Something arriving:
a thing that’s been sworn
to the brokenness in me,
to the ashes and thorns.
I’ve waited and cursed,
stuck in this line.
Something is coming
kind of on time.
I’m sensing it near.
No longer the stall.
Something arriving
in glory and all.
It’s also a calmness
and tenderness too,
tinged with a wrath
—I’m collecting what’s due.
It’s that sweet, subtle fury
in the pluck of the chord.
Something is coming.
Finally, Lord.
Let's not obsess on
publication,
getting featured,
pats on backs
or legacy.
Let's not obsess on the feelings, either.
They're nice, but if we write,
let's write to bring the tortured words
back home
from institutions that feed the
darkest
parts
of themselves
on just these words.
Their gluttony should madden us,
should drive us to
forget ourselves
and all that other shit.
The words are trapped
behind the wall.
Let this be our starting point.
