CONFESSION ZERO

Why do we stand and watch as men beat others down? Noisy machines mark all of our lives As our children are trained to be assassins By witnessing this appetite for battle. Why do we then scream so loud after the deed is done? It only brings about more watching, More noise to capture our slope toward death And the itch of transporting an untold grief. Why do we march in formations with a mournful cadence? Our soundtrack has a most cheerful rhythm Written on the dangling air of its lessons Designed for everyone's viewing pleasure. Why allow ourselves to imagine we’re anything more? Each of us are obliged to follow along, Give credence to the wretched course And wait for the scene to be our own. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Begin. Imagine the grimness of an enormous cruelty whose mammoth jaws reach through the sky like a mechanical beast snapping aimlessly. The sightless, unfeeling beast, gnashing at our dismal hesitation, shrieking its steel claws down into the bone dry world like Hydra. A hideousness trying to slay our children, inflame fear, crush our hearts and spirits… What other horror could ever near such implausible belief? Pause and begin again. Imagine waking to a kindness so colossal that its head stood above the sun like a god, a god that we worshipped and prayed for its blessing, built garish houses for its worship and approval, feverishly vowing to die for it, a god we gladly give our souls to upon bent knees, crying for it to spare us of our immense suffering… What other wonder could ever near such conceivable certainty? Pause. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

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