~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: XI~

By WordWulf, 3rd Mar 2011 | Follow this author | RSS Feed | Short URL http://nut.bz/kf9yl7w7/
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Letters

~I shouldn’t say them~their schizophrenic power~how can I deny them~they said~love cannot save you from fate~only a god who knows how to dance~something about the unselfish, self-sacrificing love of brutes~death, the truest form of love~

~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: XI~

~A Confusion of Crosses~

~A Confusion of Crosses~

In the spilt ink darkness of my gloom, clothed in several layers shivering, your face floats like Jesus in the room. I come tumbling down to run away hide in words penned of the life of Mother to find I have assigned them your name in my account of that lovely lady. I am so lost between them.

I have seen too much this year, whatever could I say to you. You see, the weight of the night was upon me, a dark process of mad invention mouthing voices, a cacophony of words you might say in a thousand different ways. The voices, they all are me.

These days stretch one into the next, nights a Teutonic hell of loneliness. A monster howls through this land of echoes, tell them it isn’t, tell them it isn’t myself who was in her arms three nights previous, calm and at peace in the lady’s room, no part of this new beast of madness.

There is a church on the corner with nine lighted windows shining through my midnight gloom. I am too heavy for them to save, all the sweet saints of the neighborhood. The sign out front says they’ll pray for me and all other sinners at once.

I joined you, lady, in a church. When I was drowning, no one offered to save me. The God man never visited my home, just took my woman’s spirit and wished me away, not much Christian about most Christians. “What would Jesus do?” they wear their bracelets, turn blind faces, condemn me out of hand.

I met a drunkard in the driveway who told me about his beautiful dead girlfriend and a movie company he was forming in Aspen. She was too wild to live in her condominium. He told me about some dead Indians, how he loved to drink beer and cheap wine with them. Crazy bastard; I may be lonely but I’m not crazy yet, I think (or is it the other way around).

~Tom (WordWulf) Sterner~
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: X~
~Slow Train~
~An Other~

Meet the author

WordWulf
Tom Sterner lives in Redding, California and Arvada, Colorado with wife Kathy. He has been published in numerous magazines and on the internet, including Howling Dog Press/Omega, Skyline Literary Review, The Storyteller, and Flashquake. His interne...(more)