Tuesday, November 20, 2018

john of the cross

has not learned how to text—
he is constantly enchanted by his thumbs

they induce raptures.

My heart is one-half Romantic
who is bumming about
and tossing caution into the compost bin in the name of love,
rolling about on moors and fens
with people she declares emphatically
are one in soul with her.

The other half's a Jesuit,
who is constantly discerning,
sifting slight interior movements,
aware of the evil spirit, desolations, consolations.
She seeks the good spirit and is highly skeptic
of the ecstatic burstings of her Romantic doppelgänger.

She seeks happiness and holiness,
she builds disciplines and habits.

Only to find those
thrown to the wind
in a burst of passion
by her other half
who seeks less happiness,
more Heathcliff,
and frightens both herself and
Self, SJ
by her proclamations that she will
love him forever:

If you know you can't be happy,
can you love yourself into living hell?

Do you have a choice?

And even worse:
if you know you have a choice,
you know you won't be happy,
will you do it anyway?

Is that, asks the heart
(both sides):
madness, sin, or God?

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