This is taken from the mission statement of my website, www.holyblasphemy.net. My idea of God comes from St. Anselm: God is the highest thought that can be thought. If there is a God, and he lives up to all of our expectations of him, (and he must, or else he is not God), then he would not be so petty as to become furiously angry and result to violent retribution during those occasions in which we, equipped with our limited mental capabilities, accidentally or purposefully call him names he doesn’t like. Blasphemy, then, can never really be what it is …

It’s no wonder I’m anxious: my apartment is so cluttered it cannot help but produce a cluttered mind. Although I stretch out my legs, my feet hit the wall behind my desk. In front of me is a bottle of putrid water, weeks old, wrappers from cookies and crackers, also crumbs that scattered when I opened the packages. To make room I grab the empty coke can and two plastic bottles and toss them over my shoulder. My shirt, which feels confining, I throw across the room unto my bed. It lands with precision on a similarly discarded heap of …

I bought a bicycle today. Ode to a bicycle: It has been years since I have written one, it feels to me now altogether a strange and difficult contraption. I need to wrap myself around the creature’s steel frame so intently, and balance so precisely, and kick off and continue wobbling forward in just such a manner as the overall performance requires, that it’s hard to believe this practice is in the general domain of children everywhere. And yet, the benefits are immediate. First is the absolute silence; such a drastic contrast between the motor of my scooter, which in …

I am a tragic poet. We have fiery wings, crafted in heaven and set aflame in hell, and the harder we beat them, striving with all our soul’s desire for high Truth, the more we fan the flames. I am Keats. I am Byron, and Shelley, mad with love for beauty, mad with desire for wisdom, angry at the world for being dirty, stupid and petty, frustrated by sickness, misfortune and other distractions from the noble appreciation of the good. I was a made poet for my early life, until I reached a mature age; I no longer regard evil …

Chip on my shoulder: I feel like I know a lot about how the world works, am I happier? Healthier? More successful? No. Am I kinder, more helpful? No. So what am I arguing for? Why am I – increasingly, ANGRY. Is the anger part of my passion? People say they want passion in their work. Scholars say they want passion in their research – well, I’ve got it. Bigtime. I have a chip on my shoulder. I’m ready to CUT down, destroy, kill all the postmodernists, starting with Derrida, ending with Lyotard. That will be my Thesis, My announcement. …

Poor health, but especially, nerves, seems to be the common complaint of artists and poets, and was probably the cause of excessive drinking and poor relationships. Nerves get in the way of everything, except creation. When the heavy, meditative consciousness of self is lifted, the fanciful nervous temperament is unfettered. The mind, unorganized, without the self-criticism or hesitation, with no conscious purpose as to outcome or intended audience, pours words like sweet honey, unbidden, unasked, easily and perfect. I can do nothing else well, my mind seems fuzzy, unclear, and yet it is just this state which seems to open …

I am overtly lecherous; I have a lecherous disposition that is at the forfront of my relations with other people. In the moments of artistic idealization, of course, I would argue that the entirety of humankind is wrong in this aspect and that I, as innocent as a child, am no more than allowing myself to be drawn into the great mystery of feminine beauty. I spent the morning in wonderment and thanksgiving; what a curious turn of events, that I could spend a day basking in beauty, seeking out comforts, good food, large, well-lit windows, antique shops and Confucius …

Today we have bred a society of philosophers. With the insurgence of new and contradictory ideals, the post-modern breakup of community and group, as well as the loss of any hope for meaning and truth (despite blind acceptance of some religion, which should have, on its on merits, died out in the face of rational criticism), we have a whole lot of malcontents, struggling to find a place in society, struggling to be counted, to be loved, eager to offer their criticisms on society or anything else they can think of; and yet, we also, as in any age, have …

I am the new philosophy of religion, and philosophy of spirituality, and in that effect, I am the new voice of Truth, Wisdom, Goodness, and represent the point of life in General. Literary Analysis and Deconstruction cannot exist without a voice like mine; or at least should not, for the very reason that I dislike post-modernism; you are left with piles of junk and no life whatsoever. Literature must be saved, preserved. No traded in for texts and analysis. After all, it is not sick, it does not need to be probed, medicined, filtered and sewn back together. It should …

I am an idolater.  It’s not about worshiping false idols, it’s about creating them, creating beauty. In the natural world, everything is made by God, and beauty is entirely his domain; beauty can be found in his blessings, his works, his creations.  The commandment does not prohibit worship, it prohibits making a copy of anything: stealing attention away from God as the artist. When a man creates something beautiful, something stirring, passionate, evocative, a relationship forms between the viewer, the work of art, and the artist. The feelings of awe and wonderment extend to the creator of the beautiful object, …