LET’S FADE INTO GOD TOGETHER

Here before you is a story which shall never be told. It is a testament to the old ways of seeking solace among ashes from ashes. It has the Phoenix soaring towards a bleeding sky but the creature’s wings are broken & she will never fly again. It is not an uncommon fault to be born only to die. Yet even as senseless as this may seem to your wide open child mind, there is a beautiful world imbued with diamonds spinning side by side. It dwells within you & I. It is a sight to see for those who have the heart to look. Don’t look now. Listen instead if you must but prepare your world for a land without sound. Please understand what I do not; there are sights & sounds we will never know. I told you not to listen but will you ever learn? Hello? Are the there? This is your mother speaking. Hello?

Don’t look now. Don’t try to hear the whispers between the wind & the wind’s father. They were never meant for you. I wrote a novel I wanted you to read but I do not have the right to give you something I have never owned & will never be able to read myself even if I wanted to. All I am certain of is it is something so beautiful & enchanting it could sear into nothingness those super-planets rotating backwards behind your eyes. Dwarf stars are sometimes brighter than their brothers and sisters who loom larger than life itself.

The sun is dancing a waltz & she is beginning to heat up the dance floor. She’s on fire. You don’t understand? I know, I heard you already. You will never understand until you can read this novel. Not until you learn the new language of the new way will you ever be able to dance this waltz yourself. You need to be on fire. But there is good news for us today. The orchestra has just finished tuning its strings. Sit back with me, won’t you? Take your shoes off. Let’s take a look & listen together. Let’s fade into god together.

He said he wrote a novel. He said it was a great book. I didn’t believe him either. I prayed it was not true. I asked my very own personal Jesus to reveal him the blasphemer I knew he was. I thought he was. Don’t look at me that way. You said so yourself. Why did I listen to you? You said he was a child of the devil but I knew better. He doesn’t have the devils’ eyes. I do, but he doesn’t. Yet still I prayed it was not true.

This reminds me of something I wrote while fleeing a Dallas rehab one morning more years ago than I can remember. After the principal investigative psychiatrist there told me there was nothing he could do for me & that I simply enjoyed being high, and that there were no issues they could see that they might be able to beat out of me with a baseball bat & hat it would be best for all concerned if I just go home as fast as I can & return to paradise. That is exactly what I did, returned to paradise.

4:35 AM Dallas, Texas, USA: As the taxi careened through hollowed & empty streets towards the airport, I wrote ~ INCINERATE MY SAVAGE SOUL ~ I AM PAPER BURNING AT ALL MY EDGES ~ YOU ARE THE SMOKE I BECOME… smoke … paper … something is on fire this very moment… that novel as it teeters on the edge of my tempered glass desk in my garden where all my animals come to pray & play with me. They do so because I have lovingly nurtured our spirits together to a trust, admiration & respect. You may never disappoint your creatures, ever. They will remember that and why do so for shame? Because if you are not allowed to say, ‘Yes, I’ll do that” or “I am on my way” & they wait but you do not come, their grief is their disappointment & the rain that falls onto the parched landscape of your barren world will never help a flower bloom. Flowers will not grow in a no man’s land even if it rains forever.

I have a novel on fire teetering ever closer to the edge of my glassine desk … oops, ah shoot … there it goes … it just fell into my trash. There are billions of timeless symbols on all sorts of papers & such, some thousands of years old & some even older than that. You still haven’t read them. Me neither & we never will. Are you listening to me? Look at me? Do you hear what you are saying using my fingers & my mouth to say it?

I have a dream … it is a dream in which we fade into fireworks that sparkle forever without pause because forever never stops coming. Our universe is expanding so fast that if you lay down your garments near the waters of the creek of forgiveness, good luck trying to retrieve them. They are billions of lights years away already. Never fear. Yes, our universe is expanding very fast indeed as a healthy heart beat tends to do. It beats in beats out … just as the breath of the creator of everything & more does.  We are exhaling in unison this very magic moment but soon we shall inhale & once again & again, over & over & over it goes, a perpetual blossoming. For now, may we only speak of hope. That’s what love is. Hope. Now let us all go back to paradise & fade into god together.

THEY CALL ME ISHMAEL written by SCOTT UTLEY

My name is ‘Prophet’ but they call me, ‘hey, you!’ I am a penniless drifter shod poorly. I’m diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine. Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie.
I feel privileged, indeed, honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a knocking on the door of my rice paper heart. The possession I speak of is my inner light, my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not I possess neither food nor shelter but light never lets me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, but to the joker inside my skull I say, “Shyster thoughts be damned!” Belief does not make an invidious fantasy real.
Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected & filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the very same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up for in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. Like my father before me I stand hunchbacked, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders.
My mother was born & raised in New York City’s west side shanty town; Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two under crushing dank Mississippi Delta poverty which knows no equal. Perilous & foreboding omens for both of them, yet they overcame their twisted fate of birth with passion, ideals & love.They had to dig deep to survive. I had to dig even deeper, but I have learnt to love getting my face dirty. It was either do that or die.
I wonder if being born deformed & senseless is easier to bear than this weight, this soul numbing weight.  I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamer’s hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

prophet hhhhh

 

 

KING OF WANDS written by SCOTT UTLEY – PART I

 

Peace flows through the waterfalls of my land. Hawks with river red shoulders soar upon trampoline skies high above fertile ground where everything grows without asking. On these boulders at the mouth of this river I call forgiveness near redwood groves standing tall upon razor blade cliffs of desire, I keep a company of one. I am happy. Each morning I tend my crops. At midday, I give thanks to the sun. When dusk arrives, I drench myself under blue dot starlight & give thanks to the moon. When my prayers are done, I lend my gaze towards the creatures who are always about. We share a fond curiosity for each other. We are equals. Their love keeps my heart polished. I soothe theirs with songs from my soul. This is the way of the world for a simple man living a simple life upon holy land. It wasn’t always this way.

~

I am sweaty naked standing over a filthy floor in an emptied room beside a fireplace that has never seen a true fire. I survey the battlefield before me. I am shocked, but I do not flinch. I am wounded, but I do not bleed. I am an atrocity. I am the last hope of my kind. I must survive. I haven’t a choice. I feel shame yet I am proud. I marvel at the accumulated detritus of three years worth of grief. My smug admiration for this excremental no man’s waste land laying prone before me is tempered by a pervading sense of self-deception. Regret crawls under my skin. I cannot scratch this itch. There is no one here or anywhere who can scratch it for me. There are no drugs, illicit or otherwise, that have the power to reconstruct my faulty fractured DNA.

I have my viewfinder set to intricate detail, but something is not right. I cannot figure out exactly what that something is, but I know something is missing. There are no cannons. There are no tanks. There are no rotting corpses here. The trenches were far muddier in my war. The pools of blood were tar black & thicker than that of this battlefield before me. There are orange poppies painted in bold relief upon the fireplace mantle. There are no orange poppies in my war. This war is an impostor. I should know. I have a damned medal of dishonor knifed into my brawny chest. This scene may look dreary enough, but it lacks the heroic brutality I proudly claim I suffered. If I were to tell you it was me who caused this suffering with explosives I had planted upon the dark side of my heart, I would turn to shattered glass. I will not utter another word about it. Speechless or not, I remain the same…

…a desolate landscape. Nothing lives here anymore. I’m meaningless. I have lost the only war I ever truly cared enough to fight. If I could I would turn back the hands of time, but I am unable to do such a thing. I’ve tried. I can travel without moving through a multitude of parallel universes with you in the room. You’d never notice. I’ve morphed into a butterfly more times than there are trees in the forest, but I cannot go back in time. That would take a miracle. It’s just as well. Why would I want to go back in time? These are the best years of my life, for I have the memories of the best years of my life living, loving & being with you. If this is true, where has the sun gone? Who am I? Who are you? Where are we?

Moments slide backwards then stop altogether. Deep spaces in between billions of misfiring synapses within my skull are illuminated by flashes of electric mind-blowing white. My eyes are mesmerized. My face is paralyzed. My body is now a paradise. I don’t know what this means. All I know is if I don’t allow whatever my mind wants to say flow freely out of my mouth, I shall explode. My body is now a paradise for strangers with no faces. What does this mean? I’m frightened. Time is still but not so my mind as it forges its escape… and…

…I am a blue translucent dragonfly careening through thickets of moss over the rushing creek of this canyon. I am frantic frenetic to find the source of my lovers cries within a crystallized powder blue shroud of mist. The faster I go the further away I am. My consciousness shifts instantaneously. I cannot breathe. I see through my contorted version of reality in a flash of warped time & space. I don’t like this. I hate it! I’m claustrophobic but I never realized this until now. As I spin upward seeking my one last gasp of air, enough room explodes within the implosion of my soul. I remember. This is the place I fought my war. I am its lone survivor. I cannot bear it a moment longer. I can barely hold my head up. Before I am able to screw my courage to the whipping post, this moment is gone forever.

~

Below me is the exalted grave of a spiritual warrior I could not live up to then & I cannot live up to now. As worthy as I may seem in the eyes of the unknowing, I am a dwarf star next to a supernova. I know this. I wonder why it’s always me who survives? I have been gifted throughout my life with profound love from great men & women only to sever my spirit’s spine every time.

I wonder at the emotions & the crack hearted questions splattered all over these wounded walls. There is blood on the floor leading into a darkened hallway. I thought I knew where that hallway leads to, but I don’t remember now. As hard as I try to recall, all I see is a blank screen. I am a television turned to thunderous static on mute. If I were not deaf, I would go completely insane. The channel I am looking for has been moved to another world where I no longer get the signal.

I vaguely recall a man’s heart dripping a trail of tears; tears of blood from a shattered heart. That is what these stains in my eyes are. I see that much. I remember this much; a man squatting in the corner of this room. His eyes shut blind between ears without sound to hear. He resembles me. I turn away as fast as I can. I am afraid. I’m almost too frightened to breathe, but not too afraid to cry. It passes. This moment passes into eternity along with all the others.

~

War is over. I survive. I may be crippled, but I am not lame. I have scars deeply etched into my soul’s flesh, but I shall sing again. I hear music even when it isn’t playing. I know I will sing once again.

I see snapshots of your mind everywhere. Wow! It feels like the fourth of July. Hmm… I wonder how the debris on these walls & this floor ever came to be. I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter now. Thank you for taking my mind to a different sort of landscape. The soul creatures you create are quite beautiful, but they always were. The ones you have sent to cover my heart in winter are the loveliest ones of all. That kind of living artwork cannot be taught. It cannot be given to anyone as if it were a mere commodity. One must earn it & learn it through lifetimes of service in joy. I know that now. Here comes the sun.

 

END OF PART ONE

KING OF WANDS written by SCOTT UTLEY

 

MY PROPHET RISING written by SCOTT UTLEY

My prophet rises from snow white sands. He is cut & bruised with bloody hands. His metamorphosis is marked by purple flowering feathered wings immaculately conceived. He reaches into the eye of the sky & fondles memories from before my time, back when this river flowed with twice its heart & the sky more volatile with twice its strike. When this desert land was twice as young, He walked along these very skies now dusked across my mind like a churning holy electrical explosion.
My prophet rises from the deep blue sea with gaping wounds for all to see. His metamorphosis is marked by the inhalation of deep & conscious breath. His yellow diamonds are draped upon his brawny chest strung side by side with cosmic thread. He is future, present & the past. He’s courage fed by fathers brave & mothers strong. They’ve taught him well, both right & wrong. This world unceasingly expands its view. With opened eyes & a child’s pride, He is my harness. I love this ride.
My Prophet rises. I am He. I’ve wept in pain but now I’m free. Upon this sand my heart is burned. There is so much I have to learn. My metamorphosis is marked by the song of my soul echoing through the cathedral of my mind. I know I am more than looks perceive. My well is full. I have no greed. Christ is here & surely bleeds. He is my lover. I am He.

joshua hhh

TOPEKA PREACHA written by SCOTT UTLEY

He says he loves Jesus and Jesus loves him.
He’s a modern day prophet forgiving your sins.
He’s a radio pirate, has a cable show too,
A mistress in Paris & an eye out for you.
His brand of religion breeds heartbreak and pain.
He’s a born again Christian with something to gain.
Deceitfully convincing his flock of salvation,
In return he receives a standing ovation.
His glorious sermons preach schemes of division,
Exquisitely crafted to prevent any schism.
Triumphantly pitting his will against right,
He lusts after money & covets your wife.
An unnatural affection for boys under ten,
He’s drugged quite a few on his couch in the den.
He’s suspicious of women and fearful of men.
There’s a gun by his bed marked ‘specially’ for them.
He’s a beast. He’s a monster. It’s sad but it’s true.
His secret agenda keeps Jesus from you.
He’s afraid you’ll rise up if you find out the truth,
Afraid you’ll tip off your wife & your youth.
He’s a huckster, a shyster, and the devil disguised.
He’s a freak who insists only his god is wise.
This prince of invective is consumed by desire.
While preaching forgiveness he’s stoking his fire.

 

 

 

AFTER I HAVE DIED written by SCOTT UTLEY

Burnt onto the pages of my ancient history,
is the story of our love; a spiritual decree.
Penned onto the memory of my simple, fleeting life,
is the epic of our union, quite beautifully described.
I am stunned by the depth of your soul.
Shall I be forever mystified?
And this evening,
brazenly confetti’d up on a Hollywood freeway overpass,
I saw your initials set upon a fractured heart.
While my soul bleeds adoration in silence,
I wonder, “Is this loves crucifixion?
Is this how Mary felt in the garden?”
No answer is of any consequence.
For what I will remember
long after I have died,
is the memory of your face,
indelibly inscribed.

ALEX JOIHNS