I have been learning some of the rules of the game. I have been turning the earth on what causes fame. And fortune as well for a poet or at least enough for bread if not Moet. It is to be seen and to be loved by people who show it. The game says that anything I put up here is published and read and so to my 4 or 5 readers I must hide what little I have bred? But are ye not the only ones who keep this alive for me? Is it not by sharing with you that I see what poetry really is? It is only by sharing that I have learned what I am doing. You have given me the confidence to do what I love. I do not like this idea of labouring in the dark. It all feels so deeply impersonal so deeply inhuman not inhumane mind you I see the ways of the world and the reality of woes. This process hides the struggling. It buries the climber. In the day to day writers are defamed. It is a false goal worthy of pity. But for those who are proclaimed from the clouds who become writers well-read and Nobel prize winners well then they are a different breed. Then they are different from me. Behold the majesty of a real writer. But those of us down in the ashes are scoffed at. It is because we are told to labour in the dark. It is because publishers hold the light of our spark. And so the millions of writers below the peak are thought little or nothing of until that day. And on that day the scoffers admire even as they scoff at other new fledglings. Where are the guardians of these fledglings? Can they ever exist?

I have stopped finishing poems this past week. The love has been drained a little bit. I guess this is the Earth on which we sit that what comes from the Heaven of Muses the needs of money and livelihood abuse it. This is the disillusionment with capitalism but that is always an immature revolt against the abuse of what is pure. Jesus is defiled in his birth. He has become man and while in hindsight we speak of a plan I think the angels can only speak so loud over the din of traffic and crowds. The daily dues of these old school Jews would block out the magic as sure as what’s tragic on the six one news or whatever other media tells us fear is what’s true. A Jesus will always be delayed and derailed by what the alchemists call salt: the earthly element, the realism which says you must get a job first and be happy second which puts money before passions and status before beauty. In this din be not doubtful a million Jesus’ have slipped through the cracks. The angels always speak and of money there’s always a lack. In one millennia what’s bleak is a night in a stable another well let us not get into how the other lives. Where does it all go? What will we know? In the end the game must be played and the green must be tamed but what is golden what is magic is that we hold on to Heaven. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Never forget that. Never forget that. The greatest example we know is always half-man. We might forget that with the ascension and the rebirth. That is all us in all our blood. Ecce Homo they said of Jesus. Behold the man. Thus we are reminded that this God is a man. But where is the proclaimer and preacher on every street corner where is Marcus Aurelius’s whisperer to remind us who might forget ‘Ecce Deus, ecce deus ecce deus’ Behold the God, behold the God, behold the God. For he walks the streets in you and in me.

But that gets lost in the din of salt. We forget that Jesus was a man. But lest we forget let us remember that as we walk the Earth: passion first, love first, gold first then comes the salt, the earth and the money. Balance is the line to walk never forget the earth never lose your roots and your body but with money in mind I see too many get stuck in the games and I have found myself the same. Once it starts it’s hard to depart. This is my mantra and this was supposed to be a poem but I guess it’s a confession to remind me what home is.

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