Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Grace, mercy and peace to you from the one who spoke to Abram saying, “Do not be afraid. I am your shield.” Amen.

But, O Lord God, where is that shield when I need it now?
I have cried out to you believing that you are the sole strength of my salvation—
I have cried out to you trusting that you are have always covered my head in the day of battle—
but, O Lord God, where is that strength or that helmet when I need it now?

You have never abandoned me—but you have gone missing.
You went missing from the night when I was with you in the garden.
You went missing from the ranks of breathing life when I was
sometimes crying for your life
sometimes raising up your cross
sometimes mocking you to death
sometimes gambling for your clothes
sometimes offering you sour wine
sometimes begging your pity like a thief
sometimes begging for your corpse
when I was always mixed up and too well aware of it
and you were praying to your God,
who perhaps had not abandoned you either,
but who, even in your Word, seemed to have forsaken.
You went missing from the cemetery when I was coming to grieve.
You went missing from the table when I was just figuring out who you are.
You have gone missing—but you have never abandoned me
and I treasure it as a facet cut on the infinite carats of your faithfulness,
O Priceless Rock and Precious Redeemer,
that the abiding presence of your Holy Spirit has not yet let me forget that you are God
who is
who was
who is to come
Almighty.

I pray that I will never forget—
I fear I might sometimes and sometimes I might fear I have,
but I trust that you are here
and I trust that you do hear when I pray to never forget
and I have plenty of time to pray,
to talk,
to whine and complain,
to remember and repent and forgive and forgive—
but repentance and forgiveness? –those are not the prayers I am speaking today.

You are who you are,
what you are,
that you are,
who you will be,
who you will become—
I am a human being,
a man or a woman,
very young or very old (either way, very tired, very hungry, very cold, very afraid,
somehow strong).
I am crying to you, O Here-and-Now God,
not as a soul who watches for the morning
but as some other kind of adjective that has been assigned to define me:
not a human you created
not a lamb of your possessing
not a person, but
a Jew
a Gypsy
a Homosexual
a Slav
a witness to Jehovah
a Mischling
a Communist
a Retard
a Cripple
an Agitator
an Intellectual
a Danger
an Excuse—

and excuse me, but does a mere adjective pray?
and more than pray, does an adjective sing?
What else can pray with the songs of the psalms of the faithful,
but a soul—a body and spirit of your creating—with a need to relate to you,
O Source and Sustainer: Shield and Salvation and Helmet?

And I pray to you today as an adjective marked for death
(you remember, I’m sure—your adjective was Anointed)
and I pray with a my whole self singing the faithful strains:

Let not those who surround me lift up their heads;
Let the evil of their lips overwhelm them.
Let burning hot coals fall upon them;
Let them be cast into the mire, never to rise up again!

Let me be honest with you, O Holy One from whom I cannot hide the truth:
I feel guilty to pray these words and to share these hopes with you.

I believe I should turn the other cheek—
but I only have two
and they were both bruised in a short amount of time.

I believe I should love my enemies—
but I should love my neighbor as myself
and I don’t quite know what that means anymore.

I believe I should pray for my persecutors—
and isn’t that what I’m doing,
praying for my murderers to be stopped
(and yes, in honesty, to switch places with me—
I wonder if I can’t let this prayer slide
as a caveat to the God-bearer’s Magnificat:
cast these mighty down and I will rejoice!).

Please hear from where I’m coming, Lord:
I can’t lift up my head.
They spit and curse at me.
They burn my body dead
and bury me en masse with glee
and think I’ll never rise again.

Will I?
Tell me, Lord; tell me I will—
and please, Lord,
don’t serve me up a slice of your pie from the sky in the sweet by and by—
don’t be so cruel as to dangle a morsel in front of my emaciated hide—
but hide me in the shadow of your wings now,
let me see you in righteousness now
and surely the righteous people you feed with real fish and real loaves,
real flesh and real blood,
will give thanks to your name now and later and forever.

I pray harsh words to you from a harsh reality.
Forgive the hubris I claim as one soon slated for the humus—
vengeance is yours and yours alone, but I need to talk to you
and angry words—maybe hurtful words—are all I have.

I will read of the faith of Jonah again.
I will read how Nineveh turns from its evil ways.
I will read how you relent from the punishment the evil ones deserved
and so I will trust that my angry and hurtful words of prayer will be sorted out by you in your mercy—

but perhaps, O God who listened to Abraham haggle on Sodom’s behalf,
let that mercy come with preference to those who need it most urgently.

You see, it would be too easy to forget me in the great compassions of forgiveness—
it would be too easy to gloss over the utter despair and the hateful depravity of sin
to bless and praise the God of Mercy who forgives even the most heinous offenders.
I know you have pity
have mercy
have compassion
have grace—
I know you have died even for my enemies, the evil-doers who cause my death—
I pray that your mercy—that your death—mean something!
Hold my enemies and my murderers accountable for the depth of their sin.
Do not let my enemies triumph over me.
Do not grant the desires of the wicked, O Lord, nor let their evil plans prosper.
…perhaps I am going too far.
…perhaps I am a child too proud before my parent—
forgive me my trespasses
and when you bring reconciliation between your warring children,
when you lead me to forgive those who trespass against me,
draw near and be clear and renew my strength because I’ll need it.

What I’ve got: I don’t deserve this, Lord—and this is not fair—
and this is not the first time, either—
but you never deserved it either
(much less, in fact infinitely less,
than even I don’t deserve this death in my innocence).

I thank you for giving me a voice with which to speak with you,
a voice with which to sigh
a voice with which to hail your returning
a voice with which to call on the name of the Lord
with the inspirations and expirations of the Spirit of Truth
who makes sense of this real and relevant mystery of faith.

Blessed are you, O Lord my God,
who suffered that I may be suffered to boldly speak with you
who returned from what is missing that I might never be abandoned. Amen.

"Deliver us from the improvers of mankind." paraphrase of Nietzsche


they say it is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living god
they say the begining of wisdom is the fear of god
they say god is not mocked except by believers
that is why I have been thinking about becoming a Bokonist.
"what is sacred to Bokonists"? Not God; just one thing: Man."

Interesting poem Joel Have you ever read a book called The Faith of A Heretic. That link will take you to a magazine article that was extracted from the book. Or maybe it was the other way around, the book followed the article.
It was written by a man called Walter Kaufmann. He was raised a protestant in Germany. In the 19 thirties he decided to convert to Judaism. Later he learned that all four of his grandparents were Jews.

It is a risky business being a heretic. I know what is at stake.

keep the faith
jt

pardon my Net-Etiquette
I forgot to tell you how much
I enjoyed the poem

the sacred and profane always seems to run through your poetry.

but I am the last one who should say anything about peotry

plenty to think about with this one
pardon me for thinking out loud

"do the voices in my head disturb you" line of dialogue from the movie 'The Gods Must Be Crazy'

I look at the typos in that and I think I should go back and fix them. But I like them. It lets people know right away I am an idiot.

I know you don't come around much anymore but I miss your sense of humor.

I wonder what you think about people who make Deals with God?

I appologize for kicking this old post from april of 2007 back up again but it is important to me Joel. I think I can answer my own question. I would tell them to make a deal. If it helps them with their burden. Helps them bear their cross.

I miss Joel... I've known him since 1998... longer than I've known anybody here on studio8, i think. I met him on the net then, way back when.

I hope his ministry and life are going well for him!

He's a very talented writer! He also came out to the house once and we recorded a couple of things. It was great to meet him! I only met him in person that one time.

i find a lot to explore in this...the poem is very long
and has a lot to reflect on, and i never do this
but in looking at this piece, i want to cut a little
piece out and rearrange it, so...

here is my version...

oh Gypsy god
though i toss dice for your trousers
as you drift up there on those wood
beams, its the seams of your pants
that seem to tell the sorry story

oh you hang there in all your other-
worldly glory, I a mere thief of fire
wait like all the rest to see you transpire
you came into our camp like some myth
and we were taken by surprise

by that holy haunted look in your eyes
and we were excited to believe your truth
that you were about your father's work
and we loved when you told us we were
like gods, that ye are as gods

but you know its damn hard, jesus
for a gypsy to just trade lies for truth
when your father seems to be so cruel
and when we were like gods we still
had to tell fortunes for a living
we are all for forgiving, and loving
but jesus its hard to forget, sometimes

now on the great day of your transfiguration
we have to cover up the mess, and move to
the next town, we will put up your poems
on the walls in the gypsy alley, and tell tales
of your coming and going, because we know
that when you dress a gypsy as jesus
its still jesus

but it hurts so much now, while you hang around

I believe in Spinoza's God who reveals himself in the orderly harmony of what exists, not in a God who concerns himself with the fates and actions of human beings.
Albert Einstein, following his wife's advice in responding to Rabbi Herbert Goldstein of the International Synagogue in New York, who had sent Einstein a cablegram bluntly demanding "Do you believe in God?" Quoted from and citation notes derived from Victor J Stenger, Has Science Found God? (draft: 2001), chapter 3

We quote famous men as if they have the answers, or at least I do. Google is like a gift from the wizard of oz for poseur's like me. Like I have a doctorate in thinkology.

I have never read Spinoza so I don't know what he meant.

I have heard that it means god helps those that help themself.

And I don't know what quantum mechanics means for the orderly harmony of the universe. Einstein wanted no truck with it even though his theories created it. It was too spooky for his tastes. He could not get his head areound a God who shoots craps with the universe.


As I remember Joel was going through a rough patch when he wrote that. He had graduated from a seminary was despairing of finding a gig as a pastor. He did find one and then he stopped posting here. I wish him well, I hope he has some cool old people in his congregation. I love that tag line of his.

I will tell you this Joel if you happen to read this.
God and Jesus have never let me down yet. Maybe I been lucky. But I have lost faith in santa. I been asking for a Job with Yellow Freight and twenty five years senor

Thank God for Nietzsche.
.

Oh Gypsy god,
who shoots crap with the universe
thank you for the pineapple it was delicious
Not exactly what I was praying for
but I guess I needed it more than the money.

to make things real clear, here, my response above was not a yeah, or nay,
for the poem psalm 140, or actually i like the way the poet writes, i would have to see more of his stuff to know how that goes, however as far as the purported subject matter of the poem itself, my response was purely poetic, in that i think like a poet, in so far as i have thought and feelings about religious matters, that may come into the picture, i am still looking it it as a poem first and foremost.In fact that may be exactly how i do feel about religious issues, in that the poem is the ultimate vehicle of how to accept or confront such,Yet here again, i look at this in purely poetic terms.

I liked the version you were inspired to write, RR... stripped down to the bone with much of the marrow left intact. Indeed, the more powerful the religion, the more powerful its poetic massage (yes, massage)... which came first, the poetry or the religion? the answer we both know, I'm sure.

I think I had a mild stroke last year, blew out part of my brain. Not a big chunk but something is missing. I limp along with what I have left. Abstractions come hard to me. I think I have slid back a step on Piaget's scale. Everything is so fucking concrete for me these days. I was laying in bed just dozing off to sleep and I heard a loud sound but not with my ears, and saw a bright flash of light but not with my eyes .. Stroke. It did not hurt at all. Which I think is a very good epitaph . "Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt." too bad kurt vonnegut wrote it first.

Poetry is beyond me. it is all too wonderful. Even before the stroke.

Yes Joel is a brilliant poet, our loss is Christ's gain .
I wish him well.

I think I had a mild stroke last year, blew out part of my brain.

Coming up this October will be my 2nd anniversary of my two stents, I can never forget the truly awful pain in my chest .. and when that pain went into my left arm... the damn discomfort was otherwordly for me having never had any really serious health issues. After admittance into the hospital and getting probed and inspected and x-rayed, et al... the doctors felt my heart was fine despite the several attacks I had reported to them. It was that damned blockage in an artery close to the heart struggling for air. I was one of the country's greatest tobacco smokers... couldn't wait to get up in the morning and get a cuppa to go with my first, my second and usually my 3rd Bugler. How I loved sitting on the deck overlooking the area while smoking. Any chance I had I smoked and if I didn't have a chance I would make one. Noting was gonna stop me from smoking... nothing. Something like 45 years of smoking and I never tired of it (quit for 5 years years back), even when the cough started. Like all good smokers denial ruled the day. My chest pains? Nah, nothing! Just something I ate.

Every doctor and head nurse that came thru my room during my time there told me in no uncertain terms - "Quit smoking. If you don't you're no going to live." It's been near 2 years now and I had a dream about smoking last night. I had a Camel i copped from somewhere (that's what Soo is smokin when we're out, Buglers otherwise)... and i put it in my pocket, shirt pocket. I was gonna smoke that Camel and boy! was I thrilled as a 15 year old boy I had it! (that's when I first started smoking). I woke up and thought about that cigarette... here it is Sunday and I could be smokin'! Damn... insidious shit that tobacco. Cigarettes and heart disease "go together like a horse and carriage, this I tell you, brother... you can't have one, you can't have one.. without the other."

Sorry, truck... I don't mean to preach... only to say what i know about what i know.

This is the creative board so I am going to try my hand at an open text box spontaneous ramble. No idea if it will work out as well as my Aztec art ramble.

I am sitting here typing to an old internet friend
lordy if one human year equals seven dog years
how long is a year on the internet
I have known this guy since al gore invented the net
that is how long
and he is saying he is sorry
to me
the crash test dummy magazine writer of the year award winner

No preach away Cecil and I will too.
Every time I open a text i feel like I open a direct link to the man upstairs.
Quackers(aka The Religious Society of Ducks) always seeking for the inner light, the still quiet voice and that of God in everyone

I don't know why I mention the quakers so much, I guess because it was a turning point in my life. Like Barry said or maybe it was me everybody and their brother was getting saved in the seventies. Hell we even had a born again president who lusted after women in his heart but never cheated on his wife.

I am smoking outside these days. I mentioned to your better half that this government subsidized senior housing complex has banned smoking inside. I been smoking 55 years. I guit once for two years no smoking. But I was on the road, in sweet anonymity where no body remembers your pain or your name.

Like being in the desert on a horse with no name

Sometimes I am not sure which I miss more the fucking or the trucking.

So things are looking up. I sit here and type not smoke which is a good thing I think.

Studio Eight for me is like getting a dispatch to from San Antonio to Los Angeles. Twelve hundred and twenty five miles of open road.
Three hundred gallons of diesel and a themos of coffee and a piss jug. And a short time to get there. Loved it, hammer hammer make it in less than twenty four hours. I backed up more miles than Kerouac ever drove. Pity I can't write like him.

So anyway I have come to the end of this scroll. Kerouac knew that motion was the closest thing to freedom there is. I can live with the illusion of freedom.

Thanks for being a cyber pal
In Friendship
jt

Kerouac knew that motion was the closest thing to freedom there is.

'motion is the closest thing to freedom there is'... i like that. good one!

if my guess is right, you and i are the oldest farts on this board, you being the oldest of us all. will that buy us a free pass to S8 for a year? sure hope so. 'tis a special place

stilltrucking wrote: lordy if one human year equals seven dog years
how long is a year on the internet

I apologize for kicking this back up...but I sat down tonight and found it (trying to reorient myself with S8)...and have been reading and praying and giving thanks for you all. I had written this at a rough patch, and I feel very much like the prodigal returing only to be caught up in the arms of a welcoming family.

I'm glad I was gone, though, when these conversations were occuring. I'm wordy and pushy and arrogant; I would've felt the need to insert my own two cents, like I'm doing now...and not in a Penny Haiku. I'm glad you spoke in a way a year ago that I can sit and hear today.

How long is a year on the internet? It feels something like a light year, the distance traveled in the time it takes for me to receive the holy words you spoke then for the grace-filled place from which I might catch them now.

I feel truly blessed that you are still here when I finally repented to a place where I realize love.

Making friends in "real life" has never been my forte. I'm exceptionally good at it rarely, so I hold those people close (mostly family whose blood provides a cultural patience in which I can melt...or mysteries of grace, like how my wife came to love me). But your voices are friendly voices I have long cherished. ...Never thought I'd be so emotional to read you all again and to share with you...but fear of facing that emotion is also what had been keeping me away. [Doreen...you're right, we first met in 1998...and I cherished my welcome at your house; you've known me almost half my life...and there aren't many people I could share my versed thought with who will ever have known me that long. I've grown between ages 18 and 30, not necessarily "up"--but somehow. That's humbling to think about....]

simul justus et peccator pastor est.

Unoriginally spoken, I love you--thanks.