My Substance

My Substance, a poem.
"How disintegrating to sculpt a golden vision in the mind and find up on creation (substantiation) it wasn't gold at all, but copper, and when exposed to air, the Zion shine freezes over like a look to Medusa. The instant the Pentecost-hot ingot of myself breathes in, it's oxidized; the death is cast, earthen mortal blue.

There is pain in publishing work for me. So often, whatever grand mental revelation I feel I’ve made doesn’t take form the way I saw it in my mind. It looks lumpy, trite, or tawdry when brought out into the real world. I also bear a worry that the work will be misunderstood as an attempt on my part to appear deep and philosophical. The language I use can be antiquated, my sentences drawn out, and the content unapproachable and riddled with parentheticals and hyphenations. But it’s all true to me. This is how I see the world, and sometimes (often, always), it hurts to communicate. This poem’s probably about that.