Friday, August 19, 2011

From a Brother

Something is trying to come to life inside of me. No, not something, but someone, a person. The person is me, but the person is not yet me. That person is not me, but the person is already living in me. The person is beyond me.

I was made to be that person. The person is for me and is meant to be of me, but the person is not from me because that person is not who I am now. That person is who I will be. That person is more than me.

I am Anthony. I am only Anthony. But I will be Anthony because my life depends on it. I will be Anthony because Anthony is going to be a person.

What is it to you? Who am I to you?

The being and the becoming, the life here and the life to come: God has everything to do with all of this. This is all I care about, so I cast my cares onto God. Jesus Christ is God in person, and so I follow Jesus to be, in Christ, a person. Practically, to know God, the maker of my person, and to know Jesus Christ, God in person, I aim to walk in the footsteps of Francis of Assisi, and to walk like Francis of Assisi, who was a consummate person for others.

So that is what it is to you. Who am I to you? A person for you. Your brother, I hope.

This blog is not a diary. It is something else. It is not the place to read about being-becoming a brother. This is where you can read about it.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Call and Response

"My young adulthood is coming to an end." But not your youth.

"I am undertaking an expedition." Ridiculous. You are a moviegoer, and your life is a film festival.

"There is a path, and I see it leads me straight and true." This is no time for tourists. There is a person who must walk straight and true, or there is no person at all.

"A sign of contradiction ... a fool for Christ." And a legend in your own mind.

"There is a book within, and it has got to come out." Aye, ordinary words. What low ambition.

"She said, 'Do what you love.' " Do Who you love. Love does not know What.

"I said, "I will do works of love." Love longs for a human Being.

"O God, come to our assistance." You mean, "O God, come to our insistence."

"God helps those who help themselves." Amen, they already have their reward.

"Healing Spirit, set us free." The free are beyond victory and praise.

"A prayer in distress." Indeed. Hopefully, without despair.

"They're looking for answers." Don't answer. Don't tell them anything. Give them a response.

Friday, July 29, 2011


Author's note: This poem was written in May 2008. The electronic document was lost soon after. Thought to have been lost for good, a printed copy was rediscovered recently among miscellaneous papers.

Mary rejoices under sunshine
on a bed of grass
in warmth
with a daydream,

love of lands
beyond the bondage of clammy flesh and chilly blood,
further than your hasty hands of fellowship can reach,
beseeching her to embark again,

to find, to feel, to follow something as smoky as a spirit,
wreathing a few beautiful souls
ringed in glints of burgundy, cream, and gold.

She is moving. I cannot pretend.
We are sitting at the river listening to the hushing water lapping darkly,
and I can also feel the currents carrying her blood.

Hearts open as they close and close as they open,
so that every breath of life may pass into the streams of our bodies
and the exhaustion of death-breaths may pass from them.

Mary lets her joy-kissed happiness come and go to life.
I hold my breath and stiffen. How stupid.

We linger at the table of our last light meal, an indulgence granted.
Write wonderfully, she says --
with beauty and power and meaning, she says --
but I cannot, do not, want to write the stuff of dreams undreamt,
I say with penitence.
Meanwhile, Mary's face takes light,
soft shapes of consolation, forbidding sobriety.
The trick is to inspire. Inspirare. Inspire.

Even accidental gifts set hearts in motion.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Flowers in the Harbor

There are flowers in the harbor
Rainbows flutter in the breeze
As lovely as they are
Would that we had no need of these

Bells ring soft, your name is spoken
Someone prays with a guitar
No one names the spirit here
The spirit isn't what we are

No demons will disturb us here
But we can't stay here in the park
No sooner than we've come
We scatter to the brightness of the dark

Living speak here to the living
No one knows the dead but those who died
If we had half the courage to die as will to kill
The fronts would fall from every side

Women blessed me -- blessed my anger
But they couldn't balm my soul
Priestesses, O can you pray
For prisoners in the endless hole?

Many, far too many, are the faces
Known to me down by the sea
Few, oh, precious few the more
Beyond my count sleep under me

A man of wire flats a bugle
We surrender to the czar
A ransom for futurity
The future isn't what we are

There are flowers in the harbor
Rainbows flutter in the breeze
As lovely as they are
Would that we had no need of these.

Monday, May 30, 2011


Today we've got a way to go
I love it, if you want to know
You're back to life in front of death
I thank the stars with every breath

I saw your face down in your lap
My eyes could blurt, my heart could clap
The track is tricky till the end
Don't ride this train without a friend

You'll never know the hour you're being seen
I'm gonna put us in the movie scene,

I came to you to make a home
And lived in your inspired poem
To touch your flesh would be absurd
How wise of you to make it word

The sun brings everything to bud
The sun is simmering my blood
You wait inside the cool of shade
It's hard to believe that you were made

You know me, woman, but by other means
We are the strangest lovers ever seen,

I think we've been this way before
You make me sure of it the more
You smile -- O how my soul would burst
The last is better than the first

The days are turning to the midnight dream
You're gonna rise a precious body sheen,

Sunday, May 29, 2011

The Deaf-Mutes

I need you to forgive me

You can't hear me

I can look at you

Don't want you to

Who are you
Intruding traceless


I won't give you

Then I won't see you

Then I'll wait and write about you

And you'll lie too

Show me

I have told you

No you didn't



I'm here

You don't know

Come back

It's too late
I'm gone with a wave

To hell with yesterday
O can't you see what I say

Forgive me

I said give me

Monday, August 30, 2010

A Treasury of Wind

Silver and gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you.
I command treasuries of wind.

God will say to me, the dust:
"Why have you forgotten me?
Why do you go mourning,
Oppressed by the foe?"

If you want to become what you ought to be,
Then you better learn to fear your misanthropy.

Sleep through your dreams, and you will wake up to your nightmares.

I want the kingdom of God, not Augustine's seed.
Truly there is no use in crying over spilled milk.

Wait for some things. But for other things, never wait for them again. You are not one in waiting.

Proof is not enough. You must transubstantiate your claim.

Pirate! Whose song are you singing?

"Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!"
It will be done, friend; only sing also for your prey, for you are hunting yourself.

You are not a writer. You are a spy, a mail thief, an interceptor of messages that creative genius intended for other eyes, ears, and minds to receive. The least you can do is become an excellent thief.

"And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?"
Look for the cornerstone, and you will know.

Another night on your own
No urge to go home
Your friends are strangers on the way
On a fast red line
To pull you
Bearing your burdens
Always singing your way into abstractions
Talking about God
Speaking to no God
It's colder than the summer ought to be
I've lost the magic left in me.