trinitarian epistemology

what do we know of the trinity

today at mass we heard a story
a short story of LEO TOLSTOY
called THE THREE HERMITS

once there was a bishop who was travelling
to assume the role of leader of a local church
on the way there he was informed about
a group of hermits who lived alone on a tiny island
the bishop decided he must acknowledge the
holy life of these men so he commanded
the captain of the ship for
he was travelling by boat to
go to the island where the hermits lived

as he arrived he saw the three men standing
on the beach holding hands and awaiting the visitor
when the bishop arrived there were some simple greetings
but then the hermits had little to say to the bishop

the hermits were very different one from another
the eldest was very gaunt and serene
bent over with age but possessing the countenance
of an angel
then there was the big tall young hermit
who was jolly and full of strength
and then there was another hermit
who was dark in the eyes and looked to be
suffering interminably

after a long period of wrestling with the
seeming dim-wittedness of the hermits
the bishop asked
how do you pray here?

the three chuckled to themselves then offered
in a stammering chorus
"you three pray for us three"
the bishop stood back and determined
that it was his obligation to teach these men
how to pray again
so he began with them

you must say
"OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN..."

the three stammered out in echo
the words as they heard them

the bishop stayed with the men all day
getting them to somehow memorize the words
the three stammered and rehearsed
and were pretty well on their way
to memorizing the prayer when the bishop
noted that the day was ending and he had to finish his journey

as the boat left the little island
the bishop stood in the stern
watching the island recede
and as he watched he saw
the three hermits come running across the water
as if running on dry land
and they came to the boat and beseeched the bishop
to teach them again the OUR FATHER for they had
already forgotten the words

with this the bishop went to his knees and said

it is not i who must teach you to pray
i must learn from you the way of prayer

and with that the three hermits left
and returned to their island
and the bishop saw only a place
of bright light where the three had gone

when making the sign of the cross
it may do you well
to think of the response
CHRIST HAS DIED
CHRIST IS RISEN
CHRIST WILL COME AGAIN
or
GOOD FRIDAY
HOLY SATURDAY
EASTER SUNDAY
or
FATHER
SON
SPIRIT

"you three pray for us three"

ROCKABILLY BLUES

Rock.
Rock.
Rockabilly, rock.
Really Billy, really, really rock.
Shake your silly hillbilly flock.
Sing the Pledge of Allegiance.
Sing all the dire anthems
of the coming apocalypse.
Sing the burning bush.
Sing the Wall St. blues
& bow down before
the bedonkadonk
of Britney or the Brits
at old Bunker Hill.
It’s all good…
It’s all Davy Crockett.

Adrian C. Louis

...this is a poem by a poet i
will read this summer
he speaks my sort of language
...i have appropriated this poem
from a PDF file from a 2009 edition
of THE NATION
in the advertisement column
there is a notice for a memorial service
for JAMES AGEE

ordinary time

waking as i always am
merely awaking
each day a bit more awake than the previous
each day a bit more disturbed
by what is taken for reality
what is perceived
what is ignored

i awaken into time that is ordinary
ordinary for me
a morning of near unconscious prayer
dutiful prayer
prayer nonetheless
and
to the ear shattering piercing warbling
melody of a robin
who seemed to delight in her own echo
off the building
more fascinated each time
with the contours of her song
and laughing a time or two, too
just to assure herself that her song
is really hers
that sort of ordinariness

i blink myself awake into the awakened consciousness of
6 billion other souls who are walking or driving
or shuffling about somewhere somehow focussed
on the activity of survival or pleasure or both
ordinary shuffling about of humanity
each day
millions of people moving fast

i go with the slow ones
i learn to walk with the slow going nowhere
of ordinary life
there's a rhythm there
there's a sanctity there

trying to listen in an ordinary way
to the ordinary sounds
of the ordinary words

stepping to humming
to the nothing special song
of the ordinary time

trenchwork
mopping
sweeping the streets
taxi feeding
sweetening the day with music
ordinary music for ordinary
full timers

beauty most deeply seen
in the delicate balance of the
everyday

i do the ordinary dance
in the ordinary way
to the ordinary rhythm
of the ordinary day

poetry heist

CHARIVARI

Fold the bed-sheet,
cross your fingers-
this lie you are
looks set to linger,

like a rumour
or the smell
of last night's dinner-
Wash the dishes,

cross your fingers,
hope the story
won't be questioned-
hope some more

when someone listens
(while you scrub
so your skin glistens,
whistling)

Difficult
to keep hidden,
bad blood leaks
around what's given-

the bastard caste-
mark on your forehead
is declasse'
and whorish red

So cross your fingers,
clap and count-
till superstition
finds you out

- FIONA SAMPSON

a confession
while waiting outside the ophthalmology clinic
reading the New Republic
i came across this poem
imbedded in an article about
jean baptiste colbert
-a french facts and figures wizard-
having read the poem over once
i determined to appropriate the poem
so
i neatly creased the page
and tore out the half which held this poem

i suppose i might've asked permission-
it would have been polite
but then i wouldn't have the pleasure
of knowing i had actually stolen a poem

will my actions offend someone
intent on reading the poem
or the article on jean baptiste colbert
- - highly unlikely

i consider this act a necessary gesture
in the advancement of poetry
and i would be happy to tell
FIONA SAMPSON
the story of this grand larceny

CHARIVARI
as i discovered
is the activity of the wild
beating of kitchen appliances
as a way of congratulating a newly
married couple

it's a tight poem
and the evocation of interior
thoughts
of a woman
perhaps the morning after
her wedding
gives careful witness
to the realm of doubt-
the capriciousness
of any human heart

irritainment symphony schedule

new horizons in the world
of cacaphony

from a campus wide email




FIRE ALARM TESTING
MAY 12th and 14th

HORNS
MAY ( )
SOUNDING AFTER 9 AM
IN THE FOLLOWING BUILDINGS

(someone forgot the BE)

St. Thomas
Mary
Benet
Emmaus
Placid/Maur
McKeown


Please watch your email for further postings.

Please be aware that this is taking place and you do not need to exit the buildings during these times.

THANK YOU. PHYSICAL PLANT
Questions please contact Gary Jorgensen X3303

....
so my plan is to accompany this irritainment
moment of pure musical delight
institutional music live live in your ears
with a loud persistent
B note played as loud as i can
at various levels on many guitars
B B B B B B B B B B
whether it fits harmonically or not

i think the challenge here is simply
--can it be done???

i shall not desist easily from advanced
immediate creativity

look out

it's going to be troublesome

i think the most poetic line here
and one i think i can add to the event
as a repeated line while the symphony ensues

"Please be aware that this is taking place...."

i mean
that is precious

Communion

Gentle the deer with solicitude
Solace them with salt
Comfort them with apples
Prepare them for the rectitude
Of Man who will come
A stranger with the unfamiliar gun.
The watcher calls. In trust the head turns
Between the antlers St. Hubert's cross burns.

No conversation today - but quick shot.
The buck falls to its knees
In decent genuflection to death.
The doe flees.
He is not dead. He will arise.
In three weeks, the head
will look from the wall
But with changed eyes.

But what of the body of swiftness
And litheness. Oh. Witness
Ground heart and muscle

Intestinal cased, tied with gristle,
the sausage sacrament of communion.
So that all may be one
Under the transplanted eyes
of the watcher.

- Eugene J. McCarthy + 2005

i have this little book of poems which betray
the negligence of a printer perhaps the drunkenness
of the printer
the volume entitled AND TIME BEGAN
published by Lone Oak Press
cpyrite 1993

the pages got screwed around somehow
and the pome which begins
somewhat arbitrarily on pg 24
is interrupted by 6 full pages of photos
and poems which are obviously
all out of order for
after pg 24 comes ppggs 21 - 22; 19-20;
17-18; 31-32; 29-30; 27-28

so i consider it a bit of a service to the poet now deceased
to bring together into a state of intended wholeness
a pome that was torn apart by human failure

all McCarthy's poems are good poems

john hanson osb

airport epistemology

one goes from the real world
into a fabricated system
one leaves a loved one
and travels into a controlled mayhem
of strangers
strangers moving with similar objectives
travelling strangers travelling together
remaining all the while
virtual strangers

one walks away from the only place
where meaning seems to mean something
and into a vaccuum of temporary distraction
self revelation destination plastic food stops

one goes from being rather quiet and slow
to moving very fast perhaps 600 mph at the fastest

in dallas we played musical gates
shifting from one gate to the next 5 times
before we matched up with the right plane
that took 150 virtual strangers
to the same place

each stranger returning to the place of
optimal meaning for him/herself the best
meaning he can work out for now

i went in one morning from utter peace
and sweetness to maybe 50 mph down the
steep hill
to maybe 75 mph on the interstate
then to a pause a suspended waiting
in the glass and steel airport
then a slow taxi to the runway
maybe 20 mph
then the speed down the runway to
150 mph then lift off
then increased speed to 300 mph
then leveling off above the southern califronia hills
to approx 600 mph
then a reverse motion
a slowing in the air
landing in dallas
dancing in dallas
doing the airport gate shuffle
then a repeat process to MPLS

i had the distinct feeling that
while it is possible to fly
it is not a healthy thing for people to do
it is efficient and
relatively clean
but somehow inhuman
stuffing people into a long tube
zooming them across the sky and charging
a huge amount of money to do it
seems rather grimey
like the spilt oil and grease around
the service hatches on the airplane wing

i know i am very close to people on a plane
very close to strangers
i will never even know their names
but i can smell their odors
and they mine i suppose

it is rocket flight

the light blue night sky
sandwiching the infrared cloud
above the darkening atmosphere
of the great plaines

audible cacaphonous white din noise is a constant in the airports
most everyone is hypnotized
there are not a lot of choices
in the airport

CNN demands attention
on a huge 30 by 30 ft screen

laptops and handheld communication devices abound

little black plastic bubbles hang from the ceiling
cameras
and the roof is littered with antennae

humanity never so close
never so far
never so collectively fast
never so collectively benighted

to drive away from the airport
is a way of driving away from
a sort of widespread agreed-upon
abuse

in a place of relative quiet
i reflect back on the airport
it is a machine for travelling/living
but airports in general are truly places of nowhere
noplace
you cannot stay there for very long
ever

catapult transcending geography