become wise through foolishness

a junkyard of magnets,
glinting and gaudy,
little centimeters on
a fridge door
that no one regards

like american souls
an overpopulated sucking,
magnetic, it seems
with ornaments
that sparkle, cartoon trees,
dolphins, rainbows over seas,
patterns and big bold banalities
and pictures that fade, slopes of dust
through the blinds and shadow
of thoughts, fade upon internal
radiation, this, the industrial garden,
the breathing shrine.

I vow to you and bow too
I rhyme in step and time
to the dim blurred spectre,
gaud—the junkyard of magnets,
the silvery maple where we
fix our loves and, I, the sleepy fool,
John the Bum, replace the distant
mount hope and the valley
of the shadow faith. then, perhaps

we recognize in the back,
behind ourselves.

One cannot have faith
without imagination.

What does this mean . . .
One cannot comprehend
ideals without
imagination.

Faith cannot exist
without an ideal.

That is not to say
that faith is imagination.

It is as true as words.

That is to say
God created words
and imagination

for the human
comprehension
of He, the Great
Existence

and a terrestrial place for angels,
the Holy Spirit, and paradise
of course.

Thus, I find myself again and again, the fool. But those that make light understand heaviness. Truly, he that bears the folly best is bound by circumstance.