CONFESSION ZERO

We know so little about ourselves, what triggers our detonation, leaves our mark upon flesh shaping turncoats of love. We can’t stay clean of our affliction, our very presence is vulgar and empty. The seven virtues tremble and screech fleeing such redness, fearing infection. Chastity hasn’t the appetite for our hunger. Temperance hasn't control over our deeds. Charity discerns we’re thieves of all things. Diligence sees our work and staggers deep. Patience shall not our turmoil stay again. Kindness cannot penetrate our human boil. Humility shall never defy our foul arrogance. The deluded champions of this trampled story suffer from humdrum sleep and idle dreams, they’re us and we’re innocent until approved. What are we to do with such dismal weakness, the contemptible collapse of obligation and honor? O! We know so little about anything worth saving! All the progress we’ve made is a breach of love! If we are to begin anew, we’ll need be born again, hatched...

Her thighs waited for hands to find their way Along the pleasing path. (As she watched him, she thought, "This will make everything alright again." The naked stranger, her husband, moved toward her.) She held her breath, readied her legs, waiting for him. His rough hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her ass To the edge, his unexpected finger plunged inside her, Welcomed by her abandoned inhalation. She watched him intently as he pushed inside. His eyes were closed, legs crashing hard against her As she felt the hotness rising up inside him. His eyes Remained closed. She touched her breasts with one hand And thrust the other down to discover her stiff wetness. He groaned loudly and spilled his fury deep inside of her, Then angrily shoved her legs from off of his shoulders And, without a word, slammed the bathroom door. She thrust both of her hands to her startled eyes, Wincing as the tears flowed over last nights broken skin. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Perhaps we’re not who we thought we’d be. Maybe we’re flawed, like weakened trusses, collapsed, memorized by rote, like a baby falling from our arms. All the nattering of 2012 has found a home in us, the end of days written in our heads. Thoughts manifested with a plunging fury. And how many of us recognize the history of marching fanatics and obliteration’s debris? Violence douses itself in our memories, like the smell of our lovers sex and the thud of the baby’s head smacking the ground. Like torturers, proud; water and screams, flag and country, domestic and foreign, while faces puffed in shame allow the tyrant’s fist. The source of our sadness jumps the turnstile unnoticed as fresh bruises in a neighbor’s home. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

What the heart needs of us is the silken freedom of another’s spare anger, and within them to pulse our courage above the screeching and broken haze. No ruffians to puncture our throbbing. No violent blood spilled. Peace. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

The imagery’s grown so stark the tempo its fury, violence, its stroke, all quickened, loud. We’ve left the injured bound and buried, where screams pierce like whispers. Gone is our awareness, emptied like God in our prayers. Our courage to defeat it hangs in the air like a paper kite set aloft as if to stay; sandcastles and daydreams have more sky than our spirit. We’ve built worlds in our thoughts only to destroy forests and oceans filled with our uncertain faces. All the while our fists have been busy finding flesh to unwrap. O! These images weep! What noises are we painting that haven’t already failed to pierce heaven? © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

"Breaking a child is easier than it looks. Their bones aren’t as weary, Their breath uninfected, Their eyes ready... Their heart’s are strong, but much easier to shatter. Children still glow with possibility. Their eyes still fill with wonder Even when they’re breaking. Their lips are still wet in youth Not dried up and unpuckered. Their feet are most ready to jump Long before they’re branded. A child continues to thrash after it’s done And they deliver a most telling portrait Of home and love, even when there is none." O! I want to take all the children with me, Cried humanity! I’d hide them away from their use, Clutch each one near to me and whisper, “You’re the only heaven, the only worship I need…” © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Writing about a violence that is so steady as to become part of a daily tradition, I can’t actually say with any certainty that I know much of what I’m writing, Like a fog lifting at the foot of the bed where ghosts pace the wedding floor and at last lie down next to the corpse with a mind toward murdering love. I am estranged from such things, but only by the thinnest of threads, all that’s needed for such detachment. Surely it is in all of us, this devil-dog… Men have always written of immense suffering, But few have written about their own crime and, if they have, it didn't change the future. The truth slices into them in due course, I suppose. For thousands of years an unspoken suffering, huddled in smoky corners, bent in darkness, struggling to stand and unfetter its chains has tried to drive a stake between love and violence, even you have lain down with your bones and Tried to assemble a new man, new beast carved from the same frame, the same ragge...