“The safest general characterization of the European philosophical tradition is that it consists of a series of footnotes to Plato.”
–Alfred North Whitehead

Heaven Before Birth

Heaven is not a place
or a space,
but a time:

A time transparent,
its light spread in colors
by our lithurgy
of lies.

Each of us perceives
a limited shadow—
Until the eye awakens
and the scene is seen
as thee.

Heaven is a destiny,
a purpose,
not a surprise.

We begin there,
We end there,
and in between,
We rest:

A purgatorial pause
in a pit of pestilence.

Heaven is eternity—
time a dream
and temporary tour.

A home forgotten
is remembered
when in silence
we roam
beneath the ripples
as the surface
and the depths,
and the water

is a motion
of molecules:

Concentric circles
in a sea
spread destiny
a sacred subject,
becoming creation’s own
amidst a supple urge
of cosmic energy.

The course is curved
and entirely
the mind a memory
of straightness
lost so long ago.

The cause of suffering is
forsaking suchness,
believing birth to be
a cursed corpse
and death its hearse.

Heaven is home
awaiting all of us
for a celebration
of quartz tears,
each falling
and ticking the terrors
of time upon the carved lens
of the watchers
of history.

Demons are fallen angels,
time the temptation
of God.

The sun and the cave wall,
like child in mother’s arms,
arise from and are protected by
a single parent,

See the
cause of
the reason for

Heaven and hell,
eternity and time,
are becoming
more blessed
by the minute.

Time ends in eternity,
its purpose found in
futures forgotten.

The past birth
of flesh
is forged by
the furture
of death.

Dying is
love the freedom
urging you
to best it.






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