Posts Tagged ‘Confession’


At some point
you must confess
that a system of imperfect
pieces making the beautiful
isn’t a consolation
but an art.

At some point
you must confess
that for all the errors
caught in your eye
there is equal softness
on your fingers.

At some point
you must confess
that knowledge
eats itself, and that outside
things are just inside things
that are ‘there’ instead of ‘here’.

At some point
you must confess
you must confess
you must confess.

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Camelots and Chameleons

Hiding is
not the same as not wanting to be seen.
When close
to the hunt
the dilated pupil sees over exposed
photographs whizzing
with unnatural movement.
Long fingers of paint
run like spirits
around the crying cusp
of a wine glass.
Changing colors, far from cowardice,
is the Italics of nature.
An accent, not removal, from the space.
Your eyes treat me like invisibility
rather than transparency
as they read the surrounding throng
of pulsing flesh of the city.
But do not confuse that for absence –
Confuse me for stained glass
so that you will never know
that everything you know
is me colored.

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I told her that I feel useless
in order to be honest
but she didn’t understand.
The assumed admission of
inner turmoil was a red hearing
for a simple fact.

So many reassurances that were
never said before rained down upon
the man she thought was thirsty –
but he was drowning.

To her, certain words are not transitory
but permanent. Descriptions are for
physical bodies, and definitions are
for the thing inside – the unnamed thing.
So we put a name to it – easy enough.
A sign of transcendent humanity
and an impulse of divinity –
but it was not what I was doing.

I was merely squeezing my entire self
into an ark to travel in. A necessary condition
of our mortal life. It is good to feel useless
when one is useless. We should not be afraid
of hanging our toes over the edge of the bed
out from under the covers. To be vulnerable to
those things we have long imagined to be unreal.

I should have known that words were not that way to her.
Everything is a name for her – not a boat to travel in.
So what I said hurt because it meant that I was no longer
strong. No longer overcoming the struggles she felt
but rather basking in the thing that brought her pain.

So it is.

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In this time it is easier to melt
than to break.
The humid air of an Autumn midday
is a heavy, blue saxophone note.
In every abrupt transition
the pressure is felt.
I am dying to break.
But instead
I melt.

In my sweat I feel anything but good
but I know I am meant for this.
The constant stirring of the pot
I’ve been hunched over all day.
A hearty beef stew
Is my hope for sainthood.
A plump uneasy martyr
Who works
to feel good.

I am impressed by stained glass
but not by God.
It is good to be felt,
and seen, and heard.
They are a mirror to me,
a fragmented mass.
I sit,
they tell stories
about this time.

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You called –
another too little
too late
at reconciliation.
On the paper
it will always
be reconstruction
like history –
rather than collecting.
You placed the pen to my face
and took with it
my authentic emptiness –
it is called education.
I still don’t feel good about it.
These are the things that concern me
the moment you call – I am concerned with me.

Nonetheless, I answer.

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Previous Entry Found At: http://veritasexlogos.wordpress.com/2008/05/22/stories-told-to-be-forgotten-vii-the-intruder/

The darkness was pierced suddenly by the sliding open of the channel between Clay and the father. Inside the cramped iron maiden the thick dust could be tasted but not seen. Clay let out a choked whispered prayer for forgiveness later rattling on uninterrupted about the plethora of sins both new and previously omitted or more likely forgotten. The father sat in silence out of disbelief or perhaps even shame over his fellow man’s emotionless enumeration of his adventures. When silence finally returned to the chamber the father groaned and pulled from his vocabulary the one word Clay did not expect to hear.


“No I shant have it, your my guest. Well, my father’s guest. Take a seat and I shall fetch the tea.” The foppish man waved his arms hysterically before retrieving his spectacles from his pocket. He seemed old in motion but youthful when still – his dress reflected something of a by-gone era but his angular features and beardless face made it look modern and stylish if not slightly outlandish. He wore a navy blue bowtie and suspenders over a plane white dress shirt. He had draped his sports coat over a antique looking chair before shooting off into the kitchen.

“I think we have some misunderstanding.” Elle pleaded while still standing.

“Nonsense. I see things all too clear. My father, like all men, has given into the nature of our kind and found himself a youthful mistress. For what other reason would you be in his study without a stitch of clothing on.” He paused as he fiddled with the oven. Elle searched for the proper words to say, to come clean, to admit to her sinful night and beg for this strangers forgiveness. But before her heart compelled her to speak, he continued.”


“You cannot be forgiven. What you have done is completely contrary to God’s will and you have done it more than enough times to make a habit of it. Until some way of education can be devised to purge from you the taste for sin I cannot in good conscious forgive your sins.”

“Is it a sin to give into your nature?”

“To be a beast?”

“To be too human?”

“You cling to your beastliness for justification but what of the other side… the higher side?”


“This explains why father was so happy before he died. Even as the Alzheimer’s gripped his mind he kept saying: My soul has ascended. The old man was all doom and gloom ’til that moment. He would shuffle around this house finding solace in antiques and books from exotic places. It was unnatural. A man cannot go that long without a woman’s touch.” Something in the way he spoke brought comfort to Elle. The man wanted his father to be happy, and if that belief kept this man afloat than why bother his bliss with such a trivial matter of detail.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Pierce Fletcher. Yours?”

“Elle Scardenelli.”

“A beautiful name, for a beautiful woman.”


“Even Adam, before sin gripped his bones, was undone by a beautiful woman.”

“You quote scripture to suit your purpose, but you throw out the rest. Even the devil can quote scripture for his purpose, Clay.”

“I need this.”

“For what, Clay? To write another one of your trashy novels.”

“With your grace perhaps I can make them more than trash.”

“You’ll have to ask the Lord about that issue. I have a higher side to worry about as well, and it will do nohting but poison my spirit if I forgive you on the grounds you have provided.”

“Then educate me. What is it that I can do to atone?”


“I write novels. Well, sort of. Father said it was always a waste of time, that I would never be like Homer or Shakespeare, so why bother? Unlucky to be born at such a point in history were all understanding of art has lost. It takes a civilization of immense culture to produce such a writer. By we’ll never know if we don’t try, right? I want to write something great, something sweeping, a definition of our time and place.”

“What will it be about?”

“Haven’t really gotten that far yet. I am taking a trip for inspiration.”

“Where to?”

“I know some monks that might take you in.”


“Yes. They live a secluded life up in the mountains. They offer a retreat for spiritual travelers looking to come to the grace of God. I believe one of the brothers there was a writer like yourself. People go to him for teachings on the written word.”

“And if I don’t go. You don’t forgive me.”

“That’s the deal.”

“I suppose the fresh air might do me some good. Where is this place?”


“Kentucky.” The foppish man replied without missing a beat.

“Kentucky?” Elle prodded further.

“The trappists have a monastery down that way.”

“A monastery?” Elle tried to imagine this professorial type in robes.

“A trappist monastery. In New Haven. Its called the Abbey at Gethsemani.”


“You want me to go to a monastery. In Kentucky.”

“Only there will you find salvation.”

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