New World (Part 9) – A Poetry Journal

6-13-22

And what if the apocalypse comes? Do we not deserve it? Have we not been traveling down this path for a very long time? I think of this often, and I believe there may even be sweetness in the flames that will consume us.

But this is beside the point. What is the point? That something is coming. Call it prophecy; call it what you will. I get the feeling everyone knows, though some are pushing it out of their mind.

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New World (Part 7) – A Poetry Journal

3-1-22 – 10:22 a.m.

I can’t get Russia and Ukraine off my mind. Nightmares of nuclear missiles in the sky. Images of urban warfare. All these journalists saying things will never be the same, the world has forever changed. Perhaps this is so. Impacts are indirect. It’s more the ambient threat and fear. It’s a psychic kind of pain, like a telepathic connection to world suffering.

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New World (Part 6) – A Poetry Journal

2-16-22 – 9:52 a.m.

A dog barking in the distance in the middle of the night. A creaky door opening and closing. Soft, cold wind. A dark, moonless sky. Up in the twilight hours, this is what nightmares are made of. Calm before a storm. Before the attack, always imagined but never happens. Make sure all the doors are locked. I’m home alone and, though my mental health is good, fear runs below the surface.

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New World (Part 4) – A Poetry Journal

2-9-22 – 10:31 a.m.

Time is the enemy. I feel myself decaying. Too much coffee. We’re pretty much unpacked from our move. The neighbors on this street are very private. I wonder what they do behind closed doors. Probably nothing sinister. Probably just watching TV and glued to a screen like the rest of us.

My job requires me to read the news closely. This is a blessing and a curse. I did it anyway, for the most part. The media is a fear machine. Everything is hyped; everything is ‘the worst ever.’ I know this because I work in media. My uncle is like many Americans. He’s caught in the web of tribal hatreds.

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New World (Part 3) – A Poetry Journal

2-7-22 – 9:30 a.m.

I get embarrassed about the ways I blamed my parents. I’m older now; I know that life is chaotic most of the time. I’m still afraid to be happy after all these years. She asks me if I’m happy a lot. I am, but I wonder about all the ways in which the ground under me will cave in. I’ve never loved anyone like her. I’m not the greatest boyfriend ever, but I like to think I’m capable of love.

Went to the dog park. A woman spoke to us like she was starved for love. Said many in the city lack a community mindset. Our dogs ran around playing with each other. I thought of all of us who don’t have kids but pets instead. It brought on an incredible feeling of guilt, likely imposed by the church. My cousin said if he had a child, it would be the antichrist. I think he’s exaggerating.

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New World (Part 2) – A Poetry Journal

2-6-22 – 10:18 a.m.

Books burn in the field, pages, words down to ashes. Checked the shelf for all those naughty books; we had quite a few. Burning, church zealots, screaming. Medieval mindset, battle of good vs. evil. So much duality. Must integrate the light and shadow into a cohesive whole. The yin, yang.

Bitterly cold, but I like it. Music saves lives. So do books. Everything is an image, and images are what we connect to. My spiritual life is much different than it used to be. I don’t put in as much effort. Yet, I feel more connected. It is possible to be too concerned with such things. It makes one neurotic.

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New World (Part 1) – A Poetry Journal

2/5/22 – 2:50 p.m.

Everything is new. My skin feels different. I’m crawling toward something. The sun in the wintertime feels so impotent. It was warmer the other day, a shock to my system, the concrete I walked on was softer. I wonder so much about God, the way he exists in negation. Thinking about God is futile. Morality has become relative; it’s been that way for a while. God is not dead; he’s sleeping.

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