Empty

Awake, is all.

Rising without inspiration, revelation, recollection, premonition, venture, horror, or scripture is a gift. I like to wake up empty & dull.

I like waking up with a soul of ice, undripping with dreams sloshed over the sluice of sentience.

You don’t see Jesus prancing around the flight deck when he rose.

I like to awaken blank and bare, without mother or father, past or future, book or speech, laurel or thorn.

° ° °

The orphancy of waking, the umbilical cut from a dying dream.

The poverty of sunrise. Last night evicted yesterday, dropped its shit on the street.

Yesterday is morning breath.

° ° °

The screaming poverty of birth. Every time I write, I’m born again.

Yesterday is afterbirth.

° ° °

The poverty of resurrection: even the grave is empty.

.

“Trill” are my Twitters. Tweet suites from @slowreads.

Photo “Denver Sluice” copyright Nick Ford. Used by permission.

By Peter

After stints as a trial lawyer and a church worker, Peter Stephens has settled in as a Virginia high school English teacher. Peter has read several books and poems. He wrote none of the posts below filed under "Passages." Click the link at the end of each post to see it in the context of the author's original post.