god is chaos

god is chaos.

I necessitate wonder

for the questions that I ask,

but my answers afford me a title

long-since feared & wearied: mad

not only at the world, but

also to it; that

is, I mean to say, that

eyes fling themselves to me

like stars toward the sky at night; too long

to fall short of brilliant, far too

bold to blend into the bland.

god is chaos.

I rely half-heartedly

on the accidental wisdom of a humdrum day

and whole-heartedly on the grace

of the intricately-placed and incoincidental

moment of illusion that reeks of truth;

for I could swear by

the cleanest tongue, the clearest

mind—a sun at twilight—a step

in a minefield—a searing life

inhabited by one with flames for the ideal

but you see, the earth’s

but an ocean of dirt

and clarity bears no crown

when lawless hearts thump against their perfect prisons.

god is chaos.

the early tome cripples with knowledge

all vision wrought in solitude; light

is absolutely caught at night

by the erratic hand, unjustly, spied by eyes awry—

decay into a permanence is slow

and yields but in fail

its all-arresting bloom of chainless green.


West Vancouver