Music Theory

Tchaikovsky’s in the pit again.

(No, not “the pits”, 

His art is no vehicle to your vacuity,

But Rather a means to your unfurling)

Curled fists swing dance around 

allegro con spirito.

Crass brass out-bass the violins while their

Palpable angst and sweat stain the concrete;

Bows of their brothers viola scratch 

In futile defense against the bent-legged trombone breath.

Woodwind would wind and will 

Still staccato belted bellows.

Cellos are wailing aloud!

Crowd of ornery misfits bang their bodies

Not unlike slabs of cherrywood until

Twelve minutes and ten seconds into

his piano concerto number one in B-flat minor,

a thunder strike sends the crowd into a grand ripple

Boom

Piano-light feet of the mob scatter

pitter-patter into the rain.

ABOUT: Tchaikovsky’s concerto no. 1 reminded me of a heavy metal mosh pit. My brain is always clashing genres like this.

Behind Seljalandsfoss

What is freshman-year geometry doing

Crouched behind so modest an abode? 

Had not expected to discover Pythagoras 

Sneaking peek through peak of falling spring,

Or prisms of electromagnetic energy 

to lock eyes with mine

(Emeraldtangerine so effortlessly flush with violet);

To utter:

You know nothing of His wealth.

About: a breathtaking waterfall I saw in Iceland that reminded me of how smart Jehovah is.

Without Pride

I.
African king with his lioness tread high water

To prey where they please.

Were this hunger a disease, 

Salt blown in from the sea might appease

The parasitic need settling into his mane.

But, as it were, this hunger was more criminal 

Than it was a cancer.

Now, just two cats stray from a hot den,

whisker-dripping with refuse, 

a souring piece of American pie caught in the mange—

Can you imagine? 

A lion without his pride.

When my father hunts, 

I worry his hind paws will snag in the hindsight 

While his fore paws claw aimless as if 

racing in repose.

(Pray tell, against whom?

and I will charge their den for you.)

And what of my mother?
Modern Sarabi of sorts, mourning her king
(though still among the living.)
So when I say I am so sorry
what I mean is:
I would split my soul in two for you

that you may rest in this divide.

II.
I am wolf blood racing fear
and born of two lost lions;
yet you ask,
why this rage?


About: A family of lions is also referred to as a pride.

Postscript: Though spirit is undetectable to the human body, it alone, is thicker than blood.

Interrogating Thirty

Thirty is no gold-strike epiphany.

Does not feel found,

but flickering light

(But light still flickering.)

A bickering dollop of heat with its own shadow;

As in, is this joint supposed to pop so proud?

And with such frequency!

And then:

No, but baby you can still embody grace.

And what will 60 think when

We come knocking at her gates?

And what good does this shame do, anyway?

What really is this age, 

but a cool sweat trickling down a nervous spine?

Of flickering light

(But light still flickering)

An omnipresence tickling this passing of time.
A playful trickery of smoke in flight.

Woman I was before at war with
more blackgirlrage
more humanity teetering on animal
more demons at the jugular of my brotherhood

more nuclear Molotov's crashing against my core
more war, this spirit thrashing within body, 

that I may be refined.

I surmise that this is all thirty really means:
A playful trickery of smoke in flight
and flickering light
that by God
will not be snuffed.

Did you hear me?
I will not be extinguished

about// on turning 30 soon

post script:  Fun physics fact-- fire can only create a shadow when there is a more powerful light source behind the firelight. Poetically speaking, this is a light that only God can emit.

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.