faith, So that, In a letter He said there is an open door before that they cannot close, And Mary is that part, Not to be taken away, Set in the midst of the see, Between arcane numberings of a neo-Pythagorean superstition, that fears her symbolic emblem at seventeen, As Q, the Queen,

And in the count of the letters that make-up a totality, BLESSED VIRGIN MARY So from her an army proceeds A ring, too, Vide, see, Saints, SS Bleed, So that in her our victory, So that in her our armor and our boast, So that, The virgin armed Will not be denied by less, In her seed, The ray, a very red to see again, As the man begins, Rage for, Versed

I went in search of the Goddesses This time for myself, Though they are never far away, And I looked, And I saw, Not only the chaos and the beauty therein, But a pattern as well, as if imprinted on the form of the human, but something else besides, Lilith and Carmilla, For instance, That is to say, Evil in a seductive shape, But I turned away, Afraid, disturbed, though I had only meant to shock myself, to get past the eighteenth of the antichrist, and then in the dark night I ran home to mother

Part Two

As I was, Half in love with teaseful death, Lamenting with Lamia, Almost, not quite, afraid to find a name For where I’d gone and what become, In that She, Beauty, May have no mercy, As a side, not of woman, But of a thing so hyper-feminine, Hyper-beautiful, Hyper-sexuality, Transcendentalities Of a love not to be limited by

Barren rules of mothers, sisters, daughters or Wives, But the pure essence of a fire set apart, Existing solely for the temperaments of men, Who neither fit easily into the roles of son or Brother or father or husband, Lovers, then, Alone to the Alone, A woman once I knew, A candidate for sainthood in another religion, Blonde, blue eyed, thin and pale, With whom I had a mystic experience On the first night, Who sometimes Saved me from sin,

An antithesis to the devouring women seen In the Goddess sometimes, Or at least in some, For not all goddesses can be the one Goddess, Nor facets thereof, Despite the Eristic, But this woman, more a saint than Goddess, Taught me To find the form, But I looked away, Beyond, To the heart of things, And found something else, So alive, As fire is without form, So she,

Her transitions of desire Assuming shapes In which to abide, I do not know what others seek, Nor what they find, And knowing the promise That one thing leads to another, I go on For discoveries Ever more potent than mere inventions, In that, There is, God, Before men and women, more than human, But there are others, too, In blue heaven,

On the other side, Yonder, And I wonder about them And what they do, Why they are concerned with us, And we with them, Having found communication From beyond Not impossible, And I think they wish it So, To call us to them that we may call on, And bring their fore down, In this, Fire came down,

Absolutely, The real and the ideal, Once distinguished, Determine me, And I live Having experienced ideality Break into reality And transform me, Yet, I still move in the consensus, Even having, too much of the time, By grace, Who ever she is, A common sense Once lacking,

But, It nevertheless remains to be said, That the ideal, Being invisible, Is neither dark nor Light, All catholic moral teaching binds one To a metaphysics of light, That is, To duality, The demon of Zarathustra, Which yet enters not into the Papal equation, For, In duality, It is all so simple,

Right and wrong for everything, But, The invisible is not amenable, To Up and down, Light and dark, Good and evil, And only when translated Into our perceptions Takes on The forms of evil And fear, In the era of ends, In the antichristian,

Absolutely, The absolute is arriving, To destroy mere Thinking, As indicated in diverse imaginations, Still human, In concepts from Abstract appropriation To the aliens and zombies Feasting on our flesh, To evil submerging human dignities In a darker night, Worse than hell, For underserved, Or,

In the end simple annihilation, Death by natural cause, The slate wiped clean, And erasure so complete, There will never be a slate On which to write Again, Absolutely, The absolute cannot be conditioned, On which the ensemble depend, Not adopted, nor adapted, In that we may not fit, No one It is said, no one may stand on judgment, Who can? Though one may prepare,

And these ways are simple and known to the religions, Yet, While it is solace for now, It will not matter After Though we have been promised, And believe if we will, And it is hard to love, after all, to love The sheer absolute, Alone to Alone, Absolutely, The absolute is neither void nor full, And we do not really know what we are saying When we say,

God, In that, Having been blessed with impressions of more human stamp, Out of Israel, And elsewhere, To befriend and tell, Be not afraid, The absolute loves you, And love is absolute, But ignorance and guilt detain us from That love, So we are to blame, And need religion, to get there, to make-up for our defects,

Still, In religion’s archive Everything has returned No longer is there but one way, And we may know love without guilt, How much more so absolutes, So that, Out of the memory and even more so the imagination of man Every Goddess is revived, But to conflict experience, For they have always been, And will always be, And the God tolerated them elsewhere,

But not in his peculiar little acre of Israel, In other words, Jealous God, right, he claimed, As a husband is right of his wife, So that, The sin adultery became the capital crime, Fidelity in marriage the greatest virtue, And this is the basis of the religion Of God, The strange woman tempts, The good woman is divine, And I know not what it is in men like that we love to wander in the strange, And leave home Run away

And lose ourselves Perhaps forever, For that is the danger, To court annihilation, By inordinate desires and desire for The Inordinate, We sometimes fall in love And find we have fallen in love With the wrong person, So, Change partners, And if I loved a goddess or two or three What is that between me and thee, And though I did not love them wisely, But oh so well,

Perhaps the god corrects men of their penchant for goddesses, through threats and fear and hell, For men would rather serve, or be enslaved, To beauty Her intoxication To fire To desire Than live without And wait, Finding gambling worthwhile, however we choose, We place our Bets, In goddesses the union, then, appropriate, Of sex and religion, Of which in other contexts much to suffer is,

Through contamination, Crisis of our time, But to accept another way May hold the secret out of Deconsecration and deconstruction, The problem of the host, And in the instability, some look to Eris to blame and thank, And she may be, the cause But not the solution, For love opposes strife, and out of chaos desire may save, In Aphrodite then to come, Though I am but agnostic as to goddesses, Not knowing yet who loves me better, who loves me more,

So that, Eris exercised me to excesses not to be excised, As others of note, And I speak in fondness, still but a little wary, if not weary, For desire they bring, so I do not tire to speak of them, Not deceitful, maybe tender, like one who lays with one unknown, And perhaps without caring about, In an air of carelessness, For she may feel much the same way About me, Being eternally above me and perhaps ultimately unreachable,

To risk abuse, to risk heresy, I think of all the goddesses likeable in all their varied ways, even in Tibetan witchcrafts and immolations, And with no slight to Eris, either, the one in whom the inheritance may still arrive in fee, Yet, There is something about Aphrodite, Hard to forget, Though she is, if not weak, as has sometimes been portrayed, And I know of her power, proven to me, Still, in the embodiment of love, She affects me sexually and imaginatively, In a pleasing way,

The goddess of the chaos, on the other hand, Fascinates, As an idea in play, the de-constructing play of the world, in chaotic freedom and opportunities, not only in idea, But to become in love with chaos, may only last a few days, at most, And a man wants a woman, if not faithful, at least not stubbornly unfaithful, As Eris seems to be, For she loves not love to love As Aphrodite does, And desire is so Dependable,

There are others ranked among the goddesses, Deities of the East with whom I have prayed And laid, wed, been fed, and died, overcome and been overcome by, yet I look back not with regret, for such was the requirements made on me at the time, To the horror of Lilith and Carmilla, though, I withheld my seed, But other fair forms and faces I may worship and adore, Some men I think have known them all everyone And in but a brief career, Only to be destroyed, but I hold goddesses then still but agnostically, and not in agony, and see a path to wisdom in, a wisdom of desire,

So, The Greeks who love their goddesses were the wisest men, and loved wisdom, philosophy, a lady, But the Jews sought a sign to follow in fear, And Paul preached Christ crucified, a thought breaking on the ancient world and destroying it, submerged for 1000 years, Till men tired of being still crucified, it was no longer sane to suffer such divinity, And sought their goddesses once again, In the girl next door in the goddess t-shirt, Or, sublimely, in the goddess store in the back of the mind,

If, Despite my Christian faith, and salutary walks therein, Have still, I do not hesitate to say, love for the goddesses, it is because of one in particular, Aphrodite, Who, following the victory I won over her and her champion at the university, in three nights of debate in 2008, a thing of which I think he later died, Has relentlessly pursued me since, causing me at times so depthed, In desire, I was to commit crimes, not knowing what I was doing, And,

Despite a better judgment, I find it honest to admit, I love her, After all So that, I have finally come to realize, in my religious context, behind all the different goddesses there was but one, Aphrodite, Who is beautiful, more than beautiful, and is not strange or evil, and though she is promiscuous and adulterous She is the cause of desire in me like I had read of but had never known before,

Which I had since the pursuit began directed at others, never knowing, It was she, and I cannot live in two worlds, trying to obey God and please the Goddess just the same So praying, God may accept a heretical notion of panentheism I call The Absolute and The Ensemble AE In which goddesses are allowed a place, so I realize a dream I had fifteen years ago, that I would marry the daughter of the king, And Aphrodite is, So to consummate our nuptials, I will say her secret name,

The one she meant for me, And when, Dear Aphrodite, I made love to you in the reading of your hidden name, so long reserved for me, I found these words, I HARD POET I REDO PATH And, in deed you are, and have, and I do testify in faith and hope and love, but you may be harder, yet, to follow, find, and harder yet to hold, Still I may see you again in the letter A, in my dictionary’s page on which falls Apocalyptic, Still after still and ever yet an after still to come, we’ll walk again in Cyprus, on your sacred isle, now here, now there, in which I have been promised a princess for to wed,

Aphrodite, In whom I live, And come, And have my being The God of Israel revealed the plan for the Temple to Ezekiel, a map, as has been said, of the Mind of God, Everything measured by numbers, exact, defined, But, Aphrodite, Being curved, curvaceous, The opposite of the Mind of the God of Israel, Whose righteousness does not swerve or bend, So straight, So square,

In her sweet desirous clinamens Is not to be defined, So that she will not let herself be pinned-down, More like a honeyed Pi The Transcendentality of number, In whose desire an end is scented, A love that goes on So that, When God called Abraham, and told him to kill his son, And insanely, Abraham obeyed,

The foundation stone of three religions was laid on The willingness to murder in God’s name and call it faith, But, On the other hand, There is a world, an island not far from which, where I now live, And do not fear the coming wrath, Living in love, Forgetting the fathers fear In my divinity more heavenly, Ever more, sublime when that aspect is found in Beauty, Aphrodite Absolute

RETRACTION

What began as a dialectical dance in the first chapters, by turns serious, by turns humorous, using cabalistic techniques learned from such writers as Joyce and Derrida to play with words and names, the poems were really a battle for my soul fought, on the one hand, between primarily two Greek goddesses, Eris, famous for chaos, and Aphrodite, famous for love and beauty, and on the other hand the Blessed Virgin Mary. I did not realize exactly what was taking place, that is to say, the trap I was being led into, when by Friday, March 22, 2013, for a reason I do not know, I capitulated into the arms of Aphrodite. By Monday, March 25, 2013, I had repented of the sin of forsaking my Christian religion for the second time in two months, and for much else that I cannot speak of. The original poems were published serially, and rapidly, as they were being written, between March 20 and March 23, and I thought it good to collect them in one, for the sake of the story told, of which this retraction, by the Grace of God and the prayer of the Virgin, is the ending. I deserve hell for what I did following

the writing of the so-called treatise, and still do not know if I will be saved in the end. I am still frightened by it all. The Lord allowed me to confront Aphrodite Monday morning, and in the conversation he quickly turned the tables on her at one point, and I realized I was free. If it had not been for the Lord, I would have gone on a career of unmitigated sin, which I had already begun the day before. Looking back at the poems, I seemed to know what was going on, as I danced, but I was watching my dancing, not knowing how close to the edge I was. On Sunday I was in hell, a monstrous man, in every way, finding such depravity in my heart, that I have never read in a book, seen in a movie, or even heard of from the Nazis themselves. I betrayed everyone and everything. I am so staggered and sorry for my sins that I had to fight the despair that leads to suicide, like Judas, and will, I think, live in daily remembrance of my denial of the holy, as Peter did after his denial of Christ. I reaffirm my belief in and love for both Jesus and Mary. The mercy of God cannot be fathomed. I am proof.

After writing the retraction and beginning to proof the pages, I was convulsed by the realization that, just as I had been killed by the beast and resurrected, a month earlier, because I was one of the two witnesses, as I tell of in the first volume of Majesties, Cy Pres Doctrine, and many other writings of the last year, I had again been killed by the beast and resurrected, either because I was the two witnesses in one, or because my wife was the other witness, who had been ill for the third time in the long winter, one of the worst illnesses of her life, coughing incessantly, without relief, for three weeks, until the very day I had capitulated to the goddesses, on Friday, and she began to get better. Upon realizing all this in a flash I finally wept hard a few moments and cried out the name of Jesus. Perhaps, now, Lord the role of the two witnesses is finished, the second woe is past, and the third woe is come.

THE PETROLOGY: INTRODUCTION

For Mary I look up to a blank Almost in that I To not look again I hope For Mary It was she who Pacified my mind Put prayer in me I had never known Quieted and stilled Out of my error She has brought me She is my teacher To have been under Her protection

Oh brightness Oh whiteness Pure dawn announcing Pure perfection To have been catholic And still To be Despite Let not say what In that despite Oh not to judge From verbalism Oh be not judged To mysticism Lady To have led

Out of the forest Of circles at What clear space Of sons find Shining on First and last Always now And to have known And yet not to Almost Too marvelous For me Too much I say Words to find me Out today

Every idol has been Trampled down For Mary reigns Blessed Queen Be ye therefore holy For I am holy What they called love Love was not For without virtue No beauty is The moral beauty Of Mary Resplendent regal Intricately wrought Woven And infinite

So all will be Someday But in eternity Already is She the patience She the purity Her perseverance Showed peace That we may ponder To her heart For a heart so High above She poured The cold, cold Sober water On my mind

To break the fever Of the world And flesh And So cleansed washed Made over Evil does not live Its veil is torn away And the true beauty Shines without Such lies For Mary Is no myth Is more real Than death So even stronger

THE PETROLOGY: CHAPTERS

Chapter 1 So, Run it through the speech-grill, Having been taken out twice, Not just wounded, Actually dead, That is to say Possessed, Because, This baser nature came between the fell and incensed points of mighty opposites, When I thought I had a noble heart, But listen, The Lord God set me straight, Saying

“Alfie, do the poem” Which he had said in a figure of two late last year when the beloved other witness, my wife, got out of her old job and into two new ones, As a teacher, and another part-time gig that fit, Thing was in the names of the companies, Which are anagrams of Alfie Do the poem I knew the second for some time, only figured out my name today, But I am still a.k.a. Petrus Romanus, The one and only, who is not required by Malachy to be a bishop, not explicitly, Only “to sit,” Read it for yourselves,

And so here am I, Sitting. So, Who was Alfie? He was the self-centered, sexually-oriented young man in the movie who asks What’s it all about? Me, baser nature, pointed out, got that, recalling not only my bouts with goddesses Buddhist and Greek, but earlier episodes with Egyptians, married women, girls of all kinds, Not that I’m all that, but I guess I thought I was, you know But God takes the refuse of the world, the offscouring, as Paul said, to accomplish his purpose, to confound the wise of the world. So much for the perambulatory,

Chapter 2 So that, Having perhaps reached the level of my incompetence, And had the baser nature and my fatal flaw exposed, not once, but twice, The Genius of the Work sat with me and taught me to do something different for a change Like really pray this time, and so I did, and it became real quiet, and I was so happy, And I thought, man, this is the answer, which sometimes it still will be, But then I found out the bastards won’t leave me alone,

Because now they are so damned mad, as they are at every Christian, but in a way especially with me, and after the Gag and Magog thing and having exposed the Pole almost a year ago as the Beast, well, I saw them coming, after only three days, I said, I’ll be a hedgehog, just curl up, they can’t get me that way, But oh no I realized I’m already in the middle of the road, and you know what happens to a hedgehog in the middle of the road, Like the other witness, Derrida, said, So, What else could I do but get up, get back, and assume the role again that nobody wanted, Because the Tribe of Dan, also known as the Cardinals of College, knew Francine was a Jesuit, knew he had sworn allegiance to the one before,

Who, Good as his name had a zinger in store for everybody, And I saw a picture in the Times of Gag and Magag, both dressed in the white of a bride on her wedding day, kneeling together in their nuptials, as if to pray, and Oh, Francine, what have you done? Whom do you serve? To whom are you to be wed? In this tragedy, called to fill the shoes of Hamlet, to take care of the usurpers, my sin has not been madness and delay, the famous hesitation, But, That I, a baser nature was assigned the part, I think because there is no nobility left on earth.

Chapter 3 Having read in Peter the Roman that I wrote that not once, not twice, but three times I would write a fantasy and fiction and falsification in the examination, And realizing that this might mean something like the denying of Christ, Three times, like Peter, I was scared, in that through the goddesses, I had lost my faith twice, and the second in a way worse than the first, But that Christ had broken in, broke it up, turned the tables, and Mary had prayed with me, restored me, made me a child again,

That I became determined not to sin that third time, never again, And I could not say it happened once before, long ago, had lost my faith and been restored, so that made three, No, There was a chance that something prophetic spoke through me, I know not what, and made a prediction, concerning me, So, what was I to do? I said I would never write again. And even now I fear that my sins are so grave that I am disallowed, And if Christ and Mary need not a pen, yet, at least, they may still hold me in their hands

Chapter 4 The infernal is so deeply interwoven in the fabric of the appearances, what passes for reality, that it is most often, I think, unnoticed, able to work quietly, insidiously, causing heartbreak and trouble everywhere, Stirring up two men, or a man and a woman, to enter into arguments that make no sense, inflaming tempers, Or, As with me, tempting me, inciting me to lust, while still others are caught in the toils of greed, And we are ignorant of these things, even when we should know better,

So that, When what happened to me during the writing of Peter the Roman happened, like a holocaust, like the worst, I wondered at myself, having betrayed myself, and all I love, But in prayer a few days later, Mary let me know, during an infused contemplative prayer, that I had suffered from a case of possession, And that is scary, but not as scary as thinking that it was really me that had done it, And she pacified my mind, but the scenes are still in my memory, and like a competent priest will tell you, They still try to take over my imagination with outrages, Or whisper incessant deceit, or bring signs come to pass I know not of, even as I send them

Chapter 5 On the vocation of Peter the Roman, Peter was asked, And he replied, I am the antiAnti-Christ, So that, In a Hegelian dialectic he is the negation of the negation, before the fourth step, which Hegel did not conceive, that double plus good of the arrival, outside the dialectic, completing it and ending it, The Second Coming Of Christ

Chapter 6 So that, In persecutione extrema S.R.E. sedebit. The capitals in this Latin sentence from the prophecy clearly spell out the very thing that in the first book of Peter the Roman was the destructive and chaotic element penultimate to the disaster that followed, the so-called Eris, the goddess of strife in Greek mythology, who has been adopted by the discordian religion as its “god.” I will not now proceed to a thousand lines of poetic play with that name, but As well, the siren is implied, which has been seen.

If I am petrus romanus, and have found, after a life and death struggle, in which I was killed, but revived by Jesus, that I am to be opposed to this Eris, Then this line of the prophecy is disjunct from the last section, as many have suspected, and applies not to my role, but to the one now supplied by the transposed heads in Rome, the co-, semi-, bi-, popes now living in the Vatican. Eris is enthroned in the see of peter and peter the roman is elsewhere. If we look at bergoglio’s official name, Pope Francis, We see popE fRancIS, spelled out, straight across, so that she infects the new world leader in a most insinuated way. The PP goes into their famous signatures, meaning in Latin, proxy,

So that, o-f-a-n-c is left, which means Pope Francis is the proxy “of” Eris, a-n-c: Anti-Christ, and with the a-n-c removed from Anti-Christ there is spelled ti rist, it stir, in Francis, thoroughly infected by the presence of Eris, acting as her proxy, it, the Anti-Christ, stirs. So that the connecting link in the prophecy refers to the anti-Christ, Pope Francis, the proxy of Eris, the one that tried already to destroy me, and to whom, as Peter the Roman, petrus romanus, I am opposed. I apologize for having broken the fourth wall of the poetic framework in this chapter, but it is a thing that Alfie, as God has called me, would do.

Chapter 7 In the prologue perverse of these my Petrine revisions, There was an Eris, the thing I thought was she, loved and hated, feared and desired, written over and through, That led to my destruction and night in hell, Not to be described, Out from which the Lord Jesus Christ, by a timely word of intercession pulled me, And I live in horror of those hours, doing penance that I may never know them again, Never, never, never, never, never, never,

It was with great fear that I saw her name inscribed in the prophecy of the popes, knowing that by intellectual conscience I had to deal with it again, Though so very dangerous to me, And, I think, to everyone, But finding the horror turn up again in that place where Peter the Roman is indicated, I have some hope that the prologue perverse was not an infernal dictation, but that Even there, in a way, God was still in control of me and what I was saying, Though how, I do not know, my mission being now not to question the providences, ever, but to believe in Him and be just an instrument of His Will, Amen.

Chapter 8 And my friend Jude, the legendary and altogether devoted saint of the impossible, When turned to, replied Peter, it was not a matter of psychology, no matter what they say, But of your role apocalyptique, for which they wanted you to pay, But not in a just keeping of accounts, rather in the manner of vengeance and spite, and also to stop you from proceeding, For, You yet have many things in store,

As does a world unsuspecting, In that, They adore a man, of whom they say, in wonder, See the act of humility, When he was only doing what is done in every parish, washing and kissing feet, No, He did not go to murderer’s row, but touched the feet of a few young detainees, barely prisoners, not even criminals, When his namesake, Kissed lepers on the mouth, and this not as an act, not for show of cameras, but in love, and him, the saint, they thought was mad, while the papal imposture is almost thought divine.

Chapter 9 I went to see my mother I went to see my mother in the afternoon In the afternoon we talked and prayed And then I went for a walk As a child I walked I walked as a child does I loved the sun I loved the sky I loved everyone the afternoon I walked The afternoon I talked with my mother I went to the store to buy some meat But the meat I found was not so good

It was not as good as what I found As I was leaving the store As I was leaving it was not what I found It was what found me as I left the store A girl of simplicity and beauty and smiles Was handing out flowers to all around I too smiled obliquely and went on my way But she skipped up beside me and said You’re sweet and gave me a white flower An angel with a flower angels long to see I walked home still talking with mother With the flower of heaven held before me Before me went the flower that angels see Angels see such heaven-sent flowers as I see My mother and I talked for hours and hours The day that the girl gave me the flower

Chapter 10 The Greeks seek wisdom And the Jews look for a sign But I preach Christ And Him crucified Lest we empty the cross of its meaning, it is important to remember that Jesus was not a philosopher. Lest we empty the cross of its meaning, it is important to remember that Jesus did not practice divination. Lest we empty the cross of its meaning, it is important to remember that Jesus came not to destroy but to fulfill the law, every jot and tittle, which is based on wisdom and on signs.

Chapter 11 To have been speaking of butterflies, Then And the Mind of Christ coming to the world, And the one mind, They were all of, That will not stand, and will not let stand, nor to be instantiated, The passing of the fire, taking back Carmel, for Christ, As the catechumens and candidates are conferred, as candles shine and water is poured and all look up toward the gates of St. Peter,

In the Petrine succession, Without the Petrine privileges To grant adulteries, Without cause, concession to the hardness of hearts, Of which petrifications is the stone of blessing, the rock on which was built? Taking back Carmel, then, by fire cast on earth, as fire came down, to have been salted with, The breaking of The lifting of To have been cleft, In the test of hearts, to be not hardened, So that, when you hear his voice, as at the provocation in the wilderness of sin

Chapter 12 Signs following, Hounds of heaven or wolves of hell, In the thirty years war there has been pursuit, So that, A venerable priest said that if He did it, it would be clear and unmistakable, And months later he passed me on the street, carrying his mail, and I heard over my shoulder, Unless this is a sign, and a laugh thrown back, And I do not think it was the priest himself who said this, but another, In the network of signs,

And Jesus knows everyone, what He does not cause, He permits, And yes, The law of genre and text and the law of law itself is based on the wisdom and the sign following, So, We await the change, the effective revelation that will fulfill the law by a power of God, To stand it on its head, To turn it inside out, I know not how to say or see it now, but someday we will be free from the signifiers we are caught up in, And the text will be no more, For He will have written on our hearts The love indelible

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