She is the soft sound,
covered in the softest skin,
that resonates and reverberates,
off of every wall.

She is the song,
I can listen to over and over.
The rhythm and the rhyme,
that embraces my mind.

She is the Sunday afternoon slumber,
where in the blink of an eye,
hours go by,
As I lay in resounding peace.

For she is the peace,
That soft moment in time,
Between the night and the dawn,
When the world is filled with light.

A morning turns into an afternoon,
basking in the sun’s glory.
The fry’s nibble at my toes.

I finally remove
my shriveled feet
the weathered groves,
a map to nowhere.

Epiphany explosions,
Imagination and creation,
Invention and destruction,
Rebuilding the lost ideologies,
The remnants of youth.

Looking forward, toward,
The world is unveiled,
For but an instant,
The sun shines over everything.

In the midst of this moment,
You are the marble,
Crafted into unfathomable beauty,
Flawless.
Stable.
Unmovable.
Unshakable.
You are the source,
of all revelation.
You are the source,
of all this poetry.
A muse, an angel, a goddess.

You open my eyes,
Every time I look into yours.

A young boy,
nineteen,
sits back in his throne.

He weeps.

His tears originate not
from pains of the body,
but pains of the soul,
pains of the mind,
pains of the sin
of boys,
who wanted to be men.

He weeps.

His body quakes and trembles,
as two large hands,
reach around him,
rip into his chest,
and pull.

The broken ribs
of regret.

Enter a Father.
Who always loved his son.
Enter a Mother.
Who always loved her son.
Enter a Brother.
Who always loved his kin.
Enter a Sister.
Who always loved her kin.
Enter a God.
Who never left your side.

Collapsing to the ground,
onto his knees,
the boy knows not what to say.

Until,
a voice from within,
echoes throughout his skeleton,
finally reaching his throat,
and releases itself.

Lost, now found,
on this Sacred ground.
A new life is born,
no longer torn,
inside.

A boy died,
a man emerged,
from the ashes
of conversion.

She did not scream, nor did she cry.
She no longer lived, but she didn’t die.
She waited for the peace, ascend to the sky.

But nothing happened.
Her mutilated body still worked,
even stronger than before.

She walked into town,
smelling of decay,
and began to repeat
the process done to her.

There was something about the way
He pounded nails into the planks
On the side of the ship.
This time was different than before;

Before, a slave to the bureaucrats above him,
Saeglopur longed to finally leave the shores
of Iceland.

This time,
He wasn’t building
A ship for them,
But for himself.

Sæglópur finished his ship,

[A]lone warrior,
Fighting the suffering,
Of never fighting anything.

Christened his ship “Nýr Dagur”
And broke a bottle of wine.

Foam spraying everywhere,
The tears of loved ones,
A mixture of happy and sad.

He was finally ready
To depart this great land,

“O God of Our land,
Our land is God…
One small flower of eternity…”

He must leave his homeland,
To find a new one
For himself.

Even if I fail,
He thought,
This is better than staying.

To stay just one more day,
To breathe stale air,
To walk the same path a thousand times.

I can’t stay here forever,
And live the tragedy of George Gray,

“Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.”

I must push off.
For I, already, am a lost seafarer,
Looking for a home.

As he pushed off the shore,
Staring into the mist,
Praying down the list,

Oh God of mercy,
Protect me from the storms,
Protect me from harm.

He had a phantasmagoria,
And felt utter euphoria,

Peace fills the soul,
Like a fjord,
Fills with water.

He knew this was right,
He could see into the light,
And he felt better than before.

The Rise of Hyrum Pratt

You get baptized when you’re 8, receive the Priesthood when you’re 12, go on a mission when your 19, get married in the temple shortly after you return, and become a High Priest when you’re old. You serve diligently in your callings, which you always accept, say your prayers and read your scriptures every morning and night, don’t eat on Fast Sunday, pay your tithing, obey the Word of Wisdom, and always wear the Armor of God.

You wear your CTR ring, frame and post the Proclamation to the World: The Family in your home, take notes during General Conference, visit Nauvoo, Carthage, Kirtland, Palmyra, Temple Square, Adam-ondi-Ahman, and the Liberty Jail.

You keep the commandments. You never view pornography, never masturbate, never fornicate, never drink, never smoke, never swear, never steal, and never shout.

You go to BYU, U of U, Ricks, Snow, Dixie, Utah Valley, Weber, Utah State, or even BYU Hawaii. You love to play board games, Skip-Bo, Phase Ten; you never watch R-rated movies, you only listen to Mo.Tab., you don’t drink caffeine, you would never watch inappropriate T.V. shows, you’ve seen all the Zion Films (Singles Ward is your favorite, but you felt the sequel didn’t do it much justice), you love Stake dances, and you always dance to the YMCA and Cotton-eyed Joe. You have fond memories of getting up early for Seminary and of the crazy times at EFY. You receive your Eagle Scout Award when you’re only 16, which explains why you love camping so much.

You drive a white mini-van, have FHE every Monday night, and love to eat funeral potatoes, casserole, and green jello with carrot slices. You live in a suburban house, in a white neighborhood, vote Republican, listen to Glen Beck, read Orson Scott Card novels, fill your house with Simon Dewey, Del Parson, and Greg Olsen paintings, and your 8 kids love John Bytheway.

And then you’ll be a good Mormon.

But what if you’re not?

The Fall of Hyrum Pratt

You grow up, and go to high school. You don’t live in Northern Utah, so there’s only 3 other Mormons in your school. So you start to hang around with different kinds of kids.

But you don’t fit.

They ask you why you don’t drink coffee; and you lie and say you do. They ask you why you can’t do stuff on Sundays; and you say it’s a day for family. You start to get made fun of, and you become lonely. So you watch more T.V. And then you start to slip.

Slowly, you start to swear a little, then you’re looking at porn at a friend’s house, while his mom is gone, and you like it, you really like it.

Next you start to read contemporary books on philosophy, like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Things Fall Apart. You start to fall asleep in church because you’re up late at night in front of the computer. You couldn’t quit if you tried; so why even try? They call it a slippery slope, they say, you got to be careful. You start to think you love to slide.

You start to read about Zen Buddhism, and run into that girl with the colored dreadlocks, and you start to ask her about her church. She says she’s a Unitarian Universalist. She just believes you can do whatever you want as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. You say that’s a really cool idea. And you believe it.

You start to investigate Anti-Mormon websites, and learn things they never told you in Sunday School. You wonder about why the church would support something like Prop. 8, and you start to disagree with other values: what’s wrong with a little pleasure, you wonder, how could Joseph Smith have more than one wife, you think, evolution is a true science, which means the world could have ended up without God, which makes you wonder if He’s even really there.

Your parents continue to fight, and you realize they wouldn’t fight as much if only your Dad could be home more. But he’s gone away on Church business. You start wonder where all these blessings are at. You start listening to songs like “Zero” by the Smashing Pumpkins, and “Unborn” by Reveille.

You swear frequently now.

You love the R-rated movies that you watch over at friends’ houses. You love the X-rated movies that you watch over at friends’ houses. You love the angry music that you listen to over at friends’ houses.

Soon you start spending more and more time away from home. Soon, you start talking about death at friends’ houses, and then your friend will show you their scars. You wonder what it’s like to have scars. Then you find yourself in the bathroom, a blade in your hand, blood spewing out of your wrists, and you think this is how you’re supposed to feel. You want the pain inside you to be on the outside. You want someone to catch you, to notice your suffering. But everyone’s gone at a church function you decided to skip. You get caught at school, and they call your parents. Your parents won’t believe them, but they aren’t lying. You never scarred anyway.

You go home that day, and your parents will be waiting for you. Your mom will cry, but your dad won’t. He’ll remain calm, but your mom won’t. She says you need to pray. And you ask, to who? Who MOM? WHO? God isn’t real, Mom, you say, God isn’t real, and the Church is just a bunch of B.S. and everybody is just too stupid to see it. And you feel good about it. You feel strong. You know you’re right.

But what if you’re not?

The Return of Hyrum Pratt

You find out that there is an evil inside of you. You find out there is something wrong with your brain. Bipolar ADHD, they call it. You hate it; but believe it. This will explain your addiction to addictions. You drop out of college because of it, and you return home to your parents. They say you don’t have to go to church anymore, and you won’t.

But you feel like something is missing. You feel like there is this void in your life. Like a tape-worm is eating all the food in your intestines; stopping you from getting nourished. You start to return.

It starts off as just a walk with your best friend Gabriel. You start walking around Notre Dame’s campus after FHE at Charity’s in Fischer’s Grad Student’s Apartments. You say you used to hate the idea of someone else controlling your life. Now you want someone else to be in charge, you say. Gabriel will tell you all about God. He takes you to the Grotto and he asks you what you really believe. He asks a lot of questions. Finally you figure it all out. You won’t remember how it happened, but you came back to Gabriel’s car. He challenges you to go home and pray about what you want to do. He says “God will show you the truth.” You listen to him.

That night you pray for the first time in years. You cry, and you beg for forgiveness, as you sit and ponder whether or not the church is true. You plead with your Father in Heaven to give you the guidance you seek. You beg to see the truth. You say, Lord, I am a humble boy, a broken man. You crave His grace, that he may show mercy upon you, and provide you with the answer you seek.

And the room will be silent. And you will feel so alone. It feels as if something is gripping your tongue. The dark room will chill you. Despite the winter clothing you wear, your bones will freeze, becoming brittle. You nearly collapse.

But then, you see a brightness you can’t even comprehend. The light will dissipate in seconds. A warmth will fill your soul. A burning bosom they call it. You cry out, is the Church true? The Holy Ghost will whisper the answer in your ear…“Yes.” And then you feel your sins being lifted.

You cry out in joy, and rush to your parent’s bedroom. There, you, your mother, and your father, will all cry together, thankful that you have finally returned home. And you feel the best you’ve ever felt.

And you’ll read this and wonder. You’ll wonder if it’s true. But you’ll know this is just fiction. And you’ll be right.

But what if you’re not?

Here’s something to keep you busy.  I’ve been experimenting with listening to a song a repeat and then writing what comes into my mind.  The following is a poem to “Tokyo” by The Books.

Japanese Airlines

“Tokyo” rolls off her tongue,
Like a ball off an airplane wing.
I…I…I…I…I…I…I…I
I feel this wind blow
through the long hairs
of the Samurai.

Blows…Blows like a breathe,
Sucked inward toward
My lungs fill with water,
But a push on my chest,
Relieves me of pain.

Repeat Repeat Repeat Repeat Repeat Repeat Repeat Repeat Repeat

The chords of harpsichord cordially invite you to pull on the power cord.
Electricity shoots through the small metal devices,
Flying through the world at 300 BPM sparking at the sounds of sisters silencing each other so they can surprise the Samurai who scornfully and surly stalks the sweet lemongrass.
“Sayonara”

“Tokyo” by The Books: