Sinister Omens.
The ocean runs blood
As our trees burn into the ground.
Evil is spiraling in gray clouds,
Starting the thundering of trumpets
In the city of the sky.

Nine levels are being climbed,
With fire and blood on their hands.
Plagues and curses
Were just the beginning.

As difficult as it is to say,
We are deserved of our sins,
People of the land.

A maiden of winter
Born in dead weather
Looking at heaven in a sea of the sun.
Trading violent winds for violent heat,
Reflecting
In these violet hours of golden glows
And suddenly
Everything’s new.


Goodbye
stillness,
coldness,
soulless                   blue.

Dear Rapture,

It's been so many years, I'm so sorry to intrude,
I've so many things to say, but I've no desire to be rude,
I've tried to keep me locked away, during our long interlude,
I guess I've done okay, but so much has happened, and it isn't all good.

How are you?  I hope things are well.  I think about you, you know.
What've you been up to? Do tell! I haven't heard a word since so long ago.
I don't want to renew a war, but I had to either reach out or explode,
Tact's gone right out the door, for hope our hearts had adjacent zip codes.

What ever happened to you, what did you think, I wonder constantly,
You said give you space, or was it time, or was it just a slow-burn for me?
I always gave you the benefit of the doubt, but I just don't know lately...
I toss and turn, this garden bed feels like a grave, forgotten and buried.

The distance between us is further than any airline has ever been,
I'm sure that, like me, you've felt it growing since our relationships end.
I know we both hurt, we lost so many truths in all the confusion,
And I feel like the biggest loser of all because I lost my best friend.

If I sent this letter off, tear-stained and folded into a paper plane,
If it prevailed on the Trade Wind and soared away to your windowpane,
If it tapped ever-so-lightly, would you let it in or would you refrain?
Would you turn it away, unread, to dissolve in the Cascadian rain?

Maybe I'm hoping beyond hope, a delusional version of Lion-O's sight,
I just had to try one last time before we drift off into that long goodnight,
Though I go not gently, I'm no devil and I've no desire to cause a fright,
But hell, I'd wrestle all the angels in heaven if it was a question of might.

Well, I guess there's nothing I can do but fold it up and throw it hard,
Try not to shed a rogue tear when the movie gets to that part,
And whenever the clock says 2:22, 3:38, or 11:11, I'll wish on a star,
Truly, I just want you to know I care,

I love you,
Sincerely,
From,
Afar

Please play with closed eyes
About ships that survive waves
Flags flutter Armada!
Battles cannons roar
Shooters shoot drift ashore
Wait wait what do they mean
But one measure after another
Images sail over times
Then and then people

Eyes open and hear nothing more.

i've always written poetry
with the passion of a preacher to sermon.
i experience for literature feelings
which i imagine others to offer religion.

i've never been spiritual.
full stop.
my cynicism denies me wonders -
tired tale, sure, true as any other,

but poetry evokes the holy ghost
a being more skillful, more elegant,
setting my mind's eye alight with
saintly delusions of grandeur

it curls from my pen, bleeding fire into my notebook
if there is Elysium, it is in
the private Eden created between
my mind and my notebook.

if there is peace, it is in libraries,
eyes poring over words pouring over
life, utterly human life, told in a
way that is raw and violent and righteous,
connecting one's private introspections to words.

if religion has a purpose,
a redeeming quality, it is
community, connection, consistency.
God Is Always and Always Has Been and Always Will Be.

the great human collective,
the experience of poetry, of life,
the art of internal monologue,
it persists. it persists.

no, i am not spiritual -
it does a disservice to us.
it unjustly ignores the
holy human hand in our history

time is a chronicle of the messy
affairs of human choice and experience .
it seems unfair to me,
to pin all the blame on a

convenient
divine
deux ex machina
slash
scapegoat.

don't give the big guy all the credit!
the exhausted masses had a hand too!
take some responsibility for
humanity's divine man-made persistence!

so, yes, i experience poetry
with the rapturous fascination
as sinner to saint -
yet there is no sin in poetry.

by nature it is a
narcissist's and hedonist's pass time.
so there is only wonder
and childlike curiosity,
and the slightest sliver of hope to move forward,
which, really,
what else is religion good for anyways?

The Christian imagination is captured
by the idea of the rapture
where Jesus comes to save us
like he shouldn’t just shame us
because no one is blameless
for this great mess.

It’s a dangerous mentality
to say our vitality
is based on morality
the rapture is that emphatically
where Jesus is battling
the forces of the ****** darkness
who are those I deem heartless.

The rapture can be Christian revenge ****
or their way of explaining this death storm
either way it prevents our best form
which is what Jesus was sent for
but now the student is the mentor
twisting words that meant more.

War is pushed to the side
it’s viewed as a sign
we’re living in the end times
like we’re in a hopeless ******
and tentacles just went by.

Nuclear proliferation
and global warming
bring them elation
for the rapture’s forming
so if the wars get gory
and match their prophetic story
they’ll practice diminished mourning.

God loves everyone individually
so it seems silly to me
what billions before us have seen
isn’t the same fate we’re deemed
why would we be
treated differently?

We must all walk through death’s door alone
I wish I could take everyone in my home
but that mentality is ******-suicide prone
yet when the comfort of company
becomes too much for me
I say quite lovingly
the rapture is coming
to drown out war drums drumming
I say the rapture is coming
to drown out more guns gunning
I say the rapture is coming
humanity’s mental growth is stunting
I say the rapture is coming.