Latest Entries »

In the desert

by Paul Blom (6-12-17; Age 31)


I wandered through the dark endless expanses of the wilderness,

strolling and staring at stars

when I happened upon a man,

another lone wanderer.

He looked tired and oh so hungry,

so I offered him some bread and meat.

I’ve always been the giving type.


“Get thee behind me!” he growled,

rejecting my simple offer of charity.


I was offended, and rightfully so.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I asked him.

“The king of all the nations of the earth?

Everybody, kneel down to the king of the world!

I was just offering you some food because you look so hungry.”


He snarled at me. “I will not be tempted.”


“Fuck you, dude. I was just trying to be nice.

Why don’t you go throw yourself off a cliff?

If you don’t want my help, maybe the angels will catch you,

and then they can feed you. Jeez.”


So I strolled off into the night, pondering the light of the morning stars,

leaving that crazy man behind me in the wilderness.


Psychoanalysis (5-27-17)


by Paul Blom (5-27-17; Age 31)


Old habits sneak up like machetes in a wheat field,

slow with unearthly silence while you’re busy looking

elsewhere, so focused on the mundanities of the day

or internally gloating over your own false victories,

machinations, and manipulations.

You thought you were somebody?

You thought you had them all fooled, that you were in control?

Control is an illusion, a veil that Chaos drapes over your face

while whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

And Chaos has sea green eyes dotted with flecks of gold,

flecks of gold you pretend not to see so you can slide your face closer

only to be rejected, half-heartedly pushed away

in a manner that keeps you confused,

stumbling, ranting, and rambling into the night

amidst old poetics you thought you’d long since outgrown.

Maybe it’s better this way. The words are back,

but so are all the other old habits that come with them.

You spend far too much time pondering the mysteries of Chaos,

but you’re trapped. Maybe it’s better this way.

He struggled with the darkest aspects of humanity only to find

hope amidst the struggle. He slaughtered a thousand suns

to prove his worth. Biochemistry be damned.

How’s that for a crescendo ending?


The Music Behind Me

by Paul Blom (7-19-16; Age 30)


I would climb every mountain,

but I’m no climber.

I’d hear the stories of every stranger,

but there’s too many tongues to learn.

I’d walk every road, sing every song,

and try the local brew at every roadside pub and lodge,

but the coins in my pocket are too few,

the hands on the clock too quick,

and the miles ahead too long.


Maybe somewhere along the way, I’ll figure out

where I’m heading. Maybe I won’t know til I arrive.

But in those pubs, halls, and homesteads behind me,

drum-punched shoulders shake to beats

that force toes and heels into staccato landings

like pen points bouncing against paper, like chisels

pounding into stone, their ascensions and descents

indistinguishable in the soupy haze of dust, sweat, and song.

And as these homesteaders, earth-shakers, and dust dancers

sing the sun to its zenith, flinging themselves against its silhouette

only to fall and kick the earth out of its slumber,

I stumble on, struggling to determine my destination

somewhere out there in the distance.


%d bloggers like this: