William P. McDougal

[Guest guest]

The following was written to me by Will McDougal. I believe all will

enjoy these poems. They are excellent.

_____________________

 

Here is some poetry written under the influence of God. For better or

for

worse this is all copyright 1998, William P. McDougal. Feel free to use

it

but I retain control over it.

 

 

Some of this is a little gritty. But it's written from the heart.

 

I hope you are well.

 

Will

____________________

 

 

THE MISTAKEN GARDENER

 

A mistaken gardener put up rails to

support a sapling's trunk -- to make

sure it was safe from the environment

of 96th street.

Iron bars serve one purpose in

training the soul --

there is no growth

THIS way.

 

Use your girth to burst the

Iron from it's moorings.

Nuts and bolts are popping

as

this trunk ignores what's right.

 

Urging a loved one to

succeed

is

demanding a pool be wet

and liquid,

and at a temperature.

This all happens through

its' own nature.

 

This demand is an echo

cast into a canyon --

what is the source

of YOUR confusion?

 

 

 

NOTHING LIKE HOW YOU THINK I AM

 

I am nothing like how you think I am.

 

I calling to you from Outside.

 

It's "...tink, tink, tink" on the glassy dome of time.

 

I'm here to tell you I'm the christ.

 

This is nothing as fantastic as angels and demons -- only life.

 

So, just push a little higher, there's a rock on your head.

 

Beloved, we are the garden variety.

 

We fall sanguine and truck to embrace cool, evening grasses.

 

This is only love.

 

This is what absolution really means.

 

Undying love.

 

Sweet butter blood cascading with love.

 

Divinity,

 

nothing is undone.

 

 

 

CHEEKBONES AND TEMPLES

 

"...goddamn you --

Lazaraus, wake up!

get off your palette damnation.

I am here to rise you up.

 

Your tale of death is now

truly undone - rise up

o son of man and take

your place on earth.

 

"...your eyes are the beautiful desert eagles.

 

"...your ears a real lions, in accuity.

 

"Your savage brutal blow is a destroyer.

 

You are like a polar bear

with your certain,

inescapable prescence

 

(come over here and

(disembowel me with your

(love

 

Come rip my arm away with endlessly

sharp teeth and yes jaws and your neck

that becomes your shoulders and so on

to your droppings, steaming miles away

on an icefloe in the dusk.

 

"...and I am bleeding to death

here in the snow as your

bloodied maw snaps and

snarls, crushing

my cheekbones and temples.

 

"...like that you are with me

-- you are that

deadly and unyeilding.

 

"...and we are one.

 

"...and our embrace is love.

 

Don't lay a wreath in the scrub --

when you get here in the spring

 

There's nothing to remember.

 

 

LIVING WISDOM

 

The buddah climbed down out of heaven

and thought about all the people he once knew.

 

And his heart broke for each of them as

first this one and then that flashed into

mind trailing their personalities like so

much length of rusted chain.

 

Buddah had been mining living gold on

this most recent expedition into love

and

he saw it's application in each of these

particular cases.

 

The first person he approached with

understanding took one look at what He

held in His hands and the sight of it --

the bare comprehension of it sent that

poor soul shrieking into darkness -- as if

dear buddah held that man's mangled

corpse in His hands.

 

 

The Thus-Come-One endeavored to

approach another and pretty much the

same thing happened as with the first guy.

 

Buddah thought,

"This is simply too unbearable."

 

"This living wisdom is as though a brutal

death to this mythology of man.

 

And he became quiet for a long, long time.

 

A moment passed in a million years and

the buddah cleared his throat, sending

boulders and sledge sliding from mountain tops

causing water to rise around the world.

 

The buddah cleared his throat and

concluded that compassion would

become evident through putting

mad dogs "down".

 

Taking injured livestock out

behind the barn

and shooting it dead.

 

Madness -- he concluded -- was a

condition that existed only to expand --

pulling in others who were afraid of fear.

 

Making demands like "friend or foe?"

 

 

Buddah felt no time could be lost in

putting this plan into action.

 

So he crafted poetry and other words --

and offered them arround

as

entertainment

which, while it seemed to interest and

involve, was as the most molten lava

melting away their "souls".

 

Thence, sickness became healed and

death as an institution and an idea,

became extinct.

 

The end.

 

 

HANDGUNS AND BRICKS OF COCAINE

 

hastily wrapped in brown paper bags

stuffed handguns and bricks of cocaine.

these are

metaphors

to the housewives of america

in explaining the danger of christ.

 

It is That threatening to

quiet, humble god-fearing homes.

 

"...This ain't a threat", but it is a promise.

 

while Divinity coexists with the mundane,

the same is said of lions and antelope.

Sooner or later, it's dinner time.

 

So I just wanted to make this point especially clear.

Cultural niceties, politeness (if you will), sink

when the boat they are on goes down.

 

"...Thanks!"

 

 

 

NOW

 

You two reading this,

I assign you as assassins

to succeed with prejudice against

your own selves.

 

Spontaneously and to the throat.

 

You turn to me and

a blood-drinking Hell-Demon Blossoms.

 

I demand, defy, condemn

destroy you at your very core.

 

Your deference is unrequired to maintain

this truth as truth.

 

I preclude your very name.

 

Who are you to know who you are?

"...I mean Really?"

 

I mean, what's the basis of your situation?

Okay?

 

Who really is answering mail?

 

Who takes shits on Sundays?

 

Can our experiences all be So unique as to suppose they are really Ours?

 

Understand: We share one soul and one ultimate expression:

Love.

 

Who is it that considers something else?

 

Where does this plaintiff soul exist, if not

already in the context of my blood-slick

skull, with flaming halo and my two-

million pairs of weapon-weilding arms.

I have the tools to dispatch you clear and

forthwith - they slice into your throat

even as you read these words.

 

Gushing life-long Shoulds and Couldn'ts

make this notebook swell and sponge,

dripping sudden realization

onto your shoes

and slickening the floor

with your surprise.

 

Your number is up

My number one son --

Isaac is the first to go.

 

Sammy the bull is in on the take

so you know it's legit.

 

The house of David is going down.

 

Abraham's pact is broken under the

weight of too much foreskin.

 

The end of time is Now.