It’s not the sleep deprivation.
It’s not the flames nipping at my lower back,
Nor the lack of sensation in my lock-kneed legs.
It’s not the overly fretful coworker—
incessantly whispering her worrying thoughts—
The supervisor constantly watching over my shoulder,
Or the wasted time spent at the front desk,
waiting for a customer who never came.
It’s not even the eighteen hour shift
Or the two hour meeting the followed
In which it was conveyed in the most round-about way
That, very soon, they would be unable to pay our wage—
Yet instead of looking for a new job,
We should all try harder
To save the asses of the assholes in-charge.
It’s that after all of that nonsense,
I can’t even go to the bar
To liberate my bottled emotions
And consult the oracle of mighty Dionysus
About the nebulous future, foreboding,
Without the judgement of non-believers
Because it’s still only eight in the morning
On a God-forsaken weekday.
Fallen trees of Norwegian wood
Offer rest for our weary backs.
We seven sit in sullen silence
Awaiting our turn to meet the axe
That split the bark of these stoic giants.
I and my comrades hang our heads.
Prayers are read by foreign priests,
Blessing us in tongues we do not know.
We will soon join the noble deceased
Be it a feast in Valhalla or fire below.
Continue reading “The Tale of Sigurd Buesson”
Three dead men float above,
Purveying the land of the living.
Their vapid specters, a cruel satire
Of the HBO special upon the stage below.
Watching Pietro Crespi’s clocks
Tick away the shortening days
Like a spark gnawing at a fuse,
The tension building as the wick shrinks,
Ever approaching the inevitable end
That never fails to surprise.
Continue reading “Scarecrows”
With a pluck of a silver string,
A flaming phoenix takes flight,
Silently rising to the stars
Before gracefully cresting its arc
And returning to its mortal task.
In the soft light of the moon
A boat floats on the gentle tide.
It is headed out to sea,
Away from terrestrial toil,
And into the great unknown,
Who valiantly guards her secrets
Against the vain greed of man.
Continue reading “Frigga”
Drunk at nine am
Fast asleep by ten-thirty
Shit, what day is it?
It’s amazing how the same song
On the long and loathsome walk to work
Could be the soft soundtrack to a suicide,
Then be a joyous, life-affirming hymn,
Accompanied by torrential rain,
Warm thunder, and beautiful lighting,
By midnight on the walk home.
You were the divine spark
That ignited the Big Bang
And set a formless void
Ablaze with wondrous light.
Volatile Helium and Hydrogen
Fused with uncontainable passion,
Bursting forth with new light,
Creating the stars and planets,
For whom the light shown.
We vanquished the void
And set the cosmos in motion,
Beginning the ticking of time.
And with it, meaning and purpose.
But in the shadows, darkness grows.
The ever mounting evil, entropy,
Will expose our beautiful naivety.
How could we have expected
The exponential expansion
To ever settle into something stable?
But why should we vainly hope
For such an inane future?
Expansion brought meaning
And gave our cosmos life.
And even if we are doomed
Along with every last atom
To be torn apart in the end
By the intrinsic expansion,
Let us enjoy these moments
While our gravity holds out
And be thankful when the lights fade
And we drift into solitary darkness again.
There is a tree that stands alone
in a highland meadow atop Mt. Hira
Whose trunk and limbs are knotted and gnarled
From years of exposure to the cold bite of winter,
The oppressive heat of summer, and the typhoons of autumn.
This lonely and deformed obelisk
Stands with courage and dignity,
Purveying its kingdom atop a rocky throne,
And commanding the admiration of all
Who arrive at its alter, breathless and beaten,
Nearly defeated by a single afternoon
On the slopes of the stoic king’s abode.
Continue reading “Resolute”
Woe is me whose leader is naivety
Over moss-laiden trails
That cross vast, green vales
And rise through forests of pine
To the ridge of the mountain’s spine.
Ever the ambitious optimist,
A future-dwelling optometrist,
My foolish guide is hours ahead,
Already tasting tonight’s feast of bread,
Baked in the oven inside my pack
Kept warm and moist by my sweaty back
During the hours of toil yet to come
Before the peaks are past and the day is won.
Continue reading “Trail Fantasies”