The dream...
I went to Charlotte for business this week. I had the opportunity for a free night out of town, so I thought I'd try to have a little fun. The manager at the hotel, a very nice black man named Fred, suggested I go to the Double doors, a blues club in downtown Charlotte.
I followed his suggestion. (This part is not the dream, btw). I sat at the bar, had a few beers, watched the band tune in their instruments; adjust the sound board, etc. I was there way too early. By the time people started to show, and the music started, I had a little buzz going. I am a huge fan of live music, even crap live music. I have a little respect for performers, and a huge amount of contempt for their usually perversely enormous egos. I love to watch some ageing, pony tailed, beer gutted singer/ guitar player that is going to make $300 this week strutting around some dump of the bar impressing all the golden girls in their snake skin boots. You go, man. You're the cock of the walk buddy.
Anyway, the crowd filtered in, and the band got started. It sucked. The music, the crowd, the bar. What a load of crap. The crowd consisted of senior barflies and aging wanna be musicians trying to hook up with them. Then there were the bevy of barely 21 college kids, looking nervous and cliquish and trying to look like almost retired barflies. There was enough snake skin in the place, the crocodile hunter would have shed a tear.
And I sat at the bar, sucking down canned rolling rocks, and started to do what I almost inevitably start to do in a public setting; Introvert and draw observations. And an old, familiar feeling came to me. I loathe and pity these folks. These bleach blond women trying to look like they are not past their prime and swaying to awful not quite garage band music. The beer gutted, tight pants men, swaggering around looking important and self-righteous. Not one of them with a clue. That 30 something guy that doesn't fit in anywhere, playing with his phone like he has something better to do than to be here. (oh, crap. That might have been me). The early 20 somethings that are there for fresh meat.And man, I was just LOATHING all of it. I didn't want to meet these people. I have known them my entire life. While they are fascinated by smoke filled rooms and filtered light and 2.00 beer night, they have pissed away their entire life on some faux slice of minuscule Hollywood and America, and now that their lives conclude into seniority, they don't even have the self dignity to acknowledge THEY HAVE WASTED THEIR ENTIRE FREAKING EXISTENCE ON DEPRAVED SELF GRATIFICATION AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUGH!!!!!!
Then a friend of mine texted me:
Friend: Praying for you
Me: Why? What did I do?
Friend: (this is not verbatim) I don't know. What DID you do? (I think the 'this time' was implied)
Me: I don't have it in me to be bad....
So the conversation ran, to the conclusion of, basically, my life ended when Christina's did. I am just a body with an unwilling ghost, basically, fulfilling duty until my time comes, and I can leave this cesspool of a world behind and start MY journey.
Except, for the day before. Dr. David Jeremiah, on the radio. I haven't been really into exploring God recently. Something about being mad at him, knowing it is wrong, and not caring a whole about being wrong. Just mad.
Anyway, David Jeremiah was on, and I had just had another all out with God, about his will is his will, but I don't HAVE to like it, and I don't HAVE to live in it, and I have these huge tears streaming down my face, and I am in the middle of nowhere, and I wonder if I die right now, what? and here is David Jeremiah.
Faith is not about always doing right or being perfect, faith is HAVING FAITH IN GOD'S FAITHFULNESS. Oh crap. I didn't lose faith in God. I knew I was a horrible sinner that deserved death WAY before Christina died. But what he said, it struck a chord. I didn't lose faith in God's promises. They were there, take 'em or leave 'em. I lost faith in God's faithfulness.
God is faithful. It didn't matter I was shaking in fury and daring him to burn me to a crisp and erase my name from the book of life. It didn't matter I had watched the most beautiful woman I ever met die at 35 in a horrible battle that culminated in my mental disintegration. God is still faithful. And when I heard David Jeremiah say that, I felt God's hand moving inside me. He wasn't angry, he wasn't vengeful; he was waiting on me to finish my rage and anger and accept that Christina died, yes. All people do. But Christina died, and God was faithful to the promises he made. And that is the entire relationship. And for the first time in three and a half months, my mental house was in order.
So, anyway, the band sucked, the bar sucked, the people sucked. I cleared my tab, and headed out the door. Back at the hotel, I knew I was in for a rough night. I'd had a few, and the AC didn't work (crap hotel) and I knew in a few short hours I would wake up hot and hungover and uneasy. But I didn't
I dreamed, and Christina was there (this IS the dream, and it DID happen). She was beautiful as always, and we played and kissed and talked. And then we just lay there and held each other. And then, I was waking up, and I could feel someone laying there, holding me. I was in a place I have not been in so long. I felt her arms wrapped around me, holding me, comforting me. I knew as I slipped into wakefulness, she would have to go away, and I could not stop it. I awoke, and lay there, and for just a few seconds, her presence lingered in the room with me. I could feel it. And then, I was awake, alone. But not alone. I knew right then, Jesus had been faithful, and Christina was safe, and I have had the first peace that I have had in weeks.
I know it seems romanticized sappy crap. I am not like that. I could feel it. Physically. Anyway, there it is. My dream, if you will.
Oh, also, on my way OUT of Charlotte, I pulled over on the interstate. As I left the city, I saw the BIGGEST, MOST BEAUTIFUL, and most complete rainbow I have ever seen. And it was just like a huge billboard in the sky, shamelessly advertising "God is FAITHFUL".
Thank you, Lord. You have been with me. You are with her. Forgive my insolence and anger. I don't understand your plan, I can't comprehend your will. But you are faithful. Like the Newsboys sing, I surrender all, to the promises you made...
Friday, January 27, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
How deep can this grief get? Every day, I am happier and happier, and I have more energy. Not a day passes where I do not cry like a terrified child for her. And everytime, it is deeper. I thought I had reached the bottom of my soul and heart, and had given it all. But there is just a fathomless feeling that this grief goes down to the roots of life and the end of it. And I want it. I possess and embrace and adore this grief. I hope that in Heaven she can experience how completely broken I have become. I hope it only gets worse until I am in her arms again. I used to seek joy and pleasure. Now, I look forward to this time of hot tears and shaking and sadness. It is my love, my passion.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Why
I just felt like someone, anyone should know. I wanted someone to know what I was going through. I wasn't just being weird because I had the opportunity to do so. I was legitimately losing my mind. Correction; my mind had legitimately been scrambled. I don't know, maybe I let that happen. I sure as Hell didn't care to prevent it.
The first days then weeks after Christina died, I couldn't love. I could only perform for other people and for my children. I could only do what I knew I needed to do; what they needed my to do. But I could not feel love., just overwhelming sadness, depression, abandon.
Today I woke up, and just held little Naomi in my arms and stroked her face. I lay there and loved her, just to love her. I feel it again. I know I am getting better. I know that is what Christina would want. Sometimes, it makes me angry. I don't want it to get better. I fight it. It just seems wrong for it TO get better. On the other hand, I pretend I can think about it from Christina's side now. I can firmly believe she would want me to get better. I always wanted her to. And I know she wants her little girls to be happy.
I talked to a friend of mine, and she told me how her sister died when she was so young, hit by a car. She told me how her therapist told her she was probably depressed her entire life, because during those formative years (2) she never saw happiness, joy, smiles. I don't blame her Mother and Father. Who could? I am sure they gave her what she needed. Except boundless, joyful love.
Somewhere I have got to work all this out. And no fail safe, pedantic answers. "Look at the beach, there is only one set of footprints..." None of that. We all live and breathe and love and die on this mossy stone spinning through an incomprehensibly vast Universe through time out of mind to an end that we cannot conceive. And yet, everyone of us KNOWS there is a reason for it. And of course, we have been given evidence that there IS a reason. Show me a culture or civilisation that does not have a system of beliefs that there is a reason for this beyond we eat, breathe, copulate, reproduce, die, and that is the point. "Here the Universe randomly produced sentience so that it (the sentience) could immediately become the most self-serving douche imaginable, but it can't do it, so life pretty much is unfulfilling for everyone, and oh, by the way, at some point you get sick and hurt and die. And you will have the irritating and unavoidable feeling that it is not supposed to happen that way, but you can't define why, and you never will. Merry Christmas." Really, Atheists? You must be so fun at parties.
However, I also don't think the reason is to walk around like a bunch of smug dicks because you are a Calvinist and pretty and (white) have a degree and so therefore you were chosen to look down on and all those poor unelected little starving bastards all over the rest of the world. If that is what it is about, you can keep it, and I want to be on the other side. The side that didn't get picked and sits around dirty and uneducated and starves, because I can't go to your school of thought, friend.
And then, you lie in bed, and in spite of whatever happened in life, and whatever happens, you love a baby, your baby, because you love. You don't need to, and any baby would do. You stroke their face and their hair, and you think how you need to get your shit together NOW because my God, there are children to take care of. And you need to, and you WANT to. And if you do that, then you die, then life is good enough. And if you can go to "Hell" doing that,
I know right now, someone somewhere is crying "Oh what piteous stuff" and chalking that very feeling up to instinct. Ok let's go with that. If it is instinct, then what? Why?
Why would the Universe randomly compel us to perpetuate our species? A good floor show, perhaps? And then someday we hurdle into the Sun as an encore? Because, you know, that would mean the "Random" Universe is sentient, and has imposed will on us, so it is not, it has will, and there IS right and wrong and OH MY GOD we are right back here.
A conclusion is where someone got tired of thinking.
The first days then weeks after Christina died, I couldn't love. I could only perform for other people and for my children. I could only do what I knew I needed to do; what they needed my to do. But I could not feel love., just overwhelming sadness, depression, abandon.
Today I woke up, and just held little Naomi in my arms and stroked her face. I lay there and loved her, just to love her. I feel it again. I know I am getting better. I know that is what Christina would want. Sometimes, it makes me angry. I don't want it to get better. I fight it. It just seems wrong for it TO get better. On the other hand, I pretend I can think about it from Christina's side now. I can firmly believe she would want me to get better. I always wanted her to. And I know she wants her little girls to be happy.
I talked to a friend of mine, and she told me how her sister died when she was so young, hit by a car. She told me how her therapist told her she was probably depressed her entire life, because during those formative years (2) she never saw happiness, joy, smiles. I don't blame her Mother and Father. Who could? I am sure they gave her what she needed. Except boundless, joyful love.
Somewhere I have got to work all this out. And no fail safe, pedantic answers. "Look at the beach, there is only one set of footprints..." None of that. We all live and breathe and love and die on this mossy stone spinning through an incomprehensibly vast Universe through time out of mind to an end that we cannot conceive. And yet, everyone of us KNOWS there is a reason for it. And of course, we have been given evidence that there IS a reason. Show me a culture or civilisation that does not have a system of beliefs that there is a reason for this beyond we eat, breathe, copulate, reproduce, die, and that is the point. "Here the Universe randomly produced sentience so that it (the sentience) could immediately become the most self-serving douche imaginable, but it can't do it, so life pretty much is unfulfilling for everyone, and oh, by the way, at some point you get sick and hurt and die. And you will have the irritating and unavoidable feeling that it is not supposed to happen that way, but you can't define why, and you never will. Merry Christmas." Really, Atheists? You must be so fun at parties.
However, I also don't think the reason is to walk around like a bunch of smug dicks because you are a Calvinist and pretty and (white) have a degree and so therefore you were chosen to look down on and all those poor unelected little starving bastards all over the rest of the world. If that is what it is about, you can keep it, and I want to be on the other side. The side that didn't get picked and sits around dirty and uneducated and starves, because I can't go to your school of thought, friend.
And then, you lie in bed, and in spite of whatever happened in life, and whatever happens, you love a baby, your baby, because you love. You don't need to, and any baby would do. You stroke their face and their hair, and you think how you need to get your shit together NOW because my God, there are children to take care of. And you need to, and you WANT to. And if you do that, then you die, then life is good enough. And if you can go to "Hell" doing that,
I know right now, someone somewhere is crying "Oh what piteous stuff" and chalking that very feeling up to instinct. Ok let's go with that. If it is instinct, then what? Why?
Why would the Universe randomly compel us to perpetuate our species? A good floor show, perhaps? And then someday we hurdle into the Sun as an encore? Because, you know, that would mean the "Random" Universe is sentient, and has imposed will on us, so it is not, it has will, and there IS right and wrong and OH MY GOD we are right back here.
A conclusion is where someone got tired of thinking.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Lyrics to When Water Comes To Life :
And when the angels come
They'll cut you down the middle
To see if you're still there.
To see if you're still there.
And underneath your ribs
They'll find a heart-shaped locket,
An old photograph
Of you in Daddy's arms.
And then they'll sow you closed
And give you back to the water
From where we're all born
From where we're all born
And you'll feed the ghosts
And you'll feed the living
You will be a stranger
And you'll be a friend
You'll be the leper
You'll be the healer
You'll be the hero
And the tragedy
And when they sow you closed
They'll give you back to the water
From where we're all born
From where we're all born
When they burn your body
All that's left is sand crystals
Two tiny handfuls
All the rest is water, water, water
All you need to know
Is you are born of water
You are made of water
You are merely water, water, water
All you need to know
Is you are born of water
You are made of water
You are merely water, water, water
They'll cut you down the middle
To see if you're still there.
To see if you're still there.
And underneath your ribs
They'll find a heart-shaped locket,
An old photograph
Of you in Daddy's arms.
And then they'll sow you closed
And give you back to the water
From where we're all born
From where we're all born
And you'll feed the ghosts
And you'll feed the living
You will be a stranger
And you'll be a friend
You'll be the leper
You'll be the healer
You'll be the hero
And the tragedy
And when they sow you closed
They'll give you back to the water
From where we're all born
From where we're all born
When they burn your body
All that's left is sand crystals
Two tiny handfuls
All the rest is water, water, water
All you need to know
Is you are born of water
You are made of water
You are merely water, water, water
All you need to know
Is you are born of water
You are made of water
You are merely water, water, water
schism
Numb.
I have found things.
Objects and resurrections of insignificance
Indulgences and schisms
Latin and flannel...
Italian and Broadway...
Ceremony and cream.
Anything to add to life, to dilute.
To bask in the moment of forgetful ignorance,
And occupy...A tired mind.
Purpose becomes a distraction,
And convolution a pattern of being
easy....
This as I sat here, wondering what to say. I feel this blog will not last much longer. It loses it's purpose rapidly. No longer a mirror, now it is a sounding board.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Must be a red letter night for posting. Guess there is a lot on my mind. Crystallization. Saturation, if you will (I never spell check, ha). I know a secret. That was a hard one to go through. Boy, I know that one HAD to bother some people. :(
I guess, if could make a commentary on my own work, I would frame that poem in this light; that I certainly was not a perfect person when Christina and I met, and she was just NOT perfect enough to love me for it. We were real people, to be sure. She was real, and imperfect, and we had two glorious years of being the bestest of friends before love ever became a topic. Not that we weren't, cause we were. It's just that we were so close, and enjoyed each other so much, that whoever else we were 'with' didn't matter. We were wide open. Wide open. Can anybody follow that? Convention didn't have a place in it. We knew each other through and through. There was no putting on airs for each other. By the time we fell in love, we fell in love with each other as HUMAN BEINGS. As incomplete and needy sinners. And we loved each other for it.
You know what is weird, is I keep telling people I value honesty above all else. At the same time, I regrettably hold back the truth from them. Man, that disappoints me about myself. But I guess, you have to meet people where they are. I will someday learn to accept that most people are closed in. They cannot be honest with themselves or others or with God. Who would want to face that monster? Christina did. And underneath, there was this really beautiful wife and mother. The kind that milked goats and home-schooled kids and would rub her husband's face in the dark because it made him feel safe. That was my wife. Now she's gone. I knew the best and worst of her and I am proud of every DAMN bit of it and no one better try to take any of it away. Nobody better put her on a pedestal or look down on her. That is the secret. I suffered all of her short comings, as she did mine. I rejoiced in all of her boundless beauty. She saw something in me I don't. God, she was something awesome. And it pisses me the Hell off when anyone tries to detract from any side of her. The secret is this: I am who I was and she is who God intended her to be and I am in love with every bit of it.
I can't exactly look God in the eyes right now. For one reason, he let Christina die. Yeah, he did. He could have changed that, and he didn't. I try to understand, and probably never will, and I know he is all good, all the time. I get that. But do I have to like it? He hurt me, and he let me hurt. And he let me be in the worst places I have ever been, and the sky stayed blank. Even when I dared the Holy Spirit to come and consume my arrogant ass with fire, the sky stayed a stony grey. When the Angel of the morning came, it was just him and I. I don't like it, and I won't. But hey, could I be more honest with Christina than God? Cause I would have told her all of this, and she has told me similar things. We weren't always the birds of paradise, us to.
I guess this is why this blog is here. Christina's death is the worst and biggest thing I have ever had to face, to be sure. My death would have been so much easier. But here it is, and the only person I can completely confide in, has exited stage left. Now she is at peace with the Father, and here I am, here neurotic, insane, WIDE OPEN husband with all this crap I would have laid on her, with no where to go. I guess this is the best I could do. A ridiculous blog.
I guess, if could make a commentary on my own work, I would frame that poem in this light; that I certainly was not a perfect person when Christina and I met, and she was just NOT perfect enough to love me for it. We were real people, to be sure. She was real, and imperfect, and we had two glorious years of being the bestest of friends before love ever became a topic. Not that we weren't, cause we were. It's just that we were so close, and enjoyed each other so much, that whoever else we were 'with' didn't matter. We were wide open. Wide open. Can anybody follow that? Convention didn't have a place in it. We knew each other through and through. There was no putting on airs for each other. By the time we fell in love, we fell in love with each other as HUMAN BEINGS. As incomplete and needy sinners. And we loved each other for it.
You know what is weird, is I keep telling people I value honesty above all else. At the same time, I regrettably hold back the truth from them. Man, that disappoints me about myself. But I guess, you have to meet people where they are. I will someday learn to accept that most people are closed in. They cannot be honest with themselves or others or with God. Who would want to face that monster? Christina did. And underneath, there was this really beautiful wife and mother. The kind that milked goats and home-schooled kids and would rub her husband's face in the dark because it made him feel safe. That was my wife. Now she's gone. I knew the best and worst of her and I am proud of every DAMN bit of it and no one better try to take any of it away. Nobody better put her on a pedestal or look down on her. That is the secret. I suffered all of her short comings, as she did mine. I rejoiced in all of her boundless beauty. She saw something in me I don't. God, she was something awesome. And it pisses me the Hell off when anyone tries to detract from any side of her. The secret is this: I am who I was and she is who God intended her to be and I am in love with every bit of it.
I can't exactly look God in the eyes right now. For one reason, he let Christina die. Yeah, he did. He could have changed that, and he didn't. I try to understand, and probably never will, and I know he is all good, all the time. I get that. But do I have to like it? He hurt me, and he let me hurt. And he let me be in the worst places I have ever been, and the sky stayed blank. Even when I dared the Holy Spirit to come and consume my arrogant ass with fire, the sky stayed a stony grey. When the Angel of the morning came, it was just him and I. I don't like it, and I won't. But hey, could I be more honest with Christina than God? Cause I would have told her all of this, and she has told me similar things. We weren't always the birds of paradise, us to.
I guess this is why this blog is here. Christina's death is the worst and biggest thing I have ever had to face, to be sure. My death would have been so much easier. But here it is, and the only person I can completely confide in, has exited stage left. Now she is at peace with the Father, and here I am, here neurotic, insane, WIDE OPEN husband with all this crap I would have laid on her, with no where to go. I guess this is the best I could do. A ridiculous blog.
An explanation
I know. Disturbing doesn't even begin to approach it. Some of it is downright evil, hateful, and vile. So at this point, I thought it might be beneficial to offer an explanation. I have upset some people close to me with my words, and that was never my intention.
To me, my poetry is like a snapshot of my emotions. That is a pretty creepy concept, because NOBODY in their right mind would ever tell anyone what they are really thinkinng, especially if it something bad or disturbing or reflects poorly on them. And yet, that is precisely what I am doing. And ONLY pretty much at my worst moments. Fun, Huh?
So instead of looking at these poems as cohesive, concurrent thoughts, come to them with a different perspective. And that would be, hey, Jon has put raw, unmitigated pain and anger and hurt and confusion into words, and there they are, and I might not understand them, (Hell, why would you read them?), but there they are. His soul got sick and vomited on a page. What a horrible mess. I hope he feels better. And, usually I do.
The grand order of things.
All of us, I THINK, compartmentalize. We define and pigeonhole and label and organise all of our experiences in life according to a system. Not neccesarily the same system, but I don't think, initially, they get very different. You have Good, evil, comfortable, dangerous, inconsequential, whatever...But we take these things; our thoughts and emotions and experiences, and we label and stack and sort and arrange until we have a tidy little life where we are well fed and have a warm house and great kids and one day we willl grow so old that it would really be better off to just die anyway. And the next day, our spouse will die, cause they loved us so much, and they will write it up in the paper, cause it is SO cute, and we'll be like 99 anyway, and the grandkids will think so fondly of us, while we smile down on them from heaven. And we have ourselves, and inside, these little boxes. All stacked up and arranged and cataloged. And we live by that system, and when life happens, and it doesn't fit in our boxes, when we can't make sense of it, it pisses us off. It UPSETS us, damn it! If life would just co-operate, everything would be fine. We've faced death. You know, like 50 years from now. Its cool. And if the neighbor next door gets mugged or shot or eaten by a polar bear on the way to his car tomorrow, well, obviously, he didn't have his boxes all straight, now did he? Tsk tsk. Should have been a bit more on top of it.
A tornado called reality came through, and it kind of screwed up my catalogue. Not only did it pick up my little life, turn it upside down, spill all of my boxes, tear off the labels, but hell, some of them are gone all together. I didn't buy insurance on missing life. They won't underwrite it. Now, imagine if you will indulge me, instead of these linear logistical ideals and beliefs and systems, you have a twisted pile of jumbled emotions and actions and memories, and securities, and assumptions, and, well, everything is now good old downtown JOPLIN FREAKIN MISSOURI and if you don't know, google it. Cause that is what the inside of my mind and very soul looks like. The twisted wreckage of things that used to make sense. And now, where the Walmart and the church used to be, where you got your physical and spiritual sustenance, there is some twisted tin, a bloody shoe, and a stray frickin dog wandering around. Somebody shoot that poor bastard and just put him out of my misery.
And every once in a while, I attempt to get a bag, and go sorting. And when I do, there are a few possible outcomes. I can Get rip roaring drunk for a while (wee.). I can shake my fist at the sky and the tornadoes past and the looming storm clouds, or I can torture all of you people with some really, really horrible Vogon poetry. (If you got THAT reference, welcome to nerd-dom). And sometimes all three. I can just make a weekend of it.
So, point being, if you read this, and you think "OH my God. Call somebody. He has lost his mind" No, I didn't lose it. I never had it. I had an illusion like sheetrock and stud walls are an illusion of a safe place, and when that dissolved into nothing, I didn't do it. Talk to God on that one. His choice. I am just here to clean up the mess. You know, from an act of God. Ever heard the term before? Also, if you will think back, to unending thoughts, the unholy communion on the rock? The angel of the darkness slipping back into the madness of the man's mind? Well, that really DID happen. I mean really. The third night? after we came home, I spent the night in the woods, and out in the middle of Joplin, that fallen, unholy deceiver came to me, and proffered something. The knowledge of death. And the temptation was almost irresistable. That 'bone grey earthenware' spread before me, that no one can face; that abomination to our creator, had already been in my peripheral vision since October the 18th. All I had to do was to reach out and partake. And I did not. And it was one of the most painful things I have ever had to do to not put the muzzle of a .308 in my mouth and squeeeeze the trigger and try to scratch at the robe of the thief that stole Christina from me as I passed by. But I didn't. And no one was there when I won the hardest battle of my entire life.
So yeah, upstairs. This wasteland of trash. Good and bad and comfort and terror and shame and honor, all twisted together lie the rusty siding from a rotten barn around a bent applebees sign. A perfect juxtaposition, and just pure junk. There's my emotions, and some of my more bazaare actions. Like putting this on the internet. Weird. It freaks me out too.
One other thing. There was one thing that DID survive the tornado. Grace. Servitude, compassion, understanding, faithfulness, wisdom, knowledge...crap. But the grace of Christ was there. It was there to keep my from partaking of that cup, that frozen morning when the world was grey. It was there the day three days after Christmas when I woke up and discovered that I had been trying to kill myself subconsciously (And Oh! Stout heart of a man.
I tried.
I tried hard. I did not sleep for days.
I did not eat.
Coffee and Whiskey were my only sustainance.
But I could not do it
I cried and screamed until my throat and bowels bled.
But I could not die in grief.)
And grace was here today, when I was riding down the highway, singing at the top of my lungs to some damn stupid 70's love song, doing 90, tears STREAMING down my face. God's grace is here with me. It was there with Christina when the tornado hit her. God please let it be there for my girls and everyone who reads this. I guess it wasn't in a box. It didn't need one.
So, I guess, have a little mercy. Indulge my frantic, lucid nightmares of poems. Understand that, I can't look my creator in the eye. I am frustrated, hurt, angry, and confused. Gee, I guess I found those boxes first. But I don't have to. I can lay here a bawl and squall and curse and question...and Jesus hung on the cross and died for it. And for every other stupid insignificant thing I did my entire life. And, he hears me. He knows. All this rage and range of insanity I have felt? The knowledge of good and evil? You think he hasn't gone through this? I don't mean to sound 'preachy', but there it is.
To me, my poetry is like a snapshot of my emotions. That is a pretty creepy concept, because NOBODY in their right mind would ever tell anyone what they are really thinkinng, especially if it something bad or disturbing or reflects poorly on them. And yet, that is precisely what I am doing. And ONLY pretty much at my worst moments. Fun, Huh?
So instead of looking at these poems as cohesive, concurrent thoughts, come to them with a different perspective. And that would be, hey, Jon has put raw, unmitigated pain and anger and hurt and confusion into words, and there they are, and I might not understand them, (Hell, why would you read them?), but there they are. His soul got sick and vomited on a page. What a horrible mess. I hope he feels better. And, usually I do.
The grand order of things.
All of us, I THINK, compartmentalize. We define and pigeonhole and label and organise all of our experiences in life according to a system. Not neccesarily the same system, but I don't think, initially, they get very different. You have Good, evil, comfortable, dangerous, inconsequential, whatever...But we take these things; our thoughts and emotions and experiences, and we label and stack and sort and arrange until we have a tidy little life where we are well fed and have a warm house and great kids and one day we willl grow so old that it would really be better off to just die anyway. And the next day, our spouse will die, cause they loved us so much, and they will write it up in the paper, cause it is SO cute, and we'll be like 99 anyway, and the grandkids will think so fondly of us, while we smile down on them from heaven. And we have ourselves, and inside, these little boxes. All stacked up and arranged and cataloged. And we live by that system, and when life happens, and it doesn't fit in our boxes, when we can't make sense of it, it pisses us off. It UPSETS us, damn it! If life would just co-operate, everything would be fine. We've faced death. You know, like 50 years from now. Its cool. And if the neighbor next door gets mugged or shot or eaten by a polar bear on the way to his car tomorrow, well, obviously, he didn't have his boxes all straight, now did he? Tsk tsk. Should have been a bit more on top of it.
A tornado called reality came through, and it kind of screwed up my catalogue. Not only did it pick up my little life, turn it upside down, spill all of my boxes, tear off the labels, but hell, some of them are gone all together. I didn't buy insurance on missing life. They won't underwrite it. Now, imagine if you will indulge me, instead of these linear logistical ideals and beliefs and systems, you have a twisted pile of jumbled emotions and actions and memories, and securities, and assumptions, and, well, everything is now good old downtown JOPLIN FREAKIN MISSOURI and if you don't know, google it. Cause that is what the inside of my mind and very soul looks like. The twisted wreckage of things that used to make sense. And now, where the Walmart and the church used to be, where you got your physical and spiritual sustenance, there is some twisted tin, a bloody shoe, and a stray frickin dog wandering around. Somebody shoot that poor bastard and just put him out of my misery.
And every once in a while, I attempt to get a bag, and go sorting. And when I do, there are a few possible outcomes. I can Get rip roaring drunk for a while (wee.). I can shake my fist at the sky and the tornadoes past and the looming storm clouds, or I can torture all of you people with some really, really horrible Vogon poetry. (If you got THAT reference, welcome to nerd-dom). And sometimes all three. I can just make a weekend of it.
So, point being, if you read this, and you think "OH my God. Call somebody. He has lost his mind" No, I didn't lose it. I never had it. I had an illusion like sheetrock and stud walls are an illusion of a safe place, and when that dissolved into nothing, I didn't do it. Talk to God on that one. His choice. I am just here to clean up the mess. You know, from an act of God. Ever heard the term before? Also, if you will think back, to unending thoughts, the unholy communion on the rock? The angel of the darkness slipping back into the madness of the man's mind? Well, that really DID happen. I mean really. The third night? after we came home, I spent the night in the woods, and out in the middle of Joplin, that fallen, unholy deceiver came to me, and proffered something. The knowledge of death. And the temptation was almost irresistable. That 'bone grey earthenware' spread before me, that no one can face; that abomination to our creator, had already been in my peripheral vision since October the 18th. All I had to do was to reach out and partake. And I did not. And it was one of the most painful things I have ever had to do to not put the muzzle of a .308 in my mouth and squeeeeze the trigger and try to scratch at the robe of the thief that stole Christina from me as I passed by. But I didn't. And no one was there when I won the hardest battle of my entire life.
So yeah, upstairs. This wasteland of trash. Good and bad and comfort and terror and shame and honor, all twisted together lie the rusty siding from a rotten barn around a bent applebees sign. A perfect juxtaposition, and just pure junk. There's my emotions, and some of my more bazaare actions. Like putting this on the internet. Weird. It freaks me out too.
One other thing. There was one thing that DID survive the tornado. Grace. Servitude, compassion, understanding, faithfulness, wisdom, knowledge...crap. But the grace of Christ was there. It was there to keep my from partaking of that cup, that frozen morning when the world was grey. It was there the day three days after Christmas when I woke up and discovered that I had been trying to kill myself subconsciously (And Oh! Stout heart of a man.
I tried.
I tried hard. I did not sleep for days.
I did not eat.
Coffee and Whiskey were my only sustainance.
But I could not do it
I cried and screamed until my throat and bowels bled.
But I could not die in grief.)
And grace was here today, when I was riding down the highway, singing at the top of my lungs to some damn stupid 70's love song, doing 90, tears STREAMING down my face. God's grace is here with me. It was there with Christina when the tornado hit her. God please let it be there for my girls and everyone who reads this. I guess it wasn't in a box. It didn't need one.
So, I guess, have a little mercy. Indulge my frantic, lucid nightmares of poems. Understand that, I can't look my creator in the eye. I am frustrated, hurt, angry, and confused. Gee, I guess I found those boxes first. But I don't have to. I can lay here a bawl and squall and curse and question...and Jesus hung on the cross and died for it. And for every other stupid insignificant thing I did my entire life. And, he hears me. He knows. All this rage and range of insanity I have felt? The knowledge of good and evil? You think he hasn't gone through this? I don't mean to sound 'preachy', but there it is.
Unending thoughts 5/5
Oh lonely night,
What icon can hold off this now?
What belief, if there is such a thing,
Can comfort me in my misery?
I believe
I believe
I breathe and breathe and breathe...
And softly sing, to comfort a World gone wrong.
As I lay here on a soft mattress, In a warm room,
Surrounded by the love of children.
There are children out there,
Starving, Freezing, UNLOVED
I believe for them.
God, please, You have taken a little mercy from me
Have you withdrawn it from them?
Are we but gentiles and heathens?
That even children are garbage,
And the depression of the tragedy of life
Kills us?
Was creation a canvas never finished?
Singed in a fire? So that it's vibrancy is cracked, blistered, and distorted?
Where is our God,
Who said, "I require mercy, and not sacrifice."?
Where is that mercy? Does it only flow from my heart?
If from there at all?
And yet, where does that flow originate? That fountain; that well?
Are not you the originator?
Push me.
Break me.
I have prayed this before.
Send your Holy Spirit to me.
Take the scale from my eyes, let me see.
Let me see where I walk in darkness.
Make me strong, and, Holy.
Burn me with your fire, and blister me.
Let me know what it is to LIVE, instead of this waking death.
This fun, and entertainment. Like a sad player piano, hammering out some forgotten scroll;
A good time rag, the drunken used to fall about to. Now they are all dead.
And the revelry is silent and hangs,
A rotted tapestry of a forgotten era. Easily lost to it's own decadence.
Let me be mad. In the stillness of the night, let me stand.
Let me see what walks in the glades, without footsteps.
Let me hear the mournful cry of the godless.
Let my heart glow with spirit and not falter.
Let me be forever veiled, guarded, and not abandoned to my selfishness.
Clothe me in hard love, and set for me a standard I cannot reach.
Deal with me harshly, that I may have mercy, mercy, mercy.
Who can hate the sinner? Who can recoil from the deformed and sick?
Who is clean, now. Are we not all monsters?
Who are these precious children that you let them be born into suffering?
Will they not be your saints?
In the womb, was I not strong enough, not worthy enough to be there?
No;
You give a small suffering; The death of a good Christian woman, full of love,
And I fall into abandon. I am not strong. I do not know it.
Your spirit takes my communion from my lips, and gives it to another, worthy, faithful.
All I can do is throw myself at the foot of the cross, and cling.
Will you look down in your suffering, and turn your head?
I will not meet your eyes. And the cold of your sweat and blood falling on me will be my only warmth.
As the unworthy comes forth to commune...
Shit on the table of a feast; my presence is an abomination.
But where else can I go?
Cleanse or kill, you are a just God.
Do with me what you will.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Thank you
Thank you for your life,
You did not have to share with me
All of that growing
All of that learning
All of that loving
All of you. My soul runs deep because of you.
I watched you labor.
I watched you hurt.
And cry.
and...
I watched you die from grief.
And yet, you chose me.
You chose me to be by your side.
How could you do that?
You told me I had a deep heart,
And that is why you loved me.
Thank you.
Thank you for your life.
Thank you for your death.
That of all the men, of all the messes,
I could be the one,
The one to hurt this hurt.
The one to say,
I KNEW her.
I grieve for her, the way she grieved.
She taught me.
And Oh! Stout heart of a man.
I tried.
I tried hard. I did not sleep for days.
I did not eat.
Coffee and Whiskey were my only sustainance.
But I could not do it
I cried and screamed until my throat and bowels bled.
But I could not die in grief.
I know love, because I stood in it's heat.
But you, my love, were the fire I drew near to.
I will never see anything but luminous life.
Because you loved me enough,
To let me share in your death.
Thank you.
20 “Why is light given to him who is in misery,
and life to the bitter in soul,
21 who long for death, but it comes not,
and dig for it more than for hidden treasures,
22 who rejoice exceedingly
and are glad when they find the grave?
23 Why is light given to a man whose way is hidden,
whom God has hedged in?
24 For my sighing comes instead of[a] my bread,
and my groanings are poured out like water.
25 For the thing that I fear comes upon me,
and what I dread befalls me.
26 I am not at ease, nor am I quiet;
I have no rest, but trouble comes.”
Unending thoughts, 4/5
I am a dangerous thing, weak and wounded.
Reeling and drunken with grief
And woe to those who cross my path
Woe to the one that offers a hand of support
Who can support this weight?
Who can pull me up from despair,
And not themselves be consumed?
Fools, Run Away!
A house is falling.
A dream has slipped into waking.
Go, before you are eternally stained.
Nothing can quench my grief.
I become insolent and hateful.
I mock those who try.
I despise the love of others,
Thier attention and affection.
All is desolate in my eyes.
Nothing has value.
Strong and lithe, cold I lie
Trying to think of the things I was supposed to do.
Trying to think of the places I was to be.
I do SOMETHING
Like I always do.
I finesse with a hammer,
And tune with a scream.
No, it is not done right,
But it is done.
Immobile is an option I have never taken.
I will run into trouble.
I will not wait for it to seek me out.
I must seek the counsel of the wise.
I must be wide open.
I must heed the spirit, listen for the sounds
of angels footsteps.
I must not go down in the battle.
I may die, but I must stand strong.
I am not sure why.
But, from my birth, to my end,
I must. I must...
Monday, January 16, 2012
Unending thought part 2 of 5
I need to get away from all this. I can't escape.
Where would I go?
I need to get away from me,
because I remain.
A sad remainder of glorious things
I am a falling apart.
And I can't. I have to be for them.
Not strong, but be.
A custodian of an abandoned museum
No one will visit
See these precious exhibits?
We opened our doors late
The curator is missing
and can't be found
We call for her in the vacuous halls,
The echoes loose dust on priceless pictures,
But no one cares for the arts anymore.
They only like music and paintings and sculptures.
The anti-theatre is dead...
I can't listen to Bob Dylan.
I need to get away from all this. I can't escape.
Where would I go?
I need to get away from me,
because I remain.
A sad remainder of glorious things
I am a falling apart.
And I can't. I have to be for them.
Not strong, but be.
A custodian of an abandoned museum
No one will visit
See these precious exhibits?
We opened our doors late
The curator is missing
and can't be found
We call for her in the vacuous halls,
The echoes loose dust on priceless pictures,
But no one cares for the arts anymore.
They only like music and paintings and sculptures.
The anti-theatre is dead...
I can't listen to Bob Dylan.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
I wake up, my heart in my throat. The heat is too high. The cat, curled between my legs, too familiar.These sleeping angels, now some kind of duty served...I am panicking. I am dying, and afraid of it. Really, Jon? REALLY?! After you called them off? After that last ten minutes? What were you doing? Being considerate of the doctors? Of the people in the lobby? What the fuck were you thinking? How dare you fear anything now?
I waved my hand.
My last command.
My last remains of the day.
They stared through me,
As I let you free,
Thinking things there is no way to say.
You lay there, your blank stare,
offering no solace, no advice.
I looked at the clock, but already knew
The answer that I sought.
You were gone.
Your big dilated shark eyes
Spilled forth volumes of nothing
And told me with no strength
You were not there anymore.
I raised my hand
To my throat.
And
With one swift gesture.
Signaled cut.
The cast and crew
Looked frantic through
All efforts were in vain.
The stage had been set
Before us yet
For one last beautiful refrain
But like a fire,
From a funeral pyre,
The air was robbed from our lungs,
And for what we fought
And fought
Andf hoped,
Came helplessly undone.
Eyes darted, some averted,
Some pierced. Some there percieved.
That all was lost, and I knew that now,
And the burden lay with me.
To release us all,
You least of all, and to let us all go free.
It was a trick that would not stick,
least of all with me.
For still I stand,
One commanding hand,
Poised blade like at my throat
Forever it will demand
To rethink that last command,
That finally set you afloat...
I waved my hand.
My last command.
My last remains of the day.
They stared through me,
As I let you free,
Thinking things there is no way to say.
You lay there, your blank stare,
offering no solace, no advice.
I looked at the clock, but already knew
The answer that I sought.
You were gone.
Your big dilated shark eyes
Spilled forth volumes of nothing
And told me with no strength
You were not there anymore.
I raised my hand
To my throat.
And
With one swift gesture.
Signaled cut.
The cast and crew
Looked frantic through
All efforts were in vain.
The stage had been set
Before us yet
For one last beautiful refrain
But like a fire,
From a funeral pyre,
The air was robbed from our lungs,
And for what we fought
And fought
Andf hoped,
Came helplessly undone.
Eyes darted, some averted,
Some pierced. Some there percieved.
That all was lost, and I knew that now,
And the burden lay with me.
To release us all,
You least of all, and to let us all go free.
It was a trick that would not stick,
least of all with me.
For still I stand,
One commanding hand,
Poised blade like at my throat
Forever it will demand
To rethink that last command,
That finally set you afloat...
I wrote this a month ago or longer. When it crosses my mind, I begin to crawl out of my skin, a brown and shellaced entity, looking for a blue filter and low lumens to hide in.
Dao
When her work is done, she forgets it.
That is why it lasts forever.
In dwelling, live close to the ground.
In thinking, keep to the simple.
In conflict, be fair and generous.
In governing, don't try to control.
In work, do what you enjoy.
In family life, be completely present.
Colors blind the eye.
Sounds deafen the ear.
Flavors numb the taste.
Thoughts weaken the mind.
Desires wither the heart.
Hope is as hollow as fear.
Do you have the patience to wait
till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving
till the right action arises by itself?
If you don't realize the source,
you stumble in confusion and sorrow.
When you realize where you come from,
you naturally become tolerant,
disinterested, amused,
kindhearted as a grandmother,
dignified as a king.
Immersed in the wonder of the Tao,
you can deal with whatever life brings you,
and when death comes, you are ready.
The Master doesn't talk, he acts.
When his work is done,
the people say, "Amazing:
we did it, all by ourselves!"
Other people are excited,
as though they were at a parade.
I alone don't care,
I alone am expressionless,
like an infant before it can smile.
That is why it lasts forever.
In dwelling, live close to the ground.
In thinking, keep to the simple.
In conflict, be fair and generous.
In governing, don't try to control.
In work, do what you enjoy.
In family life, be completely present.
Colors blind the eye.
Sounds deafen the ear.
Flavors numb the taste.
Thoughts weaken the mind.
Desires wither the heart.
Hope is as hollow as fear.
Do you have the patience to wait
till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving
till the right action arises by itself?
If you don't realize the source,
you stumble in confusion and sorrow.
When you realize where you come from,
you naturally become tolerant,
disinterested, amused,
kindhearted as a grandmother,
dignified as a king.
Immersed in the wonder of the Tao,
you can deal with whatever life brings you,
and when death comes, you are ready.
The Master doesn't talk, he acts.
When his work is done,
the people say, "Amazing:
we did it, all by ourselves!"
Other people are excited,
as though they were at a parade.
I alone don't care,
I alone am expressionless,
like an infant before it can smile.
I use a dirty coffee cup to hold my toothbrush.
Unending thoughts. Part 1 of 5 (crap. That's a lot of parts for one poem)
Does happiness help us to hold onto the trivial things?
Or does it come with the territory?
When we start to slip into the abandon of depression,
why do more things start to seem so trivial;
So easy to let go of?
Paranoia has crossed the line.
It has played it the realm of the real.
How can it ever be separated again?
Were things as they seemed, or as they were
And I just didn't see them?
What can I trust now?
Where is substance?
Hold close, children, and smile.
Smile to the abyss.
Such is our way.
What more do we have,
Than to dance as the precipice looms?
Dance on that sad edge of love's demise,
And bittersweet; our footsteps muffling the tune of a dirge
In the loose soil.
Bone grey the sky;
The world shrouded in the absence of color.
A deathly reminder of when the angel of the morning roamed the Earth.
Was it the color of dead clay that drove him into madness?
When the one color is none? And the world turns to
Burned ash...Charred bone
Breath suspends
And even the birds do not dare to sing?
And a quiet man, alone in the woods,
Waits to see if the Earth will renew herself...
And she does. The Sun comes. The air chills.
The birds startle.
The world takes a breath, and draws in color.
And that void of color fades into fading
And the Angel of the morning slips back into madness
madness, in the recesses of the Man's mind.
And a communion they cannot share,
sits, untouched, on a mossy stone.
refreshed only for a fleet moment
Bone grey Earthenware
filled with unknowable things...
Unending thoughts. Part 1 of 5 (crap. That's a lot of parts for one poem)
Does happiness help us to hold onto the trivial things?
Or does it come with the territory?
When we start to slip into the abandon of depression,
why do more things start to seem so trivial;
So easy to let go of?
Paranoia has crossed the line.
It has played it the realm of the real.
How can it ever be separated again?
Were things as they seemed, or as they were
And I just didn't see them?
What can I trust now?
Where is substance?
Hold close, children, and smile.
Smile to the abyss.
Such is our way.
What more do we have,
Than to dance as the precipice looms?
Dance on that sad edge of love's demise,
And bittersweet; our footsteps muffling the tune of a dirge
In the loose soil.
Bone grey the sky;
The world shrouded in the absence of color.
A deathly reminder of when the angel of the morning roamed the Earth.
Was it the color of dead clay that drove him into madness?
When the one color is none? And the world turns to
Burned ash...Charred bone
Breath suspends
And even the birds do not dare to sing?
And a quiet man, alone in the woods,
Waits to see if the Earth will renew herself...
And she does. The Sun comes. The air chills.
The birds startle.
The world takes a breath, and draws in color.
And that void of color fades into fading
And the Angel of the morning slips back into madness
madness, in the recesses of the Man's mind.
And a communion they cannot share,
sits, untouched, on a mossy stone.
refreshed only for a fleet moment
Bone grey Earthenware
filled with unknowable things...
Saturday, January 14, 2012
I know a secret.
You were messy,
I didn't care.
You were sad,
I didn't care.
You were needy,
I didn't care.
You were insecure,
I didn't care.
You were growing old,
I didn't care.
You were horrible with our money,
I didn't care.
You had two brown eyes that were so full of your soul,
More soul than I have ever found.
Than I have ever had.
My God, what were you?
Our children, they're sparks, they're jewels
On a crown, facets of you.
I have never been in love before you.
And I can't stop.
I do stupid things to make it better.
I know everyone has to hate me by now.
But they can't know. What would a man do to stay warm,
When the Sun dies,
And all of life is a mockery of what once was?
We both only wanted the same simple things.
To love God.
To love our girls.
To love each other.
To have fun, and joy, and peace.
And we had it all.
No retirement,
No golden years.
With a pillowcase dress and a skillet and a man
and a woman we had it all.
Everyone keeps trying to make it better.
Clean the messy house.
Go here.
Do this.
I don't want it better.
It was perfect.
And this beautiful chaos, that we created, and loved.
This prism of imperfect humans in perfect love
This little piece of dirty girls in ragged clothes
LAUGHING and dancing to a song no one knows
Quit trying to fix it.
Leave it alone.
Your phoenix is an insult
And a mockery
Poem: Alone. Written approximately 1 1/2 months ago.
My heart taps out a staccato on my ribs
My mind beats out the copper of thought
Into a cymbal, and ring of mist...
My eyes focus on feeling
My thoguhts turn purposefully to the mundane.
Lines converge, and separate.
Grooves of some weird fraction of old phonographs
my fingerstips hold the dirt and the story of the world
Misery and dirt, like insects pinned under glass.
I hope you faded fast.
I hope death was a crash.
I hope you didn't call my name,
because you didn't have time.
My most horrible dream was to be there while I watched you die
And I would give my life to have been there with you.
My very soul; proudly would I part with. To sit there and stroke your hair as you began a journey we can not face
And you try to call out my name;
But as a man screaming in a dream,
Only a breath with sound, Only the faintest whisper would pass your lips.
And I would know...I would know...
And I would will the world to stop.
And we would all spin into space.
And the tragedy of everyone would be water on my lips
And cold breath in my lungs.
And a haughty laugh.
And you would answer, and say,
Don't hurt these others
Because your love would not let me.
You love for life.
And I would let go...
My grip would fail, and my resolve would grow weak.
I would faint in your presence, in your kind,
Kinder
And you would dissipate...
A vapor absorbed.
Gently in death as in life.
And that well would spring forth.
That well of grief, unknowable grief; it would grab me and take me to places so many have gone, but always alone.
Alone....
Jon 2012
My mind beats out the copper of thought
Into a cymbal, and ring of mist...
My eyes focus on feeling
My thoguhts turn purposefully to the mundane.
Lines converge, and separate.
Grooves of some weird fraction of old phonographs
my fingerstips hold the dirt and the story of the world
Misery and dirt, like insects pinned under glass.
I hope you faded fast.
I hope death was a crash.
I hope you didn't call my name,
because you didn't have time.
My most horrible dream was to be there while I watched you die
And I would give my life to have been there with you.
My very soul; proudly would I part with. To sit there and stroke your hair as you began a journey we can not face
And you try to call out my name;
But as a man screaming in a dream,
Only a breath with sound, Only the faintest whisper would pass your lips.
And I would know...I would know...
And I would will the world to stop.
And we would all spin into space.
And the tragedy of everyone would be water on my lips
And cold breath in my lungs.
And a haughty laugh.
And you would answer, and say,
Don't hurt these others
Because your love would not let me.
You love for life.
And I would let go...
My grip would fail, and my resolve would grow weak.
I would faint in your presence, in your kind,
Kinder
And you would dissipate...
A vapor absorbed.
Gently in death as in life.
And that well would spring forth.
That well of grief, unknowable grief; it would grab me and take me to places so many have gone, but always alone.
Alone....
Jon 2012
Dreams...
I just woke up. These were my dreams. There was a big party. We were laying in bed. People kept on bringing us presents, food, hundreds of people. All laying in beds, in a big house. It wasn't OUR house, but it was. Somehow, we made love amidst all the chaos and revelry.
I dreamed I took an old car I used to have on a trip. An old Toyota Corolla. Man, I loved that car. It was so dangerous. I got in it, and I was talkin to it, and somehow it was talking to me. It couldn't talk, but I knew what it was thinking. We drove down the mountain and 193 and into Lafayette.
I snuck onto a mine. I just wanted to see what was down there. As I went deeper, I grew a beard back. I love a beard. I had my hard hat and headlamp on. My long sleeve work shirt and boots, and it felt good. I got to the bottom, and there were little groups of miners everywhere. I crawled around in the dim light, exploring. Then I realized the miners had taken out all the pillows. A miner had a sledgehammer, and was beating on the last one. The roof of the mine was shaking, and little pieces of mountain were raining down around us. I headed back to the entrance. There was a girl there, in a huge dingy cream sweater. It was all ripped and smeared with coal streaks. Her hair was stringy and dirty and hung in front of her face.. As I passed she said a few words. I said something back. I got out. There she was on the surface. My alarm went off.
It was Christina. At the party, the car, the girl in the mine. I lay there for a second, warm and safe feeling. Then, that unearthly spasm that comes from a man's soul rent through me. I cried hot tears as I tried to not let my sobbing wake the babies. Her babies. My day starts. The angel of the morning slips back into the madness of the man's mind.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
In earnest
I have so much to say, and some of it must have some value somewhere. Or, perhaps, in the confusion of the detritus (love this image) of life, it can serve as the catalyst to some meaningful inspiration for someone else. I just like to write. I like to feel as if, in some weird way these thoughts and experiences are recorded in some kind of ghostly posterity imprinted on the fabric of a past we cannot discern; like rope beds and canvas and burlap. We have no idea, but somehow, we do. So I write. I bring thoughts to crystallization through metaphore? I have no real education, I have no pretenses. If you want to read it, feel free. If you can take something away, well, that makes me happy! So to start, I will post everyday a poem I have written. Most are dark. Some downright disturbing. I have gone through a deep spiritual struggle, and these are manifestations of things I have felt, or experienced. I am unabashedly a human and a sinner, like everyone else out there. Let me not put on airs...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)