That Punching Bag

Love is a dented orb.
Incontinent continents speak consonants
into a molten canon of iron core. Of course.
Trees in corps and rocky coarse
the skin off purply soft things.

Flowers grown in the soil of hell. On earth.
Do not bloom in heaven. So close the sun.
The son. That sum of all now ready to go.
That punching bag. That beaten heart.
That lost art.

Love. Is a muscle torn to shreds.
Love. Is the strength of torn up things.

Concrete Poetry

We are taught, first, desire. After that. We are free.
To bend all facts into confirmation with our conclusions.
Desire plus history multiplied by tradition equals expectation.
Which is the bane of contentment.

What if we were taught, first, anything except desire.
Perception, born of reception, as simple as keeping eyes open.
Especially when everybody elses are closed.
We would see. Maybe. Desire is nonuniform. Flighty.

Expectations are founded on desire like blueprints are paper.
We end up putting poems down in concrete.
Currently reading a canon of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue.
It’s not an accident. It isn’t coincidence. It’s birthdays.
It’s Christmas. Allowance for doing the dishes.
All hopes and wishes.

Everything parents ever wanted but never received.

And so, we were taught, first, the desire to be deceived.

Old Man

When I write, I sometimes play this game where I imagine how my words will read three hundred years from now. I think, if there is a reference or phrase I can use that is somehow less likely to become irrelevant, or if it seems more timeless, then perhaps my sentiment will resonate longer. I write for the canon. Not for myself. And not really for an audience. I write for the leviathan. For time itself. Casting out my voice relentlessly for the simple sake of seeking to inspire an echo.

I’m like a kid. Playing war. But in a beautiful, yet professional manner. Dressed up like my ancestors. And my goodness, has it been fun.

I know there’s no universal measurement for success. But if success is living a life that would actually impress your twelve year old self, I’m doing it.

And I’m proud of the old man.

The root stock.

Where are the writers of old? The classics, who wrote the works clutched dirty and torn in the hands of bored students across the world. Their words, thoughts, philosophies and stories still exist, work is more stubborn than workers, living far beyond that first cracked pen, sharp-tipped feather swimming ink pools, the withered decomposed canvas, recorded, re-recorded, translated, resurrected even after the pen-holder is long gone. The physical vessel, its tools, never seen again, and yet not absent.

Warped, echoed classical voices shake halls, lift dust in quick breath over pulpits and podiums, profits pour in for their last of kin, what living people or entity inherits the rights over an old thinker’s mind. The initial instant of genesis is past, gone, ancient and over for the unimaginative, the scholars and academics delivering daily eulogies to one particular fleeting moment in time when a great antique was invented, storied, shared aloud and never ceased being taught as static and dead, unmoving, unchanging, a memorizable and easily summarized subject. A cynical rant. Impassioned speech. A sonnet. An apology. The gospel. Not living. Certainly not still evolving.

A bold mind goes directly to the source, the root stock, reading words and picturing the furled hand unfurling them, or the young tortured life seeking out truth, and value-increase inspired by the imminence of death. Basically, literature can be worshiped too, and never criticized, questioned, just shoved down a throat. Failed to be imitated.

Cherish the words of classical thinkers, the gospels surrounding young, inspired teachers. But before crossing the threshold into indoctrination, uncover their classic inspiration.


I began writing this in an attempt to explain how I view the relationship between God and existence.