A Crazy Person’s Bible

fools-rush-in_thumbnail.jpg The other night a woman suggested in a dream that I write a book about my life. I replied that I had written many books about my life, each was one of a kind. I realized that didn’t satisfy her, she said it again. Not a long book, a summary. I awoke, clueless. I was publishing vigorously, nearly daily, to my websites. Had been for over two years. My life was being recorded there, too. I didn’t want to write another story of my life. Yet the dream nagged, and then I realized two days after the dream, after asking for clarity, that it was to be a collection of poems I had saved, either in print or through memory. Only a few of hundreds of poems that had started bursting out of me, starting in 1991, at age 49. Some truly stunning verses, most of which I put into little anonymous books and saddle-stitch pamphlets and gave away by the hundreds. Nay, by the thousands. Then, in 1995, I mostly stopped publishing my poetry, my being somewhat conceited, as it seemed to come through and from beyond me; I was just the vehicle. The rush of verses then slowed down, but did not stop altogether. The poems included here plot a journey I never heard or read of except in my own personal experiences, in spirit and on this world. Today, the two are inseparable: I live in both realms at the same time, awake and asleep. I sometimes describe myself as a donkey lured by a carrot and driven by a stick, headed to where he knows not. He has no choice but to head to wherever it is, because the consequences of revolt have proven over and over again to be most unpleasant. You don’t want to know just how unpleasant it sometimes was following a revolt. You don’t want to know. Be darn glad this doesn’t happen to you. Be darn glad.

“The Mockingbird”

I happened upon a mockingbird
singing its fool head off –
I asked it how and why it sang?
But all it did was look ahead,
all it did was sing.
It never turned to see if I was watching,
or listened for money jingling in my pockets,
or asked if I liked its music,
or expected a recording contract –
It was too busy singing
to pay any attention to me.
Thus did I learn
the greatest sin of all
is to kill a mockingbird.

“Black Diamond, Yellow Rose”

Black Diamond, Yellow Rose,
Odd couple until inside I see,
Black Diamond feeds Yellow Rose,
Yellow Rose loves Black Diamond,
Will and Heart,
Heart and Will,
Black Diamond, Yellow Rose

“Rainbow Fusion”
Black is white,
White is black,
When they fuse,
Rainbows bloom.

“Rainbows” (fragment of original poem)
Rainbows know no master.
Fueld by Father Sun
They touch Misty Earth
Only Heaven knows where.
Rainbows are more shiny than silver
and more brilliant than gold,
More valuable than diamonds
and more precious than perarls.
Rainbows paint heavens beautiful,
Make angels sing.
Rainbows are you, and me,
Full spectrums of Infinity
blazing across Eternity.
Rainbows are now.

“God’s Gifts”

God’s gifts are not for sale, but are given freely to angels, saints, sinners, devils and fools alike, because all are God’s children.

“Crooked Hose”

He is but a crooked hose through which living water flows, first to straighten him out, then to water a few other birds of the air and some lilies of the field.”
“The Poet”

He is the paper, the ink his blood, the pen his soul, and the poet is God.”


Who invented the rule that poetry must rhyme, have pentameter, be cast into verse? Yes, who invented that really silly rule? Surely it wasn’t the maker of the first stone — otherwise there’d be no stone to break all the rules!

“The Pearl”

He feels deep beauty in the dark pool from which his writings flow. She clings to him like fine silk, percious oil. She feels solid, compressed, like . . . a black pearl growing from inside out, ever larger with each stroke of his pen, pushing her precious waters over her banks into his dreams and life.

“Rosa Mystica”

Rosa Mystica,
Sweet Mystery,
Bride of Christ,
Living Water
without which
God is dead
and there are no rainbows.

“Sacred Prism”

The sacred prism
through which souls are refracted
into their elemental parts,
Purified in Holy Fire,
The one-forged
and sent on their way
to not even God knows where,
Simply because they are all
Unique Emanations of God,
Evolving . . .

“Tree of Life”

The Tree of Life grows not
on the battleground of good and evil,
But in a quiet meadow
beneath a beautiful rainbow
that knows not right or wrong.

“Mission Nearly Impossible”

Only fools rush in
where angels fear to tread,
But if there were no fools,
Who’d lead the angels?


Angels walk beside you
and call you their brother,
Even as you curse the heavens
for making you one who wields the lightning.
Be kind to your brothers and sisters,
But take no prisoners –
Kill them all in my name,
As I have killed you,
So you and they might life.

“Love and Truth”

Love with out truth is weak,
Truth without love is harsh,
Two side of the same coin,
They live together,
Or die.


All fig leaves burn
All ugly seen
All pain loved
All truth beauty
All people one
All time now


I am a man.

I said,
I am a man!

What means it,
being a man?

A man is a warrior:
he lives by a code of honor,
his word is reliable,
his actions confirm his words,
his commitment is holiness,
his enemies are welcome at his hearth,
he fears but moves forward,
he cries and gets up again,
he hates but forgives,
he loves and let’s go,
he doubts but trusts God,
he’s a good friend,
he seeks resolutions,
he demands nothing,
he risks everything,
he regrets his mistakes,
he seeks to make amends,
he puts others’ welfare first,
he accepts apologies truly made,
he expects nothing back,
he lives ready to die,
he laughs when he “should” scream,
he screams when he “should” laugh,
he sings just because,
he shrugs off insults,
he learns from misfortune,
he cusses God for making him,
he wishes he was done,
he loves children and animals,
he relishes a woman’s scent,
he smiles when he’s content,
he knows God’s his master,
he walks in rainbows,
his garden is the world,
his way is nature,
he loves fishing,
his wife is his soul,
his food is life,
his pay is whatever he receives.
Yep, he’s crazy.


A calling to serve carries its own wisdom,
which legitimates both the calling and the serving
so that the two are one:
Only the one called to serve
can know this wisdom,
and for some who are called
the knowing comes easily,
while for others the knowing is a fiery baptism.
Each calling is different,
and while some callings can be declined,
others cannot,
and those whose calling is without repentance
know they are in it for the duration of the calling,
and while others may try to persuade them out of it,
the calling for ones such as these always prevails;
thus is it advised to all called for keeps
that they view their calling as a blessing
even when it seems at times to be a curse,
and that they try to reconcile the loss of their captain status
and allow the Spirit of God to man the helm of their ship
and be glad and willing crew members thereon,
knowing that all sailing ships of souls
need a crew as well as a captain
to maintain and navigate the ship through
seas of many tones, depths and flavors;
so consider each league sailed
as part of the overall journey
going to where the captain deigns to go
by using whatever winds and sea currents available
to navigate the ship to the experiences
this ship and crew need to have
in order to fulfill their calling and its wisdom
revealed by the journey of many leagues,
many known only to the ship and its crew,
all of whom come to know,
some sooner than others,
that once conscripted
there is no safe jumping ship.

“Slam Poetry”

I don’t like it.
(2009, 2008, 2007, 2006 . . . 1994)

I sensed from the beginning that the verses coming through me were something I essentially would live, and that often scared the hell out of me. The same sinking sensation arose with wacky novels that fell out of me, which actually were poems but I called them novels because they were mostly prose. Jolting experiences, snap endings, surprise, suspense and cosmic jokes seem very important to God, perhaps to keep God awake and interested; and perhaps to keep me a bit loose, so I’m easier to work with and change, which I’m not when I’m all comfy and sure of myself. Then, it sometimes takes a sledgehammer to get my attention. Or dynamite. Or an earthquake. You get the drift. When awake, I see whatever happens to me as a poem or part of one. From that I can only conclude that God is a poet, and from the way my life goes, I can only further conclude that God is crazy and the only way for me to truly love God is to be crazy, too.

Sloan Bashinsky
24 June 2009

One Response to A Crazy Person’s Bible

  1. jim e says:

    While not on topic… When will you return? I will buy your lunch at FIFES.

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