What a world for a girl

What a world for a girl it is
what a realm for a baby girl
to face the earth with all it’s cries
it’s subtle rain and pine tree roads
where emigrating birds may land
like snowfall on the valley’s fields
a world where among the water lilies
the bass will play in sunlit lake
where wars brake out with no remorse
where fires rage like napalm rain
when betrayal turn your life around
what a world for a girl it is
when nights are cold and lonesome
but even when the skies turn red
and she is walking on the cliffs
Christ will still be there to hear you
Jesus and your papa too

Religious wars

life is is a growing process

like river and forest

the scenic landscape of past atrocities

like running jumping baby goats in the corral of the psyche

and people are unsocialised dogs

barking their ears of on podcasts for deaf minds

wasting space and time

staying concerned by stupid questions

mostly rumors of war and environmental lies fabricated by the headquarters

of Orwellian self-fullfilled prophecies

sanskrit screenshots of enlightenment

that cost more than mammon’s materia and will seduce the feeble minds

that wander the earth like Kipling’s Kim

joining their cult of preference

because dancing around the tulasi tree is the same ritual of idolatry

as bowing to the pastoral authority of someone elses pastor

in oxymoronic doctrinal wars

instead of saying “I cannot tell” and proceeding to read your Bible


Thoughts on Fatherhood

The man will become what the boy needed. A father, a role model, a hard worker, a reader, a praying man. Someone who is there, someone fearless, one to look up to.

That is essential, and it is exceptionally effective. That attempt could change the course of generations. Instead of constant inherited problems you would get furtherance of wisdom and knowledge. A continual growing.

It is said that you should be the change you want to see in the world. I think that’s dang smart. I want to do that. I want to become the father I wanted and needed as a child. To be there in ways I would have needed someone to be there and to let my experience shape the role I have and turn trauma into victory.

Ironminer: hero

The past is like a dream, and I cannot understand the present

my mind is thick fog like black powder smoke

I feel like the king when he rode into death in Lütsen

nights are my only sanity

days are like plays on a set

the curtain was closed but life wouldn’t pause

I met people in the street and they weren’t grieving

I wanted to stop them and let them know

I still do sometimes 

I want to explain to them who you were and that now you are not

how can that be?

where are you as I write this?

are you still in the cabin

by the work bench in the tool shed
by the lawnmower

did you check the spark plugs this year

did you hook up the pump from the lake yet?

I will help you when I get there

don’t worry

we will make it through another summer

did Sven catch any fish from his pier yet

did he say?

does Rune still come by for a glass of whiskey?

and grandma is making her famous lingonberry jam?

do you know?

soon we will have our midsummer celebration

I grew some potatoes and we’ll have the first batch then

and grandmas pickled herring

it will be the way it it’s supposed to 

and Nadja will sleep on the porch

and everything will be the same

and Hannas bible in the cupboard by the fireplace

the ww2 german bayonet on the wall

tell me again, who did you trade it with?

are you still taking walks on the old dirt road

do you still carry that same good staff?

did you really quit that chewing tobacco?

but still keep some in the fridge of course

just for now and then

and there’s only crap on tv
like always right?

and then its new years and I am there

with just you and grandma

I have sparklers from the store and chips and we all watch Dinner for one

before the bells toll for our future 

like in a funeral chapel

I will tell you about the fish I cought

I know you’re too old to go out there with me

but just last year you were walking?

and I came to the hospital every time you fell or had a stroke

I dropped everything and left

I drove three hours in two and was there before you had even seen the doctor

I met grandma in the ER doors and just walked right in

I told the nurses to go and see you and to not let you wait

I was there all the time

I would have given you my heart if they would have taken it and used it

I would have cut and ripped it out myself with my own hand and the Mora knife

I visited you every time you were in the hospital

bought you car magazines and fika bread

every time but this time

I couldn’t come

I was on the other side of the world

I wanted to go

I should have still gone

but I betrayed you

I didn’t mean to

I didn’t want to

I wanted to be there with you

I wanted to die in your place

I wanted to let you know all
that our culture can’t say

I wanted to heal you and save you

from 95 years

from heart failure

from death

I skogen vill jag dö med dig

Jag vill gå vilse i skogennär jag sover i en dröm

i skogen mot finnmarken

där då var nu och idag inte fanns

där morfar högg ner träden på tomten

där de byggde stugan

där tiden borde slutat gå

innan helvetet bröt lös på jorden och alla dog

där vill jag vara än

där kan vi dricka kaffe på trappen och säga nästan inga ord

där vill jag gå ut i skogen

längst stigen till bäverboet

med stenröset och lilla bäcken

vid tallarna med hackspettshålen

där vill jag dö martyrdöden

för min tro på igår

(Dope head) popular artists

I spit on the floor of the WordPress gallery

spin around like a bat that hit a glass door

brake my head like tasteless prose

choke on modern art galleries in hipster facilities

you’ve gotta be misunderstood to be good

said every unintelligent colorist ever

and wagged their little indie tail to the piano tune

at the funeral of doped up originality

the needle still hanging from their arm

Temple of Iron

Rusty iron

beneath moonlit tropic sky

striped cats around my feet

like sharks circling the surfer

in the evening with echoing cricket song

and headlights passing

on the everglades road

while the sheep are going to sleep

as the potbelly pig has already done in his hay bed

and the only presence is the stars

like lonely eyes of memories past

gazing at my barbell like how Atlas held his heaven

on protein shoulders like I hold this weight

and the only thing holding me back

is the freaking equator