There is beauty in baselessness. It’s undefined, an exponential without foundation, and in the absence of definition, there is only creation. What does it mean to explore the meaningless, to make meaning from the mundane? Constructs of community and curiosity buttress the armrests of emperors. What becomes of their destruction?
Some say they wish to see the world burn; some wish to light a blaze beneath them.
Others taste the flames in search of ashes, dig through the depths to hedge the phoenix and its feathers, leave the embers in disarray as they build up the burned behemoths of history. Like Prometheus, they feel the sting of silent suffering and the teeth of consequence. They bleed not for bloodshed, but for birth.
It’s been a good while (like, I don’t know, five whole months) since I’ve shared anything here, and when I created this second branch of the Writingwolf a few years back, I never imagined I’d ever let so much time go by without sharing a single poem or short story.
Of course, I also hadn’t anticipated how time consuming being a full-time teacher and a full-time grad student would be, so the absence is, at least, somewhat understandable.
This year I want to break that silence and share more poetry, more prose, and perhaps even more art than ever before. To help me reach this goal, I’ve started a Kickstarter to create 100 handwritten postcards of poetry, prose, and art inspired by every backer.
And then, after I’ve mailed them all, I’ll begin sharing them here, to spread the joy of reading even further than that first group of 100.
More importantly, it’s an exciting way for me to connect with my readers and make something unique and special while doing it.
Please consider backing today and sharing the project with others.
Some say they reign in fire
Some say in ice
From what I’ve seen of warm desire
I hold with those who fly with fire
But if I had to choose twice
I know enough of evolution
To say I’d follow ice
Though deepest yet is the intuition
That lightning must suffice
For from the moment we are born
There is no shelter from the storm
Watch the faint haze of morning fog at daybreak
acquiesce to the self-same silence
of sewage dripping from the drain, such superfluous sound
as Mama Earth caterwauls from her grave
unheard. Let no curmudgeon juxtapose
a ripe red rose with the rosy cheeks
of a child in heat, or the metaphor of lovemaking
with fever. Let no mayor gentrify
the streets of East St. Louis, or D.C., or Raleigh
because history is no palindrome and the wealth they build tomorrow
will not serve the starving today. Let no man testify
how indubitably he must shut down the schools
to stop the drug sales in the schoolyard
or checking birth certificate at bathroom stalls
until he has breathed the perfume of perfunctory pollution
and placed leaded water upon his parched tongue
marches to the end of the bus line begging
while his pleas meet the only answer he has ever given
when the poor and the weak stumble at his knees.