losing our grip on purpose

By Dan Carpenter

so shrewd, this so-called disorder
such uncanny creativity
in a hijacking of serotonin and synapse
witches’ brew of chemicals
raising spirits that know
or think they know
– same effect –
all the secrets
of the targets of paranoia
probing with ineffable genius
for moments of joy and solemnity
to pierce and piss upon

O, where hides the face
of the just and benevolent God
our church fathers assured us
had routed the ancient impish deities
that amused themselves
fucking with mortals
Where the hell is Psyche
goddess of beauty and soul?

Dan Carpenter is a freelance journalist, poet, fiction writer, essayist, and blogger, residing in Indianapolis. He has contributed poems, stories, and essays to Laurel Review, Poetry East, Illuminations, Pearl, Xavier Review, and many other journals and anthologies. He has published two books of poems, The Art He’d Sell for Love (Cherry Grove, 2015) and More Than I Could See (Restoration, 2009); and two books of non-fiction. Find more information at his website