One from the Archives.
Yet I find myself returning to this particular poem quite frequently of late.
While I rather like the idea of it remaining mysterious in nature, the truth is the content of this poem deals with religious trauma; specifically the idea of "purity culture."
I've always wondered why my worth was stored in my vagina. Seems rather in stark opposition to man's power/strength being stored in their penis. I mean... did we even have a chance ever?
The past few years I've been deconstructing the religion I thought was so important to me, because I've learned the harsh lesson the statement "there's no hate like Christian love" has been proven true too often. Which doesn't mean I have abandoned all spiritual outlook or lost faith. It simply means I continue to grow as human being - in all facets of my existence - experiencing life on this big planet.
As. One. Should.
floating in a a luke-warm salacious sleep
it bubbled forth from somewhere deep
with a jolting pang it ushered in
the aching, growing sense of sin
that cloak of ignorance, now in shreds
a too-bare garment of angry threads
I push and pull the tangled knots
while the fickle Fates are casting lots
The Great Veil Is Rising!
while whispering sweet nothings so chastising
I tumbled backward, further into the deep
“Be quiet stirrings - I’m trying to sleep!”
and in the midst of drifting softly down
away in endless flight I drown
as the evening star melts away
the fluff of wishes floats astray
and lost within this restless dream
mounts in my soul a silent scream
too long I’ve lingered - and rolling the dice
slip amorously into the Abyss; and pay the price.
After I wrote this post, the news broke that television evangelist and all around awful person IMHO, Pat Robertson had passed away. The 700 Club was a big part of my childhood indoctrination and to be honest, the whole TV preacher thing just never sat right with me. It never felt genuine that a preacher should have gross wealth.
I can't help but wonder where he "woke up" and if he was surprised.