we fear the people who love their guns more than we love our children.
the atheist prays every day to gods she finds incomprehensible:
Remove the sticks of destruction from our arsenals and minds. Banish them to eternity. Cleanse us that we may be clean.
a merciful god would hear this supplicant, know her grace, and answer in the affirmative. a god who loved his children would, she thinks and hopes.
I’ve been slowly moving my poetry into position on this site. There may be scraps left in some corner of the hard drive, but the task is essentially done.
There were curious and inexplicable bursts and equally unexplained lapses. Writing could be more of a habit were I more disciplined. Instead, I await the midnight muse. Something in those hours calls forth a form of loose thinking I require to write evocatively.
burns a bridge the night long, this heat retards bitterness and cold yellow-red flickers illuminate, but dimly even in that moment fleeting but wonders he later wherefore the stench and who has shut the road again.
we do not swim.
in motion emotion forever forward fresh, frenetic, pushed by what i know not pulled more like perhaps by gravitational force or some repulsion. the formula admits no closed form solution.
i wonder what it is like
to swing from a rope of my own
making; pulled out of my…
as it were,
hoping some unsuspecting fly
by night nibbles on the line i’ve cast
when patience is more than virtue and cunning no vice