ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴɪɢᴍᴀ

I am a writer, a poet, a laborer, an excavator and tractor operator, a husband, a dad, a citizen, a child, a freak, a man, an enigma

Stoic and sour, frantic and sweet, young and old, walking while waking asleep

I write words and throw them into fire, throw away thoughts, deleted rhythm, sentences with a bad left over taste

The world is fire,  and on fire, on my mind, on the brink, and on top of me like stone

They say the world breathes

And it breathes for us

We don’t know who we are though, many of us, convinced of our own grace and virtue, with bad intent and bad breath

We need drugs and television and podcasts and video games and booze and fake-as-plastic talking heads and religious sons-of-bitches stealing your hopes and dreams and money; all stealing your soul and sapping your strength

We live in designed apathy and cut off from The World

Cut off from nature

Cut off from spirit

Cut off from choice

Cut off from love

Cut off from true beauty, the beauty and gifts of the universe hiden behind cold dead letter eyes

But fear not!

For the end is close(r) than you think, when this world and all its possible pasts come to a head, and we are spat back to from whence we came, back into the electric geometry of quarks and electrons and wormholes, and love

That permeating electricity of pure love and joy and of being home

Home, is what we call the earth

But we all know it’s a lie, a deception, a trick of the laughing little bastards on the other side

Until then, I am what I am as you are as well

Imperfect pictures in an imperfect world by design… and like me, it’s an enigma

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WJM