The Center of Things (a poem)

i’ve always admired monasteries

monks cloistered from total noise

alone with demons

swimming in silence & striving

for divine union that no one

can name, but only point

to, the center of things,

the seat of the soul

(Photo by Josh Couch on Unsplash)

Rejoice! (a poem)

come join this feast!

bring broken souls,

rejoice before a table of treats

we’ll set a fire above stones

dance around it

with wild guilt

watch us twist & turn –

shaman beat their chests

children laugh with glee

night falls, the fire rises

the feast at its last course

time for the children to hide

as we carry on

(Photo by Joshua Newton on Unsplash)

Note: This is a collaborative poem I did with Rachel. I wrote a couple lines and then she wrote a couple lines. We plan to do more and share them – it was fun!

Silence of Winter (a poem)

the silence of winter is not

such a terrible thing –

graying snowbanks by roadsides

reduced to slush & a thick sky

cold & like the finest cotton,

naked trees, dying leaves

hanging for dear life

reminding me of sledding down

icy hills, red plastic breaking

leaving shards to be buried below

like black bears snuggled in

warm caves

(Photo by Fabrice Villard on Unsplash)

Hunger (a poem)

hunger inside for spiritual things

which the world cannot bring

for totality that never comes

& doesn’t exist in this dimension –

restless in this sack of flesh

yearning to be away from the present moment

& its insatiable demands

(Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash)

The Nightmare Center (a short story)

“Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy.” – Sigmund Freud

I.

Dylan yawned, leaned back in his chair. It was another late night at the Nightmare Center, but at least he was collecting overtime. The entire year had been full of late nights, for obvious reasons. The election had peoples’ unconscious selves falling apart at the seams.

“Still here?” Amari asked, bags under her eyes.

“Unfortunately,” Dylan said. “I’m working a double.”

“It never ends.”

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Salem (a poem)

I’ve spent centuries obsessed with evil

fingers bleeding from scrawling in notebooks,

searching for ways to banish it

to deep corners of space

away from us

where it takes souls,

twists them in black sorcery –

I wake up in Salem, trembling

witches burn, the smell of scalding flesh

the executioner removes his mask,

smiles – I fall into deep sleep

(Photo by Vladimir Agafonkin on Unsplash)

On Grief and Ramblings about Faith

As Christmas approaches, so does my father’s birthday (December 23rd). The holidays have been more melancholy since he passed in 2018. The first holiday season without him was the worst of the bunch, and 2019 was lighter. This time around, the grief still lingers.

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