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Michael Bolerjack The Advent

You, knowing the place Of my demise, the sending And the dismissal, Look to the North and find the Unexpected future is. Here, out of nowhere, The place that poets, roaming Where the time is right, In true north they have concurred. Anselm and Ancel agree. Eternity is, And cannot be taken from Poets and others Who find in the writtenness Witness for the Lord of Hosts. He and I, we write, Truth to tell, in prophecy, Neither pale nor glare, Not to pass, but shatter on, To decontrol the light is.

If you are catching, Catch me in the way you can, Pray as you can and Not as you can’t, as you said. Find the door and knock, keeping To the path we will be found. We will but found it, Our arrival is assured, At least we hope. But He cannot be untrue. Yet Between the yes and the no There is nothing there, That between, that waiting, The space, the place of The apocalypse is come. There is that word yet to come. What logic reigns here? He said seven times, To the church, to churches go, Send a message, write it down, You must change and do it now.

Seven times, he asked. No, seven times seventy. The abundance is clear. The life we live is no life, Still we have that abundance. Beauty and truth are, And are convertible, yet Not the same at all. Ancel mistrusts beauty, others Mistrust truth, but we seek life, One who was always And is and always will be. He is beautiful and true And good, and cannot not be. He is simply forever. In apocalypse The great salvation is come, To not be misled By those who say he will come Only for those who are good.

Do not let the good Keep you from perfection. Do not let settle. Going for the one is more, An effortless grace is come. Do not let the bad Keep you from what you will be And are already, Despite the things done to sin In your name, though you know not. Do not let knowing Not keep you too from loving. Without knowing much, Much is accomplished to be The “you� you will be as you. Do not hurry. Bless. At times we come, and we will Not wait in vain for Vanity, for there is age In that wound you call your name.

That name of yours is Nothing but a wound, bound tight To keep you, free you. Yet yes be free: sign the name. But know the meaning it has. It may be you there Not known secretly As futurity, Or futility, or sign That cannot be converted. Meaning explicate By experience, so that In what you find out As living in your name is The sign of the times we live. What are we really? Language and time, signatures Apocalypse is. We mean more than we can know. Find the time in who you are.

Here on advent’s eve, With the evening of my life, I still look forward To the time of his coming, Neither impatient, nor with Any hope but of him. The one who is comes At an hour unexpected: Be ready sober. I cannot remember things To say, but say only him. He is all in all. His agony provokes our “Agon” with the Antichrist he is today. Do we struggle with ourselves? For now we must stop. Deny, renounce and Lift the crosses following, It is the path he made us. No, there is no other way.

If he becomes me And I leave all for loving, What becomes of this? Do not count the cost, crossing The way, surrender it all. Abandonment feared, The attachments call me back, But he gave me this. On trial, hoping acquittal, No one left to accuse me now. Not because I am Innocent, but that He rescued me, raised me up, Lifted me from the abyss To this place I may be yet Someday at home, and Even now I, least I sense, a turning promised, The breaking of the closure, End of the indefinite.

The white is not just Nor is merely erasure, The space without name, But in his strong bright truth he Erased for us all the whites, And every space was Annihilation, meaning Apocalypse is. Finding you white on white on White you did not let it fade, But came on the one, Eternal virginity, That is most proper. In the white of snows and of Sheets and of the kingdom come, She will be light by The one light without a lamp And without a sun, Her colors will shine in that Light made pure by excellence, The perfection of Hymens enfolded by The clarity of That name of glory, white ones, Her glory is all other.

Ages of sages And of suffering ones still, Yet we will abide The horrors of the time and Know a riper time for love. The time is now, right With little left to foretell, With common heartbreaks And the compound fractures Of bodies on life’s wheel, Yet we would love, yes, As so many have done, yes, Loving in the tolled, To rings sometime, but once, as We’ll know, since it was our lives. O tell me, of times And where they go when they’re done, And how the wheel of Life keeps turning, as we learn Out of control and out of Time we would love, yes, And without ceasing turn the Wheel over again For us and for those we love, As the house we once lived in. You, so high above, Do you wander as we call? Wonder at the praise? Tremble at your turning too? I perish the thought of it.

Oh, the little ones, To be called away from tasks, To play at loves and Follow in the way of truth, And the one which is not play, For finding our love We saw at last not playing But living, not just Pleasing, as if we could, But some thankful promised end That life on earth is To pretend and more than that, To more than actors Given again, and to More than comprehend.

Marinela song, Intoxicating song of Bright dark eyes, truthful And dearer by their darkness, Stronger than lightning, her eyes, Her song, her mind’s hum, To ecstasies tune belong, Bring, gather not to scatter, Finding singing her music, Rhyming, wanting, and waiting. O Marinela, That soul of music may be, And you, yet you know It not, yes you will sing as A woman they’ll wonder at. O my little one, Sing your song to the one in Me but more in God And most of all in her, who Waiting for you is pure patience, An immaculate And true white graceful space of Possibility, So that where she is we may Sing too the songs pure, Lose the sin, and in Her love is relief, as I Who composed himself For you, found relief in my Wish to foretell our Heaven.

She was my one true Sentinel, my guardian, Love’s embodiment Of duty and faith and work With out end, world without end, Words without end, but enough! She became my one Limit and limitation, And in her precincts I did thrive and grow in truth, Grow in Christ and him in me. What else is there but To thank and bless her in her Uncomplicated, Graceful, simple, entire, Perfectly, completely, and Without a stammer The complete that I have found And without which I Would have been incomplete, and God does not like incompletes. She has more than one Name and her number unknown Yet knowable, still She is not a summation, She is not a citation, A little one, she, And more to me by what she Made here in words that Seem to be mine, but are in The sovereignties she is.

44 of 70 the complete apocalypse the advent  

poems written in conjunction with the ensemble

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