When I Say God is a Poet

 I mean
( wingbone, my God )

Presumed afterthought of architecture,

But were we the albatross,

Could not dream of soaring

without this anatomical mooring to flight.

(Oh parentheses of my human!)

The bulk of my body may bleed,

But when taut muscles collapse in song,

Scapula Slow Dance with scapula,

I look at God.

Mmm

 is for metaphor

Thought, the seed
in a clumsy stampede through Broca's garden of weeds
(or a reticent retreat back to the root in shame)
 Mmm
Is it a bird? Or a plane?
The seed has sprout out the forebrain
and shot clear past the constraints of
vocal cords bearing chords the sound of irises—

Purple and rich and relentless.

Mmmhmmm
When I watch how that sound was begot from naught
You know, I can't help but look at God.

Every mood, every mind is a mechanism--
The Engineer, generating the elegy or acrostic
to weep with or ruminate within.
Deconstruct the poem
and organs fall at your feet.
Sonnet the kidney wide open:
The machine sputters in protest.
Lovesong your way through each vertebrae:
The machine whines, wheezes.
Villanelle the very being The Engineer conceived:
I look at God, my Author, my King.

about// the human body is both industry and poem

About the Author, part 2

1) I was a co-editor of my high school literary journal. Which is to say, I’ve been a word-nerd my whole life.

2) Aside from Father, Friend and Lover of Humans, Jehovah God has also earned the title Great Poet. I learn so much from Him.

3) I also learn from the abundance of super talented authors and poets, both living and dead.

4) the study of dark versus light is my favorite subject to delve into when writing 

5) like a vast majority of writers, I’m socially awkward. My inherent lack of verbal communication skills is both a curse and blessing: it enables me to write well, but also makes it really hard to talk to people sometimes.

I’ve mentioned this before, but just to reiterate: this blog is in no way funded by or considered an affiliate of www.jw.org, the incredible and life-changing official website of Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Fourteen Again

I am fourteen again

Disbelief at the dulled mouthknife— 

stinking bits of chewed heartflesh in between its teeth.

I am The Overused Blade 

built to bully, bludgeon even, the quiet riot of hope to oblivion.

I am The Stench

Dank rank of domesticated swine

(Am I, really? Inherently, am I?)

And fine,

I am The Heartflesh

Thick-vesseled and blue veined

At last, yet beating the blade subordinate.

In the Thick of It

In your efforts to inch toward The Point,

(Muddle through puddle your way out the exposition)

The left shoelace you thought was double-knotted

Has now conspired with the bike chain to

Thwart your every pedal.

The more earnest the effort,

The harder the bike chain yanks back. 

Cradle-you-by-the-craving-kind-of-attack.

And.

Just.

As.

A.

Climactic.

Glint.

Catches.

Your.

Periphery!

*gasp*

THE PLOT THICKENS 

(And then what happens--

The foggy foresight of a narrator 

Presses your cheek 

Right up to the...)

d

   o 

     w 

          n

              h

                 i 

                    l

                        l

It is only now you realize 

You had stopped breathing,

Stopped actively creating your cognizance 

And just... were.

(This is The Point after all, isn’t it?

To just Be.)

I am proud of you, dear reader;

Look back at how hard your thigh muscles

have strained- pang by aching pang- 

against the sludge

To reach your very own

Denouement.

ABOUT: freytag’s pyramid for all my fellow book nerds.

A Heroic Feat

"And when the children raise up a giant shield of laughter,

 it's like they're fending off death" - Ani Difranco

In between hacking out his left lung,

he wants to know if he can see his pictures

he wants to know 

(cough cough)

what this button does

creating shadows with his fingers in front of the light

(cough)

wants to know who would destroy who Aquaman

(cough cough cough)

versus Magneto, you know, 

(cough)

like in real life.

I want to know how someone so sick

could be so happy.

What strange strength, what bionic force

coursed through his blood?

Carried his brain away from his body

so that he was not really in the Emergency Room

at all, but 

knee-deep in some creek bed asking the tadpoles

why the sky was blue.

I want to know

 Can I come too?

I have seen tiny smiles cracked from the corners

of the face that hours earlier had been mistaken

for punching bag.

Have watched the terminally ill transform into comedians

while Mom and Dad feigned laughter

for sorrow.
And who is this Tomorrow?
Who looms an omen over their beloved's bed. I have fled the hurried hands of death
While a baby girl curled quiet at its feet,
Cradling my sweet to sleep, I thought--

One thing I absolutely do know:
These super-humans are my heroes.

ABOUT: working at a children's hospital is as satisfying as it is heartbreaking
 Postscript: dialogue and details have been altered to protect my patients' privacy

Revelation 21:3, 4

What Pain Gave Rise to & Thought Cancer

I. Thought Cancer

Miasma, she spread.

Lead an army out to war,

Bore death by dozens.

About// You ever meet someone whose negative energy personifies a cancerous tumor?

II. What Pain Gave Rise To

I heard his laughter

Let his mutilation know:

“I ain’t scared a’ you.”

About// how beautiful it is when we don’t allow our imperfections to get the better of us.

postscript: still working on my haiku, one of the hardest poetry forms, in my opinion.  (a haiku: 5/7/5)

The Good, The Bad and The Unbearable

The good part says that when you are flailing in the middle of it,
the end is a tangible object, just out of your reach.
The bad part catches you jerked from a shallow dream,
fists clenched full of not-the-tangible-object.
The unbearable lack of faith lurks wondering
What object?

It is a good thing our peach-white moon
is tucked so deep inside the blue velvet night;
I want so badly to grab even the fruitskin of its labor,
chew myself incandescent to what must
be a seed waiting.
Unbearable to think a thief has been
nibbling away at our waxing gibbous and
spitting out the stars in mockery.

Desire, an intangible wave of fruitless energies,
is, in theory, better than it is bad
And somehow, most unbearable.

ABOUT: the subtle danger of wanting