The Predicate Revolts

I wanted to bend each word,

As blue waves bend in refraction—

yielding an entire sea of bent over cerulean wavelengths,

That is how I so longed to manipulate the subject into matter.

Wanted to carve purpose into pretension,

Wane profundity into pretty 

like christ-mass but Christ-less

like all frosting but no cake

like run-ons running on and on 

(and where is the point?)

A river running nowhere 

So alluring albeit insubstantial. 

I wanted to bennnd

each wooooo rrrrd;

worried when the army of predicate 

wielded its weapon of mass conception

in demand of truth.

about: purpose over poetry

Choice Weaponry When Waging a War

I hesitate to apologize

Not because I do not feel sorry.
Grief, a tyrant
proves nuclear in its suppressive power.

Unrelenting remorse is in fact

The trusty bayonet I reach for 

When all of my other emotions

deplete of ammunition.

But it is a passing sleet

when the fire is closing in;

what terror can an apology quiet,

what good does my sorry do?

Sympathy cannot be the best way to remedy a mass killing,

Is no tactic to declare a monster abated,

A baited Lochness writhing at the ropes;

Clearly the chaos will plan its escape.

And there I’ll be— hunched over, mouth ajar

when the rifle is unburdened any remnant of rage,

I will quiver my bayonet

More white flag than weapon

Nonetheless,

I carry it with me always,

I carry you with me always.

About: anyone else feeling utterly helpless and ineffective at battling this pandemic and every war it has waged on the human race?

Who is Your Black Beast?

I stooped down to mine,

so close my fingers dripped slick 

with its warm breath-fog.

Knew it was being driven mad by hunger,

I finally stooped down and fed my fear;

Decades of white-hot hurt, 

the sort of jitterbug anxiety that could 

make skin crawl off the bone,

and futile thought process 

shoveled into the gaping mouth of the bete noire.

As you may have guessed, my fear remained famished.

(In tact in fact, multiplied or metastasized in groaning)

A gnawing aggressor,

I next tried to drown her out in honey.

The thick sweet chafed my throat raw.

Stomach ache with

All of that hot air bursting at my bowels.

(A poisonous blue in the belly of the wolf

I yelp louder

Sharp jags of howl cutting the listening moon.)

The glistening moon shone fierce in reply:

“Do not be afraid... I am with you.”

About: the futility of fear (like flatulence-- inconvenient but relatively harmless). God reminds me He’s got my back though

postscript: Isaiah 41:10

A Most Humiliating Ascent

The harder I try to pluck at the muck of every mood swing,

At the panic in my instinct,

The stronger the snapback and snag is of 

My knotted rebellion of DNA.

Labyrinthine yarnball of my bloodline

spilling in-between my fingers—

Every taint and tendency pool murky, irresolute.

I tug at the string, 

loosely at first, but the stubborn knot won’t give until

Finally, I am clawing at the constituents of me,

Battling the helixes of my genome with bare hands.

adenosine-darkskinbigsmile-thymine

cytosine-widehipsnarrowpatience-guanine

adenosine-ballnoseandclosemouthed-thymine

cytosine-funnybonegutturalgroan-guanine

Rung by rung, I fever dream my way up this 

Sick and shoddy ladder;

What humiliating ascent!

What strange science is this that I cannot algorithm 

My way out of?

Is no protein acid chain I can inject to synthesize joy.

Miserable woman that I am, indeed.

Still, I kick and scream at this plight,

Will not go gently into that good night;

The blood of the Lamb

Spilling inbetween God’s fingers.

About: a self-portait, I suppose. 

post script: references from Dylan Thomas in Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night and the Apostle Paul in Romans 7:24

Chronic

On my ugliest days,

You could not convince the algae to

disentangle from my already kinked naps.

1:19am and I am still picking the fronds out,

as if to say

Yes, but you weathered the storm, didn’t you?

Sure, the jagged cut burns every time 

You furrow your left brow.

But at least the jagged cut burns.

Am I right?

Somewhere between a punchline and a gut-punch,

My survival lays in wait for its next reckoning.

ABOUT: my chronic clinical depression

10 Reasons I Will Not Fight With You

10) Hypothetical bully is begging me to take a swing. Maybe I’ve just double-fisted hot fries. Now, what? Abandon the crunch and spicy deliciousness in exchange for empty hands and insatiable fury?

9) The building is on fire and you’re debating the Super Soaker versus a gardening pail: how do you suggest we make it out alive?

8) And should we survive, the bitter knot, not capable of passing through, snowballs into an ugly embolism until the heart is clot with resentment: I cannot fathom greater wreckage of so precious two human beings.

7) My brothers stay encaged for their heartwideopen liberating of love; they could not lock the love up and so put chains to flesh instead. “We have a wrestling not against blood and flesh, but against the governments, against the authorities...”

6) I mean come on, an infant suffers a cranial depression and six broken ribs after a rough tumble with the kitchen floor? “...Against the world rulers of this darkness, against the wicked spirit forces in the heavenly places.”

5) All of that innocent blood dripping from the lips of the lion, can you not discern he is insatiable? The incessant ache for Christ gnawing at its intestines.

4) And yet: “Do you think that I cannot appeal to my Father to supply me at this moment more than 12 legions of angels?” 

3) Of all the miracles Jesus performed, I take his patience for granted.

2) Look at the way Jehovah’s patience draws out like a constellation amidst eons of dark; circles its light around the shape of my body; I am floating on this light alone.

1) My king’s arrow is drawn, we will fight at dawn

ABOUT// we recently studied, in depth, the inspiring Bible chapter Ephesians 6 at our meeting; thought I would write a poem about it.

Quotations from: Ephesians 6:12. Matthew 26:53

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.