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 8) – A Poetry Journal

4-25-22 – 1:19 p.m.

There needs to be divine justice for the world to make sense. Otherwise, our lives are meaningless, and the wicked get away with everything. I saw glimpses of redemption in my father’s face before he died. There were shards of light in his dark eyes that shined amid the hazy, drug-induced stupor.

There’s a part of me I don’t recognize. It’s the part I repress and push down; it comes bursting forth sometimes. The collective unconscious is very real, no matter what you may think. We are not blank slates, and we’ve lived many lifetimes before this one. Each soul is reincarnated and recycled.

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Fury and Wonder (a poem)

In the savage beauty of springtime
The world opens, screams my name
The Idol of my ancestors was cruel
She contains just as much evil
As the goodness that keeps everything
Merged in musical chaos

That smile on your face – who is it for?
It is warped and mischievous
And your sharp teeth bite into me
Like a cold night-wind, unrelenting

Why do I write to you anymore when
It’s clear my master has forbidden me?

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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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Garden of Night (a prose poem)

I. A Dark Field

There is a field shrouded in darkness. You’ve been there before, though you only vaguely remember it. Maybe you saw it in a dream, but maybe, you were there in waking hours, but it’s buried deep inside your mind.

The field is like this: Cold, completely dark; the only sound is a groaning wind. There’s no moon in the sky, nor can you see where the sky and horizon meet because it’s as if you were blind. Yet, a fire burns far off in the distance, and you smell sulfur. The wind kicks ashes in your frost-bitten face.

You’ve been here before, you know it.

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The Unraveling (a haibun)

Just another day in the nightmare landscape, the rugged rocky hills, and the prophet by my side. We climbed day and night, meeting with the sages and thieves in their torn rags, who gave us water to drink and food for our souls.

We are on a spiritual journey to discover who killed the Master of the Universe. It was the defining crime of our era, and perhaps all of humanity. When the bullet exploded through his head, spraying the cabin room with blood, brain, and sinew, the gaping chasm in the center of the Universe killed half the population.

The prophet looks up
The sky turns blood red and hot
We run to the cave

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Feeling in My Bones (a poem)

The feeling in my bones tells me
Apocalyptic nightmares are coming:
Auburn skies and terrible screams
The human race succumbing
To forces of their wicked natures

But why do I fear this so much?
And why have I fallen for these traps?
Why does my mind always go dark?
Why can’t I just relax?

Down South, billboards told me to REPENT
Along the sides of lonely highways and in between
Rancid truck stops that scared me

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A Visit from the Angel (a poem)

The angel visits me.

Shocking sound, vast colors, she’s suffused in light. A messenger, her words deeply stirring. Her face purest yellow, shining,

smiling, brings ease, a luminosity

She says everything
Will be all right,
All’s well, all shall be well,
All manner of things
Shall forever be well,

Like Julian said
Centuries ago

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