05.09.10 | Alphabet Soup

I am swimming in a sea of commas and semicolons, trying to reach punctual shore, but these raging asyndetons and clauses and appositives and polysyndetons keep crashing, crashing, crashing at my power of will, trying to push me below literal surface. What is the meaning behind all of this?

But I don't want to drown in its seemingly bottomless sea. I wish to just stay on the surface, to make my way to Euphoria as soon as possible, where I'll finally be free of the strict rule of Syntax. Just swallow the words, I told myself. No need to digest—just keep going.

There are now predicates on my tail. Looking for their subjects, perhaps? But I have none to spare, for I am trying to survive; I have a goal.

I swim faster to prevent their action-verb teeth from chomping off my toes and feet, but homophones are straining me, pulling me in all directions but up. Who commanded all these actions?!

My body is tired. I have gained quite a distance between the predicates and myself. I take one gulp of air and decide to let go for a moment, to immerse myself briefly, just once. Beneath the surface I saw monsters - metaphors, similes, symbols, allegories. Terrified by their overwhelming complication, I resurfaced.

The shores of Euphoria are closer now. I see the waves of words crashing on the shores and breaking into letters and sinking into the sand to settle there as forgotten lore, meaningless. I could feel the sea loosening its grip on me, but due to my fatigue, I could not swim much faster.

After a while, I finally am washed ashore, out of breath.

08.26.07 | The Phaeton of Death

Riding up and down the streets
Does the driver steer his horse;
In and out of alleyways
Does Death keep his destined course.

Turning corners big and small,
He looks forward and behind.
At every stop he welcomes
Spirits of varying kinds.

Some are young, and some ancient,
Others guilty for some crime.
All are being sent to be
Either tortured or divine.

The Phaeton so dark and drear
Was made of sable hawthorn,
By mischievous Death himself
On the day our Earth was born.

Death and Phaeton shall remain
As one, doing what they must.
They wait, counting our every breath,
For, what is Life without Death?

2007 | Tears of God

the                                                   no
        rain     .    wa-           .    more         .   a-              .   a- 
comes         .        -shing   .           does   .       -mong   .       -mong
       down    .    a-              .   man-          .   our            .   our
like              .         -way    .         -kind    .         own    .         own
        tears    .    our            .    have          .   cha-          .   blood
of                .            sin.    .              to    .         -grin,  .           gin.
         God,                              plod