From The Psalmist’s Journal

 But anyhow: what can a decent man speak about with the most pleasure?
Answer: about himself.
So then I, too, will speak about myself.

                        Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Underground Man


Confession: I recall that another’s wife must be pregnant and the husband must return on his shield before the psalmist confesses.  I recall the parable utilized for indictment by the prophet.


The sun emerges, indifferent. Out of the grog of an unclasping dawn, I am recalcitrant to distinguish the morning light as bruised or brushed. Likewise, I am unaware of angelic conversations before coffee, though I am inclined to assume the sun is Isaiah’s coal lifted from the earth’s mouth and therefore take every sprig and sprout as prophetic conjecture. There are other joys to spring and dawn, though I am not inclined to elaborate.


Lilies, daffodils, and daisies fastidious in their sapping of soil. Robins in their toil of worm-tug. The sizzle of yolks and whites in the pan. Other various hasty emergences one might trope as ironic resurrections. There is a miracle in the meal, though admittedly one-sided. There exist silent meditations, though I do not want to name them. There exist statements you should not believe.


I am inclined to read myself into texts. The scriptures rife with contradictions, nonetheless: beautiful multiplicities. A burning wheel or Ezekiel’s angels in jackets of eyes. When reading the prophets, when speaking of transcendence, I assume there are riddles the bones pose for the body.  I imagine my scapula as the promise of evolutionary wing-sprout. When reading of miracles, I consider the vast migrations occurring beneath the skin’s tent. I consider the hypothesis: the body’s systemized network of electrical impulse is nothing short of miraculous, but it is not the miracle. Do not consider the system, consider its traffic.


I revel in a heated argument’s confluence of opposing syntax, the din warm in my ear. I revel in the face flushed with anger, the throb of the neck’s artery. There is music in contradiction if one stands far enough away.

The dusk similar to a book’s closing or the trouble one finds at the book’s end. When I contemplate ecstatic vision, it is not difficult to imagine the sky red as apocalypse.  I await the angel muzzling its lips to the horn. Yet, there are swifter revelations, subtler incarnations. There is the desire to distill the nocturne’s harmonic to the fissures of the crickets’ supple congregations. I imagine that music black with pitch. All at once, various elisions occur.


I am inclined to believe the psalmist was one after God’s own heart because it is comforting.  There exist certain statements you shouldn’t believe. I recall the prophet, the psalmist’s torn robes.


Confession: When writing or praying, I have no idea what I am doing, or who I am talking to.  I do not find this problematic as of yet.  There are certain joys to spring.  Aromatic draughts tubed through herbs for instance. The robin regurgitates the worm into a throng of throats.


Absence falls into itself. The Spirit’s still, small voice scabs the ear.


When I tell you I do not have a prayer, you must side with the literal or ironic.  There are certain silences that haunt the lungs’ bellows.  This is not to say prayer necessitates language.  All at once, silence unfolds into verb.  It is not illogical to assume the word is the self’s antecedent, which is also to say silence has certain consequences. There are reasons to believe metaphor is problematic for reasoning, which is to say: I do not have a prayer.


Let me begin by saying the prophet’s name was Nathan, the psalmist was a king, which is not in the least coincidental. I am still inclined to imagine the sun as a prophetic coal impressed upon the earth’s mouth. Let me begin by saying, all at once the night erupts as the condensation of a particular flower’s aroma.  I do not withhold the possibility of saying a crocus.












S p r i n g G u n P r e s s 2009




Alexis Orgera
Dear Polymath
Underwater Breathing Apparatus
Love Poem

Michael Flatt
The World of Darkness

Jordan Windholz
The Psalmist's Journal

Aaron Angello
The Rufus Poems

Stephen Graham Jones
The Wages: An Argument
In the Beginning

John Paul Stadler

Adam Petersen
Theodore Roosevelt
Jesse Owens

Andrew Farkas
On the Road to the Great City

Todd Seabrook
Lollipop Noose