Confessions of an Anti-Hero Apologist

9/17/22

Call me “Driftwood.”

 

I’ve been all around the world,

offering my flesh as a sacrifice

to the highest bidder—

a loved-starved sinner—

stretching my skin

and my limbs and my sins

till their breaking point

to fashion a sunburned sail—

a jib unlike any other headsail—

pulled up high-and-tight

by my lustful entrails.

 

I am the captain and the captain is me.

The captain is the ship

and the ship is sinking.

Ergo, I am sinking.

 

No longer thinking, except to say,

“Why endure the pain of running away?

 

I think I’ll blame the wind

with its elfin features and impish grin.

Look vigilantly and you’ll see

bits-and-pieces of an armada

stuck in its teeth.

 

Yes, the whimsical wind made me do it,

seducing me to live by abased emotions

like the Greek prophet Zorba—

that innocence-stealing thief.

 

A gale that notoriously dashes

fleets against reefs

doesn’t stop at a knock

but kicks the door in

 

blowing its pirate breath into my sail,

picking me up over its green head

with seaweed for cobwebs,

and smashes me against jagged rocks.

 

Sirens of serendipity

sing a sweet dirge at my final hour.

 

Down I go,

deeper,

deeper

into the Abyss,

passing all the sunken schooners

I stole from

when I was young and hungry for power—

ships with no anchor in the eye of the storm.

 

The myth is true—

the God of the Ocean saved me.

From the deep He grabbed me.

I became born-again.

 

His hand—

a topographical map of turquoise rivers

with diabase boulders for knuckles

and fingers of wood, earth and stone

for jetties

(a memory of monergistic salvation at sea)—

threw me a line and pulled me up

by His entrails to resuscitate me.

 

Who is this aqua-marine deity?

The Hand of the Ocean is He,

bitten and scarred and pierced by our jaws.

 

The sharks are hungry

and the fish are outnumbered.

There’s divine blood in the water—

a symbol of Love from a forgiving Fater.

 

But as Frost likes to say,

“Nothing gold can stay.”

 

A priori truth became my higher power.

 

Not truth and beauty

or truth and love

or truth and experience

 

but answers to questions

that made me feel alive,

swinging to the pious side

of life’s pendulum

 

leaving behind the savage truth

to The Lord of the Flies

or so I thought.

 

Arid logic and apologetics

I worshiped at the shrine of my intellect.

 

Then came the humbling blow—

to my chagrin I never learned

to breathe underwater,

probably because I was so proud

to be walking on water.

 

I went from cultures and cuisines

and a boat-load of Aphrodites

with low self-esteem in-between

(let’s call it “Tarshish”)

 

to answers about the existence of God,

the meaning of life

and the creation of the cosmos

(let’s call it “Mars Hill”)

 

to being still

(let’s call it “Home”),

 

the kind of stillness that’s happy

being driftwood—

able to stay afloat of life’s perils—

in the presence of divinity

 

not negotiating

but breathing in the Scriptures,

seeing a kaleidoscope of colors

and nautical pictures

(in my head)

 

of the depth the Hand of the Ocean plunges

to save a sunken sinner

and his wounded ego—

an earthly treasure

with redemptive properties

stashed securely within

the Captain’s cargo.

12/3/22

Coming home in a fury of snow from a long night’s work, asleep in his sleigh, Santa is jostled awake by the sound of an Alaska Airlines Boeing 737-9 Max airplane, headed straight toward him. One hundred, thirty-eight feet of celestial navigation, weighing-in at over 91,000 lbs of mostly aluminum alloy, not including passenger and…

Read More »

9/17/22

Call me “Driftwood.”

I’ve been all around the world,

offering my flesh as a sacrifice

to the highest bidder—

a loved-starved sinner—

stretching my skin

and my limbs and my sins

till their breaking point 

to fashion a sunburned sail—

a jib unlike any other headsail—

pulled up high-and-tight

by my lustful entrails.

Read More »

9/12/22

The reason EMGs are so destructive, no matter how great the accomplishments, is because the person who is unaware of who she really is, sadly, is merely a shell of a person like an oyster that creates a pearl from an irritation inside itself. No matter how many layers of beautiful minerals that give it its shiny iridescence, it’s still a foreign object to itself at the core of itself. Perhaps Socrates was right: “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

Read More »

Newsletter Signup