King

O King of Kings,
O Lord of Lords,
O God of Gods,
Who hast created me,
Why do I wish to be a king?
And why am I not satisfied,
That the Risen Christ,
Victor, King,
Hast taken our human nature,
And hast enthroned our royal race,
On His own Heavenly Throne.

If it is honour that I seek,
What more is there for me to ask,
If you admit me to your courts of worship,
And I receive the Holy Mysteries?

If it status,
And Thou receivedst me as faithful,
Anointed,
Prophet, priest, and king,
What there is more for me to ask?

Or is my disease different,
Not from any lack of honours paid,
But something cured by humility,
Not sated by the adding to the sum of my possessions,
But sated by subtracting from the sum of my desires?

And the particulars of my case:
What of them?
My PhD program was shut down,
At ill-famed Fordham University
(“We have no initials!“),
And it was not mere politeness,
When the head of International Christian Mensa said,
“Your job is not to write the books that PhD’s write.
Your job is to write the books that PhD’s read.”
And I was missing something,
When I wished some kind institution,
Would grant me some honorary degree.

A psychologist pulled me aside and asked,
“How many profoundly gifted people do you think there are at Harvard?”
Then another question and then another,
Until he drove a point:
“The average Harvard PhD has never met
Someone as talented as you.”
Did I mention that as a child,
I wished for an IQ of 400?

There are a great many stupid things I’ve wished.

What more do I wish to ask,
Now that I am retired on disability,
With a roof over my head,
And a little more income?
Is Heaven given to me less?
Is Christ? Is the Holy Spirit?
Should I ask my dear Archbishop PETER for coronation,
Or just follow an ad for “Real English titles of nobility?”
Even if His Eminence were to give me,
One of the bare titles that he doesn’t like,
Would I be the more the King of my website?

I have a roof over my head;
A wrecked career is not the worst option;
And the resources of Heaven remain open;
Even St. Michael, whose afterfeast falls as I write.
I pass through life like a vagabond,
Collecting letters after my name,
From the Sorbonne, UIUC, and Cambridge,
Possibly it is a blow of mercy that my studies at Fordham got no further,
And still I write:
And still I write.

Before the advent in force of body wave feminism,
I remember reading of women,
That the ones at peace with their figures,
Are not those of greatest external beauty,
And to be a model is to be still more insecure.
Trying to make peace with your figure,
By wearing yourself out through diet and exercise,
Is barking up the wrong fire hydrant,
Almost as foolish as me chasing honour.

People who win big,
Spend big,
And many lottery winners go bankrupt.

I would love to have a BMW,
But if a Ford is my biggest unmet wish,
I am doing well.

Why do I covet more,
When you give me freely,
More than I could imagine to ever ask?

Christ is risen!