Pulse

Like stampeding miniature elephants

Pushing from behind your lips,

Pressure builds until it feels

Like your mouth is going to explode.

Your mind morphs and stretches,

Pulsing blood flows like a river

Being released from a dam,

Until it ruptures in an eyeball.

This is hypomania, with all

The glitz and glitter,

With the impulses throbbing,

Screaming to be released,

Flexing at the heavy chains

Of shame, guilt and anxiety.

The conscience is like a cowboy,

Riding atop the raging bull,

Pulling at the reigns,

Wriggling across its back,

Struggling with all his might,

To reel in and wrestle control

Of the maddened beast.

Oh, the stress of it all.

To burn the wax of insanity

From the candle of truth,

To purify, to disentangle, to free.

But the answer, alas,

Is to become one with the beast,

To strive to hold on tightly,

Until its energy is spent;

Or, to spring off like a grasshopper,

Surviving the maelstrom

Until another day.

Circles of Insanity

Softly sleeping in the folds
Of silky swabs on the deck
Of a sailing ship,

Echoes of rhythmic pounding
Drive through my aching temples.
Who is the captain of this roguish craft?

Who gave the orders to
Run a rampage through the hearts
Of innocents, to cast a dark shadow
On the wretched faces of children?

Only somber tones can soothe
The memory of that castigation.
Only blood can satiate
The appetite of such hungry wolves.

Who would be so uncouth
As to disturb the peace and order
Of a simple man and his wife
Dining in the privacy of their home?

Who would be so rebellious
As to eat the flesh of a sacred cow,
Such as one that hovers nearby
A holy temple?

Only the whispers of a lovely pixie,
Dizzily dancing round and round
A bonfire in the depths of the
Ancient forest can come close

To enchanting this unworthy
Troll that casts a horrible stench
Across these pristine hills.
What is worth her ritual?

Who can begin to imagine
What demons lurk behind
Jagged rocks and at the bottom
Of such abysmal pits?

Who is willing to march across
Abandoned cities, pillaged
To the extreme, sacrificed to
The appetite of barbarous dogs?

How can one come to grips
With the secret blessings that hide
In the recesses of one’s mind,
Accessed solely by nymphs,

Loathed even by the heartiest of
Gargoyles, cursed with the shame
Of encountering the reflection
Of their offspring’s soul?

How I weep at the glimpse
Of my only morsel of redemption,
Hiding in this minuscule kernel
Of truth, buried underneath

Millions of centuries of lies, rumors,
Tales and sweeping romantic
Reunions between lonely
Peasants, clinging to hope,

Ready to die at the first symbol
Of heavenly, cascading rivers of light!
“To be young again!” they scream.
To be free of this overwhelming

Nightmare, to escape the tortuous
Gaze of the wild doe, caught in a trap
Of spikes and razor blades.
Lost is the promise of deliverance,

Once again.

Sometimes I Freak, Part III

Sometimes I freak when I go to church. When you step into a church somehow you feel like you should be on your best behavior. That’s not really a Godly feeling or sentiment, since I believe that God accepts us exactly as we are, wherever we are, but that is how I was raised. In fact, growing up, my mother was ruthless in spurring me and my brother to get ready and stop goofing around on Sunday morning. What was important was looking good by being on time, behaving well, answering questions intelligently and in a spiritual way—basically, putting on a front. Lord knows my family was falling apart at the seams in every way, with my grandmother passing away, my parents’ separation and eventual divorce, and my mother’s undiagnosed mental illness. All was not well in the Bowman household. And those feelings come back to me today as I step through the doors of a church, any church, even one as positive, inclusive and accepting as mine. I wonder what deviant thoughts people suspect me of (well, actually, I am quite the skeptic), what deviant acts I am guilty of that separate me from other Christians and from God, what rebellion I am in that alienates me from the same. Going to church is something I want to do, but at the same time, I do struggle with these things every time, and it compromises my experience on the whole.

Sometimes I freak when I try to pray. Yes, God and I are not on the best of terms—haven’t been for a long time. In fact, except for when I pray with others—my wife at the dinner table and the occasional attempt at a weekly prayer partnership, my male prayer partner, something I initiated this year as an attempt to get closer to God because of my lack of an intimate relationship, and the occasional prayer with my Sunday School class and with the congregation in the sanctuary—I am not on speaking terms with God. I know after that enumeration of instances it doesn’t sound bad, but I guess I am a perfectionist, and I realize how far I am from any kind of daily routine which would bring me into any kind of genuine intimacy with God. Being alone with God is a frightening experience for me. Feelings of emotional and physical abuse from childhood along with visions of an angry Yahweh of the Old Testament conjure a being to be faced that is not the loving, caring Jesus that spoke to the disciples in the upper room that fateful night and told them that when we see him we have seen the Father, because he and the Father are one. When it’s just me and God (and I have to admit it is always the vengeful Father that I envision in my mind, not the gentle Jesus), I just freeze up. Gone are the soothing thoughts of “come to me ye who are weary, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light”. Instead it is a booming God that stares down at me and demands to know every sin I have committed and has come to punish me for them in some crazy sadistic way that makes me cringe and from which I yearn to escape. Not a great relationship, obviously.

Sometimes I freak when I open the Bible. I’ll admit, it’s intimidating. Yes, there is a lot of wisdom there. Yes, I believe it is divinely inspired. Yes, I believe there is potential for healing, instruction, direction, inspiration, grace, forgiveness—all that. But you know what else there is? God. He is there, waiting, behind those words. For what? I don’t know. But the potential scares me. I have read the entire Bible many times over, and if there is one thing I know for sure, there is power behind those words. And the thought of being overpowered, perhaps in a scary way, is what keeps me from those words. I have been overpowered, many times, in absolute terror, and I have run from figures of authority, figures who were supposed to be trustworthy caretakers, symbols of love and support, that have turned on me like a viper lunging for its prey. Is God like that? My intellect tells me no, but my heart, and my body, are not so sure. After all, if humans, blood, family, can be tyrannical, how much more can God? And there is something else—God is all powerful. Do I want to surrender myself to an all powerful tyrant? Do I want his thoughts to be my thoughts? No, not by a long shot.