"god" is a word.
"god is dead" is three words.

Meaning is fluid, pumping 
from three words
to what you believe 
I believe.

“guts” is a word.
“I hate your guts” is four words.

I don’t know your guts.
My words are
meaning moving in
your guts.

“Can you taste the venom in my soul?”
I have no soul.
You have no guts
to call your own.
Venom has no taste and
no vessel. 

“Guts” is just a word.
“Soul” is just a word.

“god” is 
just a word.
God is just.
God is justice.

Justice is a worm.

I have worms in my guts,
God’s guts.

...puttin' the Po' in NaPoWriMo...

13 thoughts on “fluid

    • Thank you Rose. You are far too kind. I was thinking it was a bit over-bearing and preachy, but part of what this blog is for is letting myself go…even if I’m not sure about the tone, or the message, or…even what the hell it is I’m saying.
      So thank you for that validation–


  1. I find it funny, and the last lines pull it together beautifully while kicking me in the stomach. Now my guts hurt, like I’ve been justly denied a semantic reward. god, who is just a word has delivered a mighty blow.

    Saber-toothed poem. Or do I mean tiger? Oh well, it’s only words we deal in. Rightly so, for the lines are quivering like arrows of light.

    Were you angry when you wrote this? I feel like a venomous tiger now. Words. Damn.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I like saber-toothed poem. A lot. And quivering like arrows of light. Thank you so much for that.

      I don’t know if I was angry, per se. Frustrated for sure with the power that people unwittingly give to words, the sway they often have over us. Or perhaps frustrated with the words themselves and the things they do to us, how easily we misunderstand.

      I haven’t been to church (aside from weddings or funerals) in 35 years yet I still struggle deciding whether or not I should capitalize the “g(G)-word”.

      I probably had in mind also the rather ridiculous number of clearly Christian people who click “follow” on my blog without apparently reading anything other than the name. I’d guess close to half of my followers clicked that button once and then never came back…..

      I think also I was thinking about people misunderstanding writers and especially poets and what their words mean. I remember hearing a while back (around the time I wrote this?) of a poet who published an entire book of poems about his (fictitious) partner’s struggle with cancer and how many people would approach him after readings/book signings and thank him for sharing “his story”. Also, this makes me think of the work of MC 900 Foot Jesus. Back in the 90’s he put out an album that had a number of songs whose lyrics were written in first-person. They were character studies, really. Yet some critics blasted him for “glorifying” the behavior of these characters which I still find kind of laughable as they are clearly missing the point. Or missing the point of art in general. But isn’t this also what art is for? To incense the boors. To insight reactions.

      Now who’s being pedantic…..(or was that bombastic…)? 😉

      Liked by 1 person

      • “Arrows of Light” is a phrase I stole from the Canadian folk singer Bruce Cockburn.

        “Arrows of Light/Pierce my soul….”

        Your poem brought that song to mind, although I couldn’t tell you exactly why. (G)od and the concept of the Logos, maybe. The ineffability of experience. I wanted to be a linguist once….

        “Arrows of Light” was the first song by him that I loved. Mystical poetry.

        I read an interview today with Coleman Banks, who has spent his life translating Rumi. I like Rumi, but I like mystical poetry even better when it’s set to strange, spirited guitar playing.


      • I stole the phrase “Arrows of Light” from the Canadian folk artist Bruce Cockburn. It was the first song I loved by him.

        “Arrows of Light/come, Pierce my Soul”

        I don’t know why it occurred to me on reading your poem. I wanted to be a linguist once. There’s something about the concept of the Logos….

        I read an interview today with Coleman Barks, who has spent his life translating Rumi. I like mystical poetry, but I like it even better when it’s sung to strange, spirited guitar playing like Cockburn’s.

        Barks relayed a somewhat complicated story–a tale of “synchronicity” that I really liked, centering around his earned childhood nickname and Rumi’s hometown.

        I replied here once before from my phone, but the comment appears not to have submitted. I don’t know how to link YouTube videos here, so forgive me if this comment doesn’t work either, or if the video does not play.


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