I post a bit of everything, poetry, ramblings, short fiction, novel sections, in my blog, An Arguable Truth, easily arguably, too much. I keep up with the Journal-Writing page to aggregate and find a place for pieces as I shed them from the archive. It’s also a neat space to post older work, bits of novels, short fiction, ancient journal entries, scribbles from the margins of wire spiraled college notebooks, anything really. I do this because A I enjoy the work, I love each and every form of stories. And B, well, nothings coming to me. Thanks for reading!
Their religion is seizing.
Clear glass mountain view
eyes rolled back like blinds,
fluttering spring green leaves
in rain bearing wind.
It is not dying.
People are not abandoning it.
But giving it space.
Waiting for the episode to pass.
Wondering how long this one will last.
It has happened before.
It is safe for the church to drive a car.
Or operate heavy machinery.
The theology is heavily medicated and loopy.
Like twisted links of chains upholding a red candle.
Loopy like the redundant circular music.
The hymn and hers mind. Kind. Of. Loopy.
Eyes glazed from the cold outside
and the breath off volunteers
and so much mismanaged time and energy.
Home doesn’t really exist for men like me. Too many nights wrapped up tight in backpacks. Too fond of the percussive collaboration between a walking stick and my two let loose feet
against an angsty planet. I’m wasted. I’ve wasted every bit of attachment potential on the people who I love. The animals and the living things I need.
Have become home.