I had a blog here in 2013 

riddled with quasi-religious 

poetry and redundant imagery. 

I used the same words and 

phrases to convey something 

that wasn’t even clear to me. 

Chaff, grain, tree, moss —

words I’ve now almost eliminated

from my lexicon, depicting some

throes and triumph, some 

vague battle that didn’t make 

much sense. I wrote 6 to 7 poems

a day, praising God with broken 

Hallelujahs and terrible 

doctrine that makes Jordan Peterson

look like a saint. I’d read a quote

by Augustine or Kierkegaard 

and prattle on about some 

spiritual awakening or enlightenment, 

tossing in bits and pieces from 

my personal life, which I deemed

a Kafkaesque (another overused word)

hell. I’d write about medication

and changes in moods, lucid dreams

and utter nonsense. Some poems

were dark for the sake of being 

dark. Not sorrowed dark,

or chaotic dark,

just dark dark. I’d begin

my rambles with

an O! and end it with a note of 

false praise, reckoning myself as 

a Psalmist. I’d even throw in a 

cheesy love poem now and then. 

They were cheap, without substance 

and ended with ludicrous lines 

like marry me my darling

or Oh! How I love you!

I cringe each time I think of them

now. They remind me of bad 

American Idol auditions where 

some poor, deluded guy sings/squeaks

She Bangs out of tune,

and gives Simon,

Paula and Randy the giggles. 

She loves, she loves, oh baby, when she

twists and turns, I go crazy ‘cause she

looks like Neruda’s Jewels

(Yeah, I probably

wrote that without considering the 

innuendo), but she sings like the sea. 

Oh! (Wait, it was O!) Marry me! 

I love you! I love you! I love you! 

Anyhow, that was then, and this is now, 

but sometimes a time machine

of regret carries me to then 

and makes it now. *Cringes and 

crawls away*

Photo by Thiébaud Faix on Unsplash




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