Truth is Weirder's avatar

Truth is Weirder


In Eden,
lying spread beneath the sky,
the tempest raged and roiled,
rain sublimating,
kissing Earth as hot as flame
in the boiling atmosphere.

In Eden,
when the Earth began to cool,
the surface turning solid
and the storm becoming sea,
the first creation formed
in a spark
of electricity:
a coiling strand of matter fused
into a simple being.

Eve’s Tempest

When Lilith left the garden
like a blazing, shooting star—
her path an arc of devastation,
cinders, soot, and conflagration,
circling the world wide and far,
laying chaos in her wake,
disrupting wind and water as she flew—

Eve lay still and silent as the grave,
until the desperation in her grew;
titanic in proportion, breath uneasy
the waves within her shaking her as if she
contained a world racked with seismic shifts,
upending cultures, rending open rifts,
tears watering the garden she had laid;
entreating reverent pardon, Eve’s plaintive cries
reached up to brush the heavens and the sky:

"God, name this hunger gnawing at my spine;
what agony is this?, the aching chasm
dividing human heart from human mind,
this longing deep inside me, this condition—
what right had she? who gave her the permission
to spread her roots below, into my heart,
her creeping limbs constricting, tight, my mind?

"How can the distance between beings grow
so deep it cannot feasibly be conquered,
not forged, not bridged, not marched, and not ascended,
the sole, sharp point of contact and connection
a yearning buried heavy in the soul
beneath the mortal viscera and sinew,
a flutter in the belly, in the breast,
a stir along the spine stealthy and cold,
a pain released with every shallow breath,
a fear of breeching boundaries and a need to —
the sight of her, soft skin, dark lips and eyes,
demanding veneration, void of purchase? 

"Each gesture light and lovely,
every movement of her hands
an act of blasphemy and virtue
bestowing truths and spreading lies —
oh, God, my hesitating fingers
know not how to reach to hold her,
if a brush upon her shoulder
or a kiss upon her brow
would result in her approval
or in scorn, in strife, in shame!

"I love her, God,
and oh, how much I need her—
why would she leave me lonely
and subject me to this anguish?
How can I continue living,
Earth unfaltering but lifeless
as the sun continues rising
with no world to shine upon?
How can my heart continue beating,
and my lungs, yet, still, respire?
What cruel creation have you rendered
and, oh, God, exactly why?”

No answer known, no gentle words to soothe her,
God contemplated Eve, Her stars aquiver,
each sun within Her sky shaking with sorrow,
so all that God could do for Eve was cry;
the clouds drew up to block the moon from sight
as woman languished through the stormy night.

He appreciated the nightmares. They meant that he was never alone at night. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he got out on the right side of the bed.

Gretel never really overcame the guilt.

He noticed a mosquito, locked in its dying throes, drifting across the shotglass. He downed the vodka all the same.

Just a reminder! For $5, I will draw you, a friend, or a family member hanging out in outer space. :)

He began his march to the sea on a rainy Sunday afternoon. He never returned. 

She indulged herself and slept in. When she finally woke, the universe was empty and dark.

words for Her mouth

He gave me
words for my mouth
a script subject to
spontaneous revision
a chaotic composition
a dramatic recitation
of Shakespearean prestige

He told me
what to do and
not to say
how to speak and
how to beg
how to sin and
how to pray
and that it didn’t matter anyway

He gave me
electric shocks
every time the signals crossed
and every time the impulse swayed
and when the static cracked and popped
the blow was harder than His hand
but since He taught me how to stand
with actors’ expert poise and woman’s grace
since marks were never left in any place
that human eyes could see:

We knew that meant it wasn’t true
and that the words i said were lies
that this was love and not abuse
that words were poison, that my voice
was nothing less than conscious choice
to inflict pain, to hurt, to maim
and no one else would love me like He did.

Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. 

She came from the moon, she said. But I know she was born at St. John’s, four miles north of here.

Even his most high-profile failures languished in obscurity. He would have to aim higher. 

It wasn’t the zombies that bothered her; what bothered her was the men, the survivors always trying to be heroes.

The rickshaw runner refused to budge — he had a score to settle.