Michael Bolerjack Majesties, Cy Pres Doctrine Volume 3 Peter the Roman Chapter Two

Glories, A word I found in Derrida before I found it In the Christian context, In which I profess I was ignorant and late in loving the lord, So that later, at the seminary, I did discover the Glories of the Lord, The herrlichkeit of Hans, So that, When a one-time professor I met on the street near the university where he dwelled mentioned a Hans, I blurted out Von Balthasar, But he said no, Kung, more meaningful to me now,

And I repeat the term at some distance from the events, Out of fascination with the thing I cannot hold, and wary, Having twice lost my faith, once years ago for a Sartrean and Freudian thing, More lately though, In the fetishes of the Buddhist goddesses and the rites peculiar to the Tibetan sect of that religion, In Tantra, Yet, Though I know it was said by the Apostle that if I glory, let me Glory in the Lord, And too,

Let me meditate on the Glories of Mary, Still, I find in the letters of the word a cabalistic Insistence On the heiress, That is to say, Glories, O Eris in the GL, the very thing invented and inverted by Derrida in the Glas, The diabolical book as it was called, the analogy of an analysis of the anal, Of which in remembrance of things behind one is not unaware, In Sodom, As in Transcendentality, scent the end and reasonings not averse,

There is, Rapiers to repairs, To be cut up, then, or hoisted upon, In that, Signifiers, to go to church as, Magisteriums, Is not to say too much, Yet, Paolo and Francesca, adulteries pursuits, to have orised in her frail infidelities finding the waters however turbulent so sweetened, That however she is tressoning, in her distresses yet I discreetly, Drives, The autonomous that is provided, manifestly, in mood, feeling, hunger, nourishing pleasures sense,

Is to say, We seem, collectively, to be driven by, and no longer know whose hands are on the wheel, Apocalypse Wheel, Of which our epicycles partake, and all our little stories not amounting to much at the end of, Yet, We will always have, being romantics, whatever Paris we once held, So, I rhyme her, If this be glories, I would ask after light, but even more so after praise, to which she is not uncommon, as gravities come straitening across my skies,

And she is a black hole, The crossing of which tries the event horizon, So that, Praise be heard in Israel, At the moment of the end, The antichrist complex originates the complexity of the time, And I do not give glory because of that but Respite it, In that the brides are utterly naked and so to glories thronedom run, to be paradised praise, And it is way past, When the time comes, and the end of histories, That we may dance, yes, Yet you,

Never virgin, Never once unknowing, Said never say never, To peter in his pandemonium, pandering to witless witnesses, having petered Pandora, So that The Erotic Eristic Erinyes, We may believe, Are in reverse, And justice being swayed, They have been loosed upon us, Heiresses to the destruction of the democracies ideality, The rivalries of my verse, The Valkyries of the apocalypse, And in the confusion we are free, they say, to love but Eris,

Bestrewn, bestride me, glories imbroglio, Beauties, and the risk of beautifiers, To lose myself in her honeyed head, And wail, Ambergris, How un-platonic she, in the Ahabian desert, Utterly white, And relentless, Like jezebel, So to be Elijah armed and call down fire to destroy the prophets of Baal, As I hope my offering to be consumed, I dont want ecstasy, She destroys me. Eris has one love,

Bound, Dead from the waste down, But evil then is evil now, And time is the evil, To benefit the doubt, We step out, Into eternities, Which limits time, seals it, to prevent the return of evil, But then there is always the veil, And inside one thing is every other thing, In mixtures, To be refineries, Of Eris, As the prostitute of toiletries,

And so to prepare a face to make the faces blush, if they could, in sin, the thesis of, the dialectical diabolical, the falsifiers, Fausts and Falstaffs, Yet her Hamlet knowing, There is a divinity that shapes our ends, roughhew them how we will, And it is not in curiosities to consider her so, My rough end, Tries her fineries, As the fine finish of the roman late silvered poets, Slithering in, Motions not unknown to Lilith, How can beauty be so evil, when it is transcendental, too? Must one then exclude all that, or is in God who makes and breaks and takes all, accordance of the totality within His infinity?

If she is, There is, in her, my spiritual exercises and exorcisms, As the founding Jesuitical father to Pope Francis taught us to, Imagine, Discern, then the consolations and desolations of the furies, And can you then decide, can you know conscience well-formed, and is desire un-founded, and is God neither simple nor complex, and is He the author too of this symbol of His sole authority, and in writings writing all, total predestination, as He is good but creates evil for the prophet, and it is all good because God wills it, so in quietism I would abide, For Eris,

Thy victories, craziest, starriest, spicier, That being salted with fire, that unaccountable bit of gospel that breaks the set to incompletion, is neither the tongues of holy flame at Pentecost, nor hell fires, and cannot be both, neither one nor the other, And it was said it is better to marry than to burn, But in this fire that all will be salted with, so as not to lose the savor, nor the savior, She is the saltier, Psalteries so fire