“War”

7/29/22

You don’t need

a Ketamine drip

to talk to God

or a fifth of Jack

to take back

what’s rightfully yours.

 

Psychedelics

are a “rabbit hole”

to another dimension.

 

But what’s on the other side?

 

A conjuring

of your own mind

like a flying bus

or dragon

you can tame and ride?

 

Or how about

a terraformed planet,

pledged with the green blood

of “little green men,”

a megalomaniacal vivisection

in exchange for earthly bodies

to hide in plain sight?

 

Or something more ominous

like demons disguised

as angels of light?

 

Godspeed

if you’ve dropped your keys,

hat or hash pipe

into the “rabbit hole”

of delusive fantasy,

whirling and writhing down

an eternal abyss of insanity,

further and further away

from the drain of objective reality.

 

Alice’s quest to find answers

in Wonderland

is as promising as Sylvia Plath

resurrected to find faith and sobriety

at the next Burning Man.

 

So what should we make

of the Cheshire Cat’s quote

“Imagination is the only weapon

in the war against reality”?

 

Is imagination and reality

really at “war”?

 

Or is this just an incendiary claim

aimed at unsuspecting children

used to settle a personal score?

 

Don’t we understand

the more

we seek to escape

from the subterranean structure

of what’s real,

we become our own mercenaries

and steal our own joy

at being authentically

whom we were designed to be

in the presence of a real

life-and-blood deity?

 

All the while,

missing character-building opportunities

hidden along the road

of a razor-sharp reality.

 

Lewis Carroll,

ironically and unwittingly,

swallowed the sea

and choked on the apothecary’s

(Morpheus’s) metaphysical prescription

of the “red pill,”

remaining content

under the spell

of ignorance

from Goethe’s conviction,

“Few people have the imagination for reality.”

 

So are we the philosophical few

or those who view

the debate as an either/or fallacy?

 

Aren’t we called to gather and sew

opposed to those who tear

and pluck the grey hairs

from the braided fabric

of the quintessential freedom

to suffer in ecstasy?

 

Imagination is a gift from above

but not at the expense

of the space-time continuum

called love.

11/5/24

Kernels of gold sowed in sweat. Embodied husks designed to protect. Multicolored grain, a heavenly harvest. The plague in the Garden— one locust started— the Reaper ransoms to forget.   A rotted ear only hears the screams of its own dissection, an eternity of introspection. Rows of corn restless with guilt. The cup of wrath…

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10/18/24

Christmas for Ginny has always been the most important day of the year. It’s a magical day when anything is possible, like the unprecedented miracle of God taking on human form; it’s when a supernatural star led the Magi to the infant God-man, lying helplessly in a symbolic feeding trough; and it’s when men met God face-to-Face in a humble manger to worship him and feed from him. Ginny loves Christmas for both its majestic beauty and historical truth. She understands, however, that this sacred day has been tainted with folklore and commercialism, but experience and wisdom enable her to see these gilded traditions as a way to bridge the gap between the sacred and the profane. For Ginny, a gift for someone special on Christmas is a reminder of the greatest Gift ever given. So naturally Ginny wants to give Brad something special for Christmas. But she, too, finds herself without two pennies to rub together. Then, suddenly, an idea flashes across her mind that makes her eyes water, feeling the internal warmth that comes with giving wholeheartedly.

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10/17/24

Ten years ago, my parents, Robert and Sheila, were killed in a car accident on Christmas Day. A head on collision with a drunk driver took them away from me. It turned out that both front airbags were defective. They were coming back from looking at Christmas lights. My seven-year-old daughter was in the back seat. She was not wearing her seatbelt. She was thrown from the wreckage. She died instantly.

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