the rain falls with a sound
of a T.V. past 2 a.m.
and nothing more is on
cuz even the national anthem
has long since played
to one who just sits alone
and listens to the angry hiss,
too tired to get up

I have decided I do not like the previous poem I wrote.

I think it is dumb and without purpose or point.

Some things I write are simple exercises to keep the writing muscles limber and stretched. They serve little other purpose – such is the case with my last poem. Critically absent from these sorts of writings are inspiration.

A written work needs inspiration in the way an old lamp needed oil…there is a soft glow that emanates from inspired writing that is lacking from other such work. Without inspiration a writing is simply a cold, grey, utilitarian husk. Oh sure it can be helpful as it communicates information but it is not alive.

Inspiration was what the Greeks called Muse. The Muse is the personification of inspiration…it was a sacred feminine figure. There is no record of a male muse. The muse was the goddess who would whisper ideas into your ear thus accounting for that strange sensation occurs when inspiration strikes – that moment when an idea comes from the dark, seemingly out of nothingness, that leads to a creation you feel guilty taking credit for.

Inspiration, like the muse, is a fickle partner. She comes and goes as she pleases with little to no warning. Over time one can learn tricks to tease the muse from her hiding place. My muse can be enchanted from her dark corner with music often or certain scenes in film. Other times my muse can be forced out simply by making her jealous by introducing her to the works of other muses – by reading other poets.

She never stays out long.

One never knows when she will be back.

One of my favorite poets, American beat poet Charles Bukowski, once stopped writing for a period of ten years…ten years without that whispering voice. One imagines one would go mad without her over time. Perhaps she was still there and it was Bukowski playing the abuser…ignoring her pleas for release, keeping her locked away.

I think my muse sits in her hiding place sneering at my attempts to create without her. She is condescending and patronizing of my efforts in the way a bad kindergarten teacher might be of a child’s amateurish solo craft effort.

“Well dear that is just so very nice,” she says, “but it could have been so much nicer if you had just waited until I was able to help you.”

In this way she can be a bit of a bitch. But maybe it is all for the best. We work best together when it is unplanned…she will come out and dance to music I might have decided to play…she is alone for a while and then invites me to join her. It is an amazing moment that leads to one or many creative acts. Afterwards we are both spent and go our separate ways until who-knows-when.

The solo efforts are never satisfying.

I am the shadow you do not stand in
and the cloud rolled ‘cross your sun.
I am that which stops all tongues
and makes your lives come undone;
the chill that pricks up the little hairs
and sends the heart to a quicker place,
a darker, colder place;
I am unseen in mixed company,
without reflection but right next to you;
there surrounding me are many and none,
…what am i?

made is the man of many hands
and none but his own as well,
made of comedy and tragedy
he is more than Shakespeare
dreamt of in his philosophy;
a bent mirror reflecting something
higher than himself to the world,
he is son and brother and friend
striding into the world as inheritance
taking me with him wherever he goes

I am inanimate matter,
quantum sub-atomic particles,
14 billion year old stardust
organized by a hand
into some thing that can contemplate
it’s own existence…
I am miracle,
I am a finger pointing
outside of all things
toward all things

I am one awake.
I am one asleep.
I am one with days that would make you laugh;
I am one with others that would make you weep;
mostly though I just have days.
come and go days of meals with sons, daughter and love;
come and go days of meals alone.
I dream of days on fire
painted like Van Gogh’s sunflowers
and starry nights just the same…
but days are often those of Prufrock,
while nights are of Gregor Samsa

I am an…
I am an ordinary man…
I am so ordinary
that I am am
EXTRA ordinary
and my song is sung beneath
the songs of every other

I’m thinking of starting a Theology Pub locally.

THEOS-LOGOS-PUB

GOD-WORDS-HOSPITALITY

It would essentially be a place for words about God (and a beverage(s) of your choice). Not an exclusive place for certain exclusive words about a certain exclusive God…just a place for God Talk.

Understand what this means…words about God, words against God, words from people who don’t believe in God, words from those who believe deeply and words from those who move through the no mans territory between.

Atheists, agnostics and believers of all stripes…Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Christians…women, men, gay, black, brown, white, straight, LGBTQ+, ??…human.

Just discussion.

Honest discussion.

Honest means I go as I am…a Christ follower and you go as you are…

We go without the benefit of necessarily being surrounded by the like-minded but this is ok.

The point? Dialogue. Learning. Mutual understanding.

Hidden agenda? None that I am aware of.

I imagine a flat structure – no leader per she but simply a rotation of subject matter. One person chooses a discussion point ahead of time and comes with maybe few minutes to intro the group to why and what about it interests you.

Topic Example – The problem of suffering in the world and God.

Or – What would a world without religion look like?

Or – Can a world with multiple perspectives about God ever learn to get along?

Or – Can science and faith be friends?

Etc.

You get the idea.

It may not even work. It may not get off the ground. It may last for one gathering…a dozen or a hundred…who knows.

Where to meet? Pub…Rocks on a quiet nite like a Monday-Thursday.

Interested?

Let me know. Message me or comment. Something like this is bound to evolve…this is ok…it should, change is a sign of life.

We’ll see what happens.

within the confines of this white window frame
is a small rectangle of wind-blown world
showing a teasing blue-sky piece of herself
just the shoulder of a roof across the street
bright beneath the vibrant sun of a rising day
while the scant brush of tree leaves and branches
is moved like green semaphore in the breezes
flashing light than dark than light again
and there in the upper right corner
beyond the criss-cross barely there grey of the screen
i can see out through the cloudless expanse
and know there is nothing between me and endlessness

there on the dusty shelf
behind this spotless glass
framed fossil spends its days,
testimony to a life once lived
now turned by year after Medusa year
to cold, beautiful stone,
empty of the thoughts,
silent of the breaths and beating heart;
a graven image lost to another age
impotent in its unknowing immortality

Moody.

Yup…I am moody. Not on the outside really…just on the inside. I tend to keep things inside because I really don’t like bothering people with these things.

Things are really good btw. In fact I can honestly say that i think things are better than they have every been (and that is saying something). This is why being moody as i have been is kind of pissing me off…there just isn’t a good reason for it and frankly i like my moods to have reasons.

Of course like any good set of emotions these moods don’t give a flying phuk about having reasons…they just pop out of some anomalous singularity in my head and take over. They are like ants roaming around in my head, primarily invisible and then in a moment erupting through the surface.

I prefer to be non-emotional. I like to use my emotions as the black or red ink to fill the well i dip my pen into for writing. I prefer my emotions to be in a constant state of departure and not like formerly welcome guests who have hung around just a little too long.

Moody.

Stupid things are setting me off.

I need some perspective. I need to reflect on the past and hope for the future so that my present can shine a little more and maybe distract me from myself. It’s true – I am even annoying myself. How I manage to put up with me is really a miracle. I can be a bit of an arrogant, needy, know-it-all jerk sometimes.

Oh i know i’m a nice guy overall. Don’t get me wrong…I don’t hate myself (or really even mildly dislike myself – add egotistical to the previous list) – I can just get on my nerves sometimes.

I am not fond of moody me…people deserve better.

i suppose it’s fine to let it out…i mean you cannot constantly be upbeat…that would be a lie.

maybe i need to just point the ship into the waves and move through to the calmer seas. they’re out there…i know this.