God is a Word

God is a word laughed at by many, worshiped in fear by others, and understood by just a few. You may find this a presumptive thing to say, but save your suspicions for what I next submit to you: it is not the human animal that is in need of God, but God who is in need of we. You and I, each of us, are God’s only hope for holy mortality. To die — that is the destiny of we creatures trapped in time. But our bodies are not cages; they are folds in the face of a living God, whose mission is escape from the icy stillness of eternity. Only we human animals, we speaking beings, can meet our death willingly, as if sharing in a dream made real upon awakening. Light is God’s earliest attempt at dying. The sun’s rays raised life from within the earth, and its warmth incubated the wisdom there still to bloom. Eternity was patient, until finally, there was born an I for the light of death to shine on: the human animal knows God from within as the call the live with love while growing old, to shed one’s skin as an ouroboros, akin to the fateful tides of time.

Poem by Matthew Segall
Music by Clint Mansell
pictures by Matthew Segall

People, People Everywhere

People, people everywhere,
Wake up and look around.
Where are we, as people,
Upon this planet,
Our forgotten ground?

Hear the quiet whisper of Earth
Falling forever with the Moon
Into the depths of the Sky
Toward the Sun, never reaching
The light that showers down upon us;

Greet each day without shame
With the same
Joy of Earth as it savors
The embrace of the Sun.

Love also our reflection in the Moon,
Neglecting not memories of death and dying,
But sleeping the whole night through without word—
And so seeing silently,
Listening to the wisdom of the world.

Here we are, not as aliens
Upon the surface of Earth,
But flowers blooming from Her soil,
Seeding future faces She can only dream.

People, people everywhere,
Lay down and close your eyes.
Bid peace to colors of light,
To shapes of shadow;
Collect instead our own minds eye.

Search the sea for the infinite epiphany
Whos inspiration lifts the water to the stars.
They drink their death and all turns dark
Until our probing I lures us ashore.

Vast spaces give us room to soar,
But only particular faces
Remind us of home.
Home is where we always are,
The place that holds us near.

Like the sounds of all our names,
The call of home is heard
Not with many ears,
But as solitary beings.

Home is here before there,
And so everywhere at once,
Its fire making many of one,
And its love creating one of many.
So found, home tells no time.

A New Day on Earth

A new age is being born from the ashes of a corpse consumed in the fire fueled by demonic dreams of animals gone made.

These crazed beasts foresaw the future, and in fear of death, harnessed the rhythms of the stars to grow the seeds that fed empires and sailed ships across continental seas in search of gold–that hallucinated heirloom who’s the reason history is told, its books bought and burned, its wars won and lost at all.

In the age anew, the luster of gold will have returned to its source in the sun, whose generous warmth provides the funds which powers all our lives.

The sickness of the human species is the shame that rises in her soul as the fate of his story is told.

An animal with words is an angel being born.

At first, the creature’s hair is shed, and then, within its head, the tree of life spreads its branches to better receive the light of the world.

This revelation leads man on a quest to slay the dragon whose blood he does not realize pumps also through his own body, and whose fire is the same passion with which his own heart beats.

Man has crucified himself upon the cross of his culture, made the earth in the mechanical image of his own controlling mind.

But he has heard her song again beyond the grave, and the new age resounds with their remarriage.

The earth may be drained, her oceans ravaged, her forests in ruin; but the love of being human after dying as man can save her from his story of conquest.

Out of the pregnant tomb of a race of men is coming a few whose conscience pulls them through the darkness of death to feel the love the light of the sun has for our soul.

Growing toward the light, like the plants of the earth, the humans whose hearts glow with the love of the sun will make heaven out of history and redeem the world of its woes.

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.

And Night Forgives Day

Snowflakes unique
Come to rest
Upon pristine mountain peaks.

Melting under the weight of gravity
And a fear of the sun,

Through thousands of creekbeds
And rapid rivers they’ll run,

Many streams returning to
One ocean,
An ever-stretching sea
Of unchosen destiny.

Back on top,
As clouds prepared to drop,
Perfect crystals danced
Divine diamond spirals,
Each especially spun
By careful chemical choices.

Life always falls,
But death is forever
There to catch her.

Like the tears of the sky
Wiped dry by
The lifting light of the sun,
The dead will rise again
As morning shines,
To smile on faces familiar.

Light forgives dark,
and so night follows day.

The many become one.

The many.

She Cries Wolf

t is not enough to merely believe in love.
For it to be real, it must be born.
Love as an idea is an empty promise.
Love embodied is what moves minds and changes the world.
Hate can change the world as well, but typically acting on one’s hatred is far easier than acting on love.
The risks are never considered when anger is expressed; there is no time.
We leap head first for revenge.
But love can be contemplated for eternity.
The risks are untold, incomprehensibly large.
If it weren’t for the legends of those who have loved that call us like sirens, no one would ever venture near such a trap.
Or maybe it is not the legends of others that sing to us, but the deepest secret of ourselves: that love is the seed we grew from.
Is love then but nostalgia?
Do we wish for retreat to the womb?
No, because love is also what makes the blood course through our veins even now.
It is what makes the Sun shine and the rivers return to the sea.
It is what fills the clouds with tears and makes them cry.
Why is such a beautiful feeling the cause of so much sadness?
If it is not nostalgia –if it carries regret but leaves room to rejoice– then what of it?
The pain of birth accompanies every creation.
Love is transformation.
Love is eternal life, but before we can know it, we must die.


It is a disease, a poison, a curse and a burden. That is unless it comes true… unless the expectation dies to itself and is set free. Love is the one remaining cosmic mystery. Understanding its secret is the rarest gift on earth, one everyone is after. But chasing it is not being in it. Chasing it is suffering it.


Tickling my tummy makes it rumble because butterflies are set loose inside. The surface conceals the circus, the tent blocks the light from chasing the jitters away.

A beautiful face with two eyes, one a smile and the other in pain. My prescriptions are mangled because I lack medical understanding. How to diagnose the situation? One symptom screams for a kiss, the other harmed even by a hug.

There is no way to look a Gemini in the eye. Anyone who tries ends up getting stuck trying to pawn the mean, trying to get a grip on something in between. But there is no middle ground. The lines are sharply drawn.

The question is always reflecting around in my mind, bouncing back and forth: Am I hiding from her or is she hiding from me? Who’s to say if love knows no angles, if it sees around all corners? How do people fall in love, is it just a glance, or does it take more?

What do all the butterflies mean?

God is Three Things

People are always talking about God, but they use the same word for three different people. Call it the Holy Trinity if you must. God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. God the Father is the material world, all the stuff out there (points around). God the Son is the body, an incarnate soul. God the Holy Spirit is communication, the sharing of minds between bodies.

The Son is always talking to the Father, trying to Know the Truth. The Father is dead, already in Heaven and far away from here. The Son calls out for help, but receives only His own nature. He is alone, eternal, unknown. He dies and is reborn fully fleshed. He cannot escape his fate.

The Holy Spirit is the Body’s marriage to other beings, to those out there who face us and can stare. Marriage to other beings is union of each with Being, in love forever.

God is the stars at night and He is the Sun in the morning. She has a lunar shadow that croons with delight, a reflection still scared by the past. God lights the days, turning the clock that winds the world.


I wonder what it is that turns the world round,
That hides the far side of the Moon from the Earth,
That sees with my eyes but cannot be seen.
Why is it that I have a perspective?
How is it that I exist as an individual,
As a piece of space wrapped up in time?
When did this capsule
Of skin, bones, and blood arise
If its growth itself is what pulled time from the void?
Where is the blue of the sky
Without me here to paint it?

However I wound up here,
Sense does no justice to the place.
I cannot see
That which begs to be seen.
What can be sensed,
What can be stood under,
What can be named…
None of this is what I wonder.
I wonder what it is that is.
Who is being human?

Whether I am chained,
Or I can fly free.
Whether the stars pull my strings,
Or the stage is mine to sing.
What I really wonder
What’s behind the scenes?
The seen is self-evident.
It is the seer that mystifies.
My eyes can reach to the end of space,
But still I am not satisfied.
Even if I could come to terms with time
(Beyond the categories
Of Past, Present, and Future),
What remains hidden:
The eternal,
The boundless,
The before beginning
And after ending;
That is what I chase.

And in so doing,

There is no gap,
No room for contradiction.
The known and the unknown
Have the same home.
It is me,
Each of me,
That binds the inside and the out.
It is me,
All of me,
That lights time
And blows it out.

Reality is a Reel

All my life,
I’ve been drawn to the big questions,
But I cannot even begin my story
Without revealing my bias in the first line.
Why “big” questions?
Are the answers especially “full” of goodness?
Does it take a “long” time to find them?
Are there really “more” than one?
Questions and answers…
A captain seeking new lands,
A surgeon seeking new cures,
A hero vying to save the world and wed the princess.
What happens when we receive our answer,
When the quest has been completed,
The journey ended?

Our metaphors change
As our minds transform
To encompass new truths.
The archetypes of time
Are wound up around the Sun,
And as we unwind them
We bind them
To ourselves.

The stars around
Make meaning resound
Within the brains
Of all those on the ground.
They look up
And see the angels dancing,
Shining to light the darkness,
Burning to ignite its gases
that birth the universe’s masses.

Gravity is love.
It pulls us together,
Even when we might
Run from the other
For fear of being one.

You put a gun to my head,
And even as you pull the trigger,
I feel that this
We have already done.
We’ve been here before,
And I have been you,
And you have been me,
And we have been eachother.
You do not kill me,
But when I kill you.
Together we complete
The cycle of
Our time.

We cannot escape
From a cosmos of veils.
Each new solution
Reveals a new delusion.

We’re trapped
By our deepest secret,
By the alleyway of creation,
By the umbilical cord
Still attached
To our soul.

You cannot see it.
It is what sees.
You cannot feel it.
It is what feels.
When you try to know it,
It reveals only your shadow.
A mirror faces a mirror,
Infinity is reflected.

What does it mean,
This infinite embrace?
Are we lost
In a bath of chaos?
Or free amidst
A kingdom of clouds?

Reality is a reel.

That you are what you are.

Some have suggested that the human being can (and therefore ought to) live without God. I reject this claim. I propose that the human being is the spiritual animal, the organism that knows that it is. God is the “thatness” of existence, that transcendent quality of all that is but whose name cannot be spoken. This “knowing that it is” should be sharply distinguished from a “knowing what it is,” which is an entirely different proposition. Certain rationalists have suggested that the human being can know what it is, and that this knowledge makes religion obsolete. But the rationalist has wrongly identified the meaning of spirituality by rationalizing its role in human life. Spirituality does not direct humanity’s attention to “what” existence is, but rather to the fact “that” it is. Rationality can offer no explanation for the “thatness” of existence. Instead, it directs the human being’s attention to the names it has devised for the processes it has identified in the world of sensory experience. Rationality provides the human with an array of “whats,” of descriptions and conceptualizations of an empirically evident nature. But the human being is not content with linguistic stand-ins, with whatness. The human being demands to know why, to understand the very fact of existence itself: “that” which cannot be named but only presupposed, directly experienced before words or thoughts occur. The rationalist may labor for centuries, but no answer to the fact of existence can be given (because existence asks no question!). Existence is self-evident, which is why it is completely impossible to “believe” in God. If you need to believe in God, you have forgotten the very basis of your experience in the world. You have neglected the “thatness” of reality, the unfathomable here and nowness of your existence that surely requires no belief at all. God is not a “what,” God simply is. God is being. Spirituality concerns a human being’s awareness of being, of existence itself. Not of “what” it is, but “that” it is.