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.