Self-Help

Uncured tobacco, steaming in homes,

Little girls, children, beaten by bones.

Tears cannot make a breath draw smooth.

Tears can still bring something new.

An empty cry, a bitter slap.

Bloody water drips on the well-used map,

running from her home down South.

She swears to do the same.

Adore

They are drugs that break the mind-
Space is limited, money buys time.
Body is solid and Blood is wild.
All left is promises, Father to child.

Also, two things to share:

A great man is putting out a series of Screwtape-type Catholic-directed posts:
CrookedHeart Emails

And a great woman (who should really get together with that man from above and talk about greatness sometime) is distributing some art:

Dwawing the Line

Well...

In lieu of any formal poetry, I will share with you today this fact about myself which, if not funny, may be at least an observation of the human condition;

I often suffer a great deal of anxiety when listening to pop music through this procedure of ideas, taken in a background of very full, harmonic, basic tones:
Recognition of incomplete and lustful desire ("love"), inasmuch as the pop song is insincere>
>Reflection upon complete, dependent, self-giving, and holy, desperate Love>
>Consideration of the true, deeply marital nature of Man and Woman>
>Deep understanding of human (including myself) stupidity, hate, disconnection, and unnecessary distance>
>Anxiety>

I've found that it is rarely relieved by anything except prayer or severe distraction, but that goes for all anxiety, really.

Good Day!
-Daniel

PS. It's my birthday, and I just remembered a bit of poetry I composed this very morning on the way to work.

Um, Yes?

I'm Eighteen, I'm eighteen,
Drinking coffee with Irish Creme,
And the smell of a new pack of cigarettes!


I hope you liked it.  It was frought with imagery and deliciousness.

Happy Birthday to meeeeeeeeee!

Duties

Chardonnay is here today
a shallow bit in shallow ways,
A lighter love in lightning lays.
And storming skies are underpaid.

Life Begins.

Storming skies can wait upon us,
sipping slowly our merlot.
I will question every breaking.
I will break with thunder's cry.

I bleed slowly, red and raining.
Every call is slower still.
Quiet, quiet -- I am sorry:
I have yet to see the thrill.

I am alone in my fabric skin,
broken to let the toxins in.
Broken to bring the weeping out.
Burnt and peeling in the drought.

And hither comes the rain.

The Confraternity of Angelic Warfare

Upon the bridge over mountain pass
he stood so still yet was moving so fast;
His hair blew quick and his heart paced quicker
and he never moved the least bit forward.
Until Angels steadied his way.