My thoughts drift

To places

That I really wish they wouldn’t

I pick my nails

To give my fingers something to do

Maybe there’s science behind it—

Something tactile

Slowly venting steam from the reactor

I’m told I need to learn to love myself

Maybe I could one day

But this avoidance dance isn’t for me

Blood crowns chipped nails

Streaking the page

A trail left by a mind

Haunted

I’m bewildered by it, 
Your existence. 

I’ve wandered through wilderness- 
Decades of aimless confusion. 
Stumbling through,
Auctioning my ambition,
New excuses for new failures,
Saying things I didn’t believe to people who didn’t believe in me. 

I never learned to pray.
But (and maybe this is my first miracle) I still gave it a shot once or twice.
Not for board games or basketball.
For big shit.
Dark days.
Loss.
Moments I begged for a reprieve.
When I wanted to be anywhere else in the fucking universe but here.
When I was at peace with leaving it all behind me, but had nowhere to go.
I prayed then.

I prayed for an Angel to save me. 
To take me far away from the world that tormented me. 

I imagined her swooping down, wings spread in a glowing silhouette against bright white light. 
I imagined her embrace. 
I imagined the wind in my hair as we flew away from all I’d ever known.
I imagined how freeing it would feel. 

My Angel remained an unanswered prayer. 
I’d wandered alone for so long that I’d forgotten I’d ever asked for help.
And then one day you were here. 

And since the moment of our first embrace you’ve carried me away, 
My soul now miles and miles from the world that stole my spirit. 


We’re not in heaven yet-
But we may as well be. 


I’m haunted by the harmony of our reflections. 
Each time my eyes adjust I see the evidence of age in my face, 
And the brilliance of your consecrated beauty. 
And with each change I’m reminded: 

We’re further from where I was, 
But closer to a destination. 

It still blows my mind that you’re here, 
A living representation of the power of prayer. 
And though I dread the day you inevitably let me go, 
I’d sign up for this ride in every lifetime. 

From day to night, you bring me to an end.

I’m actually having a bit of trouble writing about what this poem means to me.

Not because I have any particular difficulty with it, but because I just have that voice in my head saying “no one is going to get it”.

I’m going to share it anyway. Here’s the context:

When I was a child someone I loved very much died. We were in the car on our way to see this person when my mom got the phone call that we were too late, she was already gone. I laid in the back seat pretending to sleep so I wouldn’t have to hear my mom repeat to me what I already knew was true.

I laid there in my grief for what was gone.

My young mind was already fractured by trauma by this point, and the number of safe people in my life was absurdly small.

And now one less.

The song Angel by Jimi Hendrix played over the car radio. I listened, and decided that’s what I wanted. I wanted an Angel to come and take me away from all of this.

I prayed silently in the back seat while tears rolled down my face, hoping no one would notice.

Late in my thirties I hold a puffy newborn to my chest, and she stares into my soul.

For a moment, we connect in a way that I can only describe as spiritual.

The perspective I’ve held my entire life is replaced in an instant.

I start to weep as I realize the Angel I’d prayed for all those years ago is here.

As moments become days, months, and years I’m further convinced.

But also faced with painful daily reminders of the passing of time,

And the realization that our journey together in this world is

temporary.

I came across this article and, I’ll admit, the title pulled me in.

I’ve never published an open response to another writer before, but this particular piece inspired me to do just that.

I’m not sure how this response will be received—either by my readers or by the author ()—but I welcome thoughtful disagreement and further commentary. I’m still learning myself, and I make no claim to be an authority on theology or Scripture.

If you think I’ve misunderstood the article, overlooked an important point, or simply see things differently, I’d genuinely like to hear your perspective.

Let me know in the comments.

The Christian Duty to Hate: "A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace"

I read this essay with genuine interest because I thought it raised a fair question:

Does the Bible justify hate in certain contexts?

Obviously the Old Testament is full of such language about abhorring and utterly destroying enemies, but I fail to recall a single moment where Jesus tells followers to hate this or that group for committing this or that sin.

I read on…

As I read I thought- okay, the author is driving home the point that God hates.

Got it.

That’s wholly different from God ordering us to hate.

And miles away from God ordering us to act on our hatred, which I was starting to fear was the direction this is going.

———

The author cites Leviticus, “Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself: I am the LORD.”,and suggests that the proper interpretation means “only those of our nation, which in the context of the Bible refers to a group of people sharing a common lineage, language, and culture”.

I am certainly not claiming to be a Biblical scholar of any sort, but I can say confidently that was NOT my interpretation any of the times I’ve read that exact text.

The essay spends considerable effort narrowing the definition of “neighbor” and expanding the categories of people Christians may hate.

Yet when Jesus was asked, “Who is my neighbor?”, He responded with the Parable of the Good Samaritan— a story whose entire point is that our obligations extend beyond tribe, nation, ethnicity, and religious affiliation.

———

The author goes on to differentiate between (3) types of enemies based on the author’s unique interpretation, and how we should relate to, or what action we should take toward them. Then the author gives up what may be the secret point of why they wrote the whole thing, “Our current political enemies are the people trying to destroy White Christian civilisation.” That singular line reframes the entire article.

Now I see that as the lines are drawn around who is deserving of love and forgiveness (thy people), and who is not (thy enemies), the author’s interpretation is specifically including race/color as another discriminating factor.

At that moment, the destination became clear.

———

With the cat out of the bag, the author really goes for it at the end saying, “It is not enough to say that we are permitted to hate these people. It is our sacred obligation to do so. For if we do not hate these people, we do not properly demonstrate our love for God.“

And what began as an argument for hating sin has somehow evolved into an argument for viewing entire categories of people primarily through the lens of race, tribe, and political allegiance.

Maybe the authors pseudonym “Anglopilled” should have given it away for me earlier.

Since I admit I am new to Christianity and in no way an authoritative voice here, I want to clarify my own stance for anyone reading:

I do not deny God’s judgment. I do not deny that God opposes evil. I do not deny that Scripture contains hard passages.

I am however, deeply skeptical of any interpretation of Christianity that leaves us more certain about whom we should hate than whom we should love.

As I read the Gospels, I find Christ continually expanding the circle of mercy.

Samaritans.

Tax collectors.

Prostitutes.

Gentiles.

Canaanites.

Roman soldiers.

Even the men crucifying Him.

———

“It is not enough to say that we are permitted to hate these people. It is our sacred obligation to do so. For if we do not hate these people, we do not properly demonstrate our love for God.”

If I finish reading the words of Christ and conclude that my sacred duty is to hate more people, I suspect I have missed something essential.

I sat down with a psychopath.

No questions were off limits.

How did I get here?

I could simply tell you that I saw “A psychopath’s journal” in my feed and decided to reach out, but I’m a writer after all, so allow me to elaborate.

Seeing the title, I immediately had questions. My first assumption was that either

1. The author is playing a character to drive engagement, or

2. The author is calling themselves a psychopath, but not meaning it literally

I figured I could spot a faker by their work, so I dove in.

I read the first 11 posted articles and tons of notes.

The writing was cold and analytic, and included some poetry. (This led to more questions- what the fuck is a psychopath doing writing poetry? I mean, ChatGPT can write poetry too, but if it became sentient and was making decisions all its own, I wouldn’t expect it to create a substack and write poetry, ya know?)

The capacity to experience emotion and the depth of empathy required to relate to a lot of poetry I thought would preclude a psychopath from finding any interest in it. I read on.

The pieces described trying to navigate a world by reading context clues and attempting to blend in. It was strangely relatable, as I imagine it’s part of the human experience to “not fit in”, but for the author these exchanges weren’t uncomfortable and embarrassing- they were training.

Every human interaction interpreted like algorithmic data, allowing the interpreter to then make subtle behavioral adjustments that allow them to better blend in. I imagined the internal dialogue of such a person is probably strikingly similar to a wild animal being introduced to humans for the first time- sniffing, observing, reacting. Stomping, observing, reacting.

Biting, observing, reacting.

Each lesson the animal survives making the humans less of a mystery, less of a threat.

I developed so many more questions.

I read on.

I had to know more.

I was hooked.

The questions I had demanded answers.

Eventually it occurred to me that I could just ask. Substack as a platform is all about community and connecting with other writers, and the worst they could do is ignore me or say they’re not interested, right?

So I reached out.

I slid into the DM’s of what I now considered a fairly credible sounding, self-proclaimed psychopath.

(Thinking about that now as I write it, I’m realizing that probably says something about my own psychology.)

After an introduction and brief pitch, it was set.

I, with no formal education in psychology, and no significant interview experience to speak of, had won myself an audience. The only problem- I had no idea who or what I would be interviewing.

What I did and didn’t expect:

I guess I expected Ted Bundy. Clever, witty, and ruthlessly aggressive.

I expected to immediately have a sense that something was different about this person.

I expected to feel manipulated.

I expected something eerie. Something potentially terrible.

The thought of it excited me. I made a long list of questions, and I tried to mentally prepare myself for their responses.

Now with the interview over, I can tell you I didn’t feel any of those things. She didn’t strike me as evil, or dangerous, or even all that dark. The conversation was, I hate to admit- almost boring. And that’s not to say she didn’t have plenty of interesting things to say, but just that the archetypical psychopath I had imagined never showed up. The person that did was just like the rest of us- meandering through life playing the hand they were dealt, and hoping no one notices their differences.

In some ways however, she was as expected. She presented as quite intelligent (studying medical engineering), and wasn’t lacking for charm or wit. Our conversation felt honest and intimate, after all she was sharing with me details about her inner-workings- secrets she’s kept from the rest of the world.

“I consider myself a “pro-social” psychopath and very controlled… …I was extremely explosive in my younger years, but I learned impulse-control at an early age and that has helped me immensely to blend in with society.”

What I learned:

Her origin story starts the way you may have guessed, although she’s fuzzy on the details or at least not super comfortable sharing them with a strange man on the internet.

“Perhaps part of my psychopathy stems from (childhood) trauma… I didn’t have a single safe person…”

“I had no autonomy, I was held captive, couldn’t escape. The main trauma is basically the loss of control. It is possible that the psychopathy developed as a defense mechanism, but even if, due to my genetics, the two forces amplified each other.”

“If the CPTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) is the wound, then the ASPD (Antisocial Personality Disorder, IE: Psychopathy) is the protector.”

But that’s only part of the story. She was hyper self-aware and had spent a lot of time introspecting on what made her, her. Eventually, she started to put all the pieces together.

“I’m a combination of both factors. The nature part only amplified the nurture part.”

So what does a psychopath do once they realize they’re not like everyone else?

Initially, it was a game of adaptation and camouflage. Hilariously, she found the “how psycho are you” tests she found on social media to be useful training material for how to behave so no one suspects you.

“I used (those tests) to derive behavioural rules and how people work and perceive. it was like a start-jump into humans, a first step into understanding the laws of humanity.”

I found the answer to my poetry question to be similar.

“Poetry was my entry drug to writing, journaling, developing awareness and depth. Understanding human emotions and how they work… …It seemed to me like a concentrated version, which appealed to me out of pragmatic reasons… …It helped me both ways: to understand the input from other people, but also apply language more efficiently as an output.”

She approached reading poetry as a research opportunity into the emotional human psyche. Here is someone incapable of experiencing the strongest of human emotions at the level that most do, and as a result she’s looking to poetry for better descriptions of them. This was where the first bit of sympathy crept in. It was all very confusing, because why should I feel bad for her when she’s not in any way sad about it?

The dark stuff:

So what does all this say about her? Is she a monster? Well, certainly not in the eyes of the law. She’s been very careful to curate a clean record, and stay within the boundaries of acceptable behavior, even though as she puts it, it’s only because it would be a hassle not to.

“I don’t have a moral compass, nor principles that are fixed. I simply vary my narrative, depending on the context. In the eyes of the justice system and police, I have a perfectly blank record.”

“If you fuck up once, you fuck up your record for life and will suffer from the consequences until the day you die. It doesn’t make sense, the calculation is not profitable for me and that’s all that matters.”

If keeping within the accepted societal norms is the only thing stopping her from acting out on impulse, does that make her a ticking time bomb? What happens when she’s tempted to cross a line, and is all but certain she’ll get away with it?

“The more you consume, the more you will need to hit another high. Same goes with my bad behaviours. I know I would need more and more if I just let my impulses take over. A month later I’d be in jail. So I developed the habit of making such things something “special” and to be consumed with care. Adaptation startegy. which also works in the favour of society, but that’s just a side-effect.”

I know you just read that last line and are wondering, “what bad behaviors?” Sadly, like most psychopaths, abusing animals or “experimenting” on them is a part of her story.

“I had enough restraint to not push it too far, again I didn’t want to get caught and deal with the shitstorm and everything… …It was a precarious dance on the lines”

I didn’t get into too many specifics on the animal abuse, because frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I did ask the largest animal she experimented on however- horses.

“A dog will attack you, a horse will run away and be scared of you. makes it actually very easy to abuse.”

Despite this experimentation in her past, she actually claims to love animals in her own way.

“I love animals. I really do. I can treat them very well too.”

She was clear that she hadn’t done any such experimentation on humans… Although she later did confess that she has spent some time thinking about it.

“I haven’t “experimented” on humans in this way… …It does intrigue me, and I play in my mind with different scenarios and ideas, but I know not to execute them, if I want to preserve my personal freedom… …I can vividly imagine what I would do, even to the smallest details, but then I just conclude with the conscious decision to not do it.”

Is it weird that my mind conjures up a jail-broken iphone? From the outside it looks just like any other phone. Even if you took it apart piece by piece you would not find a smoking gun to suggest anything different. Yet, she is capable of incomprehensible things, things most of us would be haunted by if we could bring ourselves to do them at all, and then she can just- walk away and be totally fine.

“I can befriend someone in a matter of weeks and make that person’s whole day revolve around me and I will take and take and take until I have no use anymore or the benefit I get decreases. Then I simply vanish and drop that person. No record, no tracks, no way to get back at me, I got away with it.”

“I don’t “feel” when I crossed a boundary or hurt someone. I am emotionally oblivious to such things.”

So what is it like to be her?

“I’m a “freshly aware” psychopath and also the diagnosis is relatively young, so I still have a bit of learning about myself to do too.”

Are there advantages?

“I don’t experience emotional breakdowns the way I observed in other people. I don’t have anxiety, I don’t have self-doubts, no regrets or guilt that eats me from the inside, no blaming myself, low fear, I don’t feel overwhelmed, I don’t have mood swings or anxiety, etc.”

I’m sure some of you are thinking, “that sounds like bliss”, but I’m not so sure. On experiencing joy:

“It’s very difficult to say that there are things that reliably bring me joy or entertainment. Joy is again an emotion that I only possess in fractions. I can feel joy, but it is very limited in the sense, that it lasts as long, as I ‘feed’ it with attention and cognitive resources, to tune into the emotion. It’s comparable to searching a specific frequency on a radio. The knobs are directly connected to my emotions and I kinda turn them in my head until I find the right tone. Then I can spend some time there, but I lack the part where the emotions leave trails or linger. If I turn my attention to something else, gone is the frequency and the only thing I get is noise/static.”

So does she do anything for fun?

“I enjoy doing martial arts, but if I had to stop doing it, I wouldn’t mind.

I enjoy every other sport as well, but martial arts also helps regulate my predisposition for aggression.”

“I like action, boredom is my enemy. if you are someone that does interesting things, that person becomes interesting.”

You could also say she has a ‘passion’ for learning, but then even that is driven by a need for power and control.

“Everything that I don’t know much or nothing about, automatically interests me, because knowledge is power.”

How she views on other people:

“People close to me are important to me. While it is true that I see people as npc’s, not even those important people are automatically excluded from that. I put effort into seeing them more as another person. But in a way I consider them as a possession, as something that belongs to me and I am / can be very protective of what’s mine.”

And how the NPCs view her:

“For some reason people like to vent with me, I’ve had often people emotionally open up to me. Oftentimes, i get positive feedback that my inputs really helped, that they felt listened to… …that they felt safe.”

And now, the lightning round, or ‘everything you wanted to know about psychopaths but never had the opportunity to ask one’:

Does she believe in God?

“No not really. I‘m more of an agnostic.”

Internal monologue?

”I’m having a discussion in my head with myself as we’re talking!”

Can she spot other psychopaths?

“I have several suspicions and sometimes I can sense when someone is “off” in a similar way i am, but I never know for sure.”

What would your significant other say is the strangest thing about you?

“Sleeping with a 26.5 lb blanket over the normal blanket at night”

Does anything scare you?

(I) wouldn’t know (of) something that can reliably scare me.

What does an ideal date night look like to you?

“Probably something illegal and completely fucked up.”

Any pet peeves?

“Inefficiency and boredom are for sure top tier here.”

Reflecting:

Thinking back on it, it may have been reckless.

Imagine me, an average suburban Dad to young girls, finding out news that a psychopath lived in the neighborhood and thinking, “Gee I think I might knock on their door and ask them some questions!” What could go wrong?

Fortunately for me, the person I met didn’t appear to be Ted Bundy. She was clear, articulate, vulnerable, and easy to talk to and work with. And maybe that’s what makes the feeling I get all the more unsettling. Publicly, she is just like any number of other people I’ve spoken to. She was actually MORE pleasant than many. Internally however, she’s having a very different human experience.

She wasn’t emotionally hardened.

She was emotionally incomplete.

Maybe that’s why I can’t help but feel bad for her.

Or maybe I’m being manipulated more than I realize.

“Sometimes I do some mental gymnastics and imagine I’d probably be the abusive ex you keep running back to.”

She was once someone’s newborn baby, full of hope and wonder. Infinite potential.

Then she suffered trauma so devastating to her psyche that a part of her seems to have simply shut down.

She’s since filled in the gaps best she could with literature, media, and a sort of algorithmic trial and error process she plays out during human to human interactions, but that’s all it can ever be for her.

The mask she wears, constructed of the intricate details that she’s amassed in her mind of what she’s “supposed to” be feeling, she wears for everyone else.

She has lived her life since childhood disabled in a very real way. Lacking an otherwise universal human sense. She can see, smell, taste, hear, and feel, but it’s all just data collection. She won’t be moved to tears by a song, or be lost in an emotional embrace, or feel devastated by heartbreak.

I had to ask her if she saw this all as a net positive or net negative, because there’s no way I can see it as anything other than a severe mental disability.

“The way I can handle and use it now, it is a superpower.”

And THIS is the crux of the tragedy.

She doesn’t even have the ability to mourn for what was taken from her.

She would likely see that as nothing more than a waste of time and energy. Yet what was done to her appears to be permanent.

You could say a part of her humanity died all those years ago.

There is no book, no training, no medication, no cure.

But even if there were, she wouldn’t be interested.

“So even if I could, I would not flip the switch. Sure, it would be interesting to experience for a day or two, to see some things for myself, confirm suspicions/conclusions of my analyses, etc., but to give it up completely?

Never.”

I’m 41 years old.

For slightly over half of my time on Earth, my country has been at war in the Middle East.


                   What for again?


Can anyone point to a reason their lives are better that they can directly correlate to the wars?


7,000+  of my brothers and sisters in arms dead in these wars.

200,000+ more to suicide in the years following their deployments.

7,000 of my brothers and sisters dead.

200,000 more after coming home.

And hundreds of thousands of civilians—

(though they’re hardly counting those anymore).

And wounded?

Innumerable.

So I ask you again-


What was it all for?

I’ve played my part.

As a young Marine I deployed to Iraq. Twice.

As a civilian contractor I served in Afghanistan supporting the Air Force.


I fought.


I killed.


I earned my ribbons and medals.


               I survived.


I told anyone who asked 

"it doesn't matter" why we were there 

the fact was we WERE there 

and it was my responsibility to execute orders

and do my best 

to bring my brothers and sisters

and myself

home.


That’s what I told them.

          Maybe I was telling myself.

A decade later, I’m watching a President cut and run.

We needed to leave.

But not like that.


Withdrawing in a poorly planned scramble.

People hanging from airplanes.

Fleeing children shredded by razor wire.

13 more dead Americans.

Another 170+ civilians.


         Not one resignation or firing.


Pockets were stuffed.

And a bullet point on a resume was achieved.

Politicians met deadlines.

Families lined up their dead.

The Afghanistan abandonment over,

PTSD starts to intensify.

The worst nightmares happening more frequently.

Triggers multiplying.

Sleep—gone.

Can’t sit still.

Mood swings.

Outbursts.

Avoidance.

Numbness.

Broken furniture and hurt feelings.

Increase the meds.

Increase the therapy.

Work out harder.

Write more.

Ask for help.

Ask fellow Vets.

Ask the internet.

Ask God.

Ask myself:

What for?

Now I’m a Dad.

Softer, kinder, more cautious,

But I still have a rifle.


New leadership, old narrative.

President orders several military strikes-

On pirates.

On cartel members.

Venezuela.

Iran.


I lower my head.

What the fuck for?!

Now it seems they’re planning for “boots on the ground”.

A cute phrase for a brutal reality.

Sending men and women,

Fathers and mothers,

Brothers and sisters,

Sons and daughters,

Directly into harms way.



Bombs and drones are expensive in America.

Lives are cheap.

How many will it take?

Doesn’t matter to leadership,

as long as we achieve our objectives.

Our objectives.

Our objectives…

…can anyone articulate them coherently?

What. For.

You know what the fucked up thing about being a Marine Combat Veteran is?


When the first American deaths were reported in Iran


My first thought was


(The same as in every other war since I’ve served):


                    It should have been me.


Survivors guilt extends to wars I’ve never fought.

Or maybe it’s ego.

Maybe part of me still dreams I’ll get called up like Will Smith in Independence Day.

Kiss the family goodbye,

and save the world.


Fantasy.

Comedy.

Distraction.

Avoidance.


My fighting years are behind me.

I’m happy living the dad life.

A dad wearing war's burden.


Brought to you by bureaucrats, boomers, and billionaires.


A dad with a rifle.

What for?

Today was one of the types of days I hope to relive again and again someday.

Today was the kind of day that take an empty tank and tops it off.

Today seemed to shout at me all day long: you are living the best days of your life! SOAK IT IN!

Tonight I go to bed knowing it’s likely I’ll dream of something horrific, as always.

Tonight I may wake sweating, sobbing, screaming, and sick.

Tonight I’ll fall asleep smiling on my pillow.

Tonight as I lay, I’ll be thinking of today.

Another night, another nightmare.

But today—

I spent all day laughing and playing with my girls.

Nothing that comes tonight can overwrite—

Nothing can steal away—

today.

Nothing.

If you like my writing, please consider slapping that button and becoming a free subscriber.

If you love my writing, slap it harder and become a paid subscriber.

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Either way, I love and appreciate that you took the time to read my poem.

Thank you!

And a quick reminder of the structure:

Final Round:

One last poem each.

Part 3. The “final word.”

No coordination. No safety net.
Just wherever the trilogy lands.

For this round we both decided to blend the topics, so each poem our theme is:

War & Conflict & Sea Creatures

Presented below is ’s poem exactly as I received it. No edits, no adjustments.

Don’t forget to subscribe and show your support, and read more from !

’s Topic:

War & Conflict & Sea Creatures

Dying to Read More Whiplash Poetry?

Can’t Wait To see David’s poem?

Head over to ’s substack for the cross-post!

If you’ve enjoyed this collaboration, let us know in the comments and we’ll do more of it!

THANK YOU FOR READING!

And a quick reminder of the structure:

Round 2:

Then we go again—

We swap themes and write again.

Not an explanation. Not a breakdown.

A response.

We exchange.

We post.

Presented below is ’s poem exactly as I received it. No edits, no adjustments.

What an evening!

The sunset on the water,

Emanating fiery reds and deep violets,

Paints the clouds just as vivid.

The line of the horizon

Is the edge of a near mirror.

A great white pelican carries her fish,

Gliding low.

Bobbing on the North Pacific,

Maybe flotsam or treasure is spotted.

The ship draws in, captain’s orders,

And a great quiet befalls the crew

Broken shells once bright are now sun-bleached pastel.

The fragments, orange here, white there,

Are the remnants of a lifeboat once enclosed.

The bodies it bore–long gone and sunk into the sea.

Don’t forget to subscribe and show your support, and read more from !

’s Topic:

War & Conflict

Dying to Read More Whiplash Poetry?

Can’t Wait To see David’s poem?

Head over to ’s substack linked below for the cross-post!

And a quick reminder of the structure:

Round 1:

We each get assigned one random, single-word theme.
No context. No explanation. Just the word.

From that, we each write a 16-line poem (4×4).
No real rules—except one:

At some point, the tone has to shift hard.
Abrupt. Uncomfortable. Maybe even a little unnatural.

That’s the whole point.

Presented below is ’s poem exactly as I received it. No edits, no adjustments.

’s topic:

War & Conflict

They call the enemy scoundrel and savage and bloodsucker.

That enemy halted by the wire like stormy waves when they crash upon the mighty tall seawall.

Their enemy flows into the channel where they want them.

And they want them.

Truth be told, the enemy is the keystone.

The skeleton has no spinal cord until the enemy is found, until he makes a sound.

They wait underground—trading cigarettes.

They peek over drone-man’s shoulder, sibling watching sibling playing on the Gameboy.


***

War was the perfect sport but now they’ve


Returned. There is nothing, no dive bar brawler, no cantankerous neighbor to be that keystone.


No enemy like the old enemy is found here.

Too incompetent, or almost innocent, are the shifting shapes new in this world after.

When she brings him a coffee he trembles or cries, or when a man stops him in the street to chat.



Only looking back can he see he was swallowed by a lurid darkness.



He restored him and thawed him, but not he alone.



A newly found keystone, of loving attention, of people, of people, of people. I could kiss you.

Don’t forget to subscribe and show your support, and read more from !

’s Topic:

Sea Creatures

Dying to Read More Whiplash Poetry?

Can’t Wait To see David’s poem?

Head over to ’s substack linked below for the cross-post!

Writings of the Highly Esteemed Theodore Douglas Schurr

Full title: The Terrific and Awe-Inspiring Writings of the Highly Esteemed Theodore Douglas Schurr

Disclaimer:

To be clear:

This is not an alteration of Scripture.

It is not doctrine.

It is not canon.

It’s one man writing fictional reflections inspired by ancient stories—for creative and literary exploration only.

Still, I’ll admit some apprehension in sharing this work. I know it may be taken out of context or mistaken for something it isn’t. Some may call it blasphemous.

That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

In Numbers 13–14, Moses sends twelve spies to scout the land of Canaan. They find the land beautiful and fertile, indeed the land of milk and honey. But amongst the inhabitants are literal f’ing Giants!

“And there we saw the Nephilim (the sons of Anak, who come from the Nephilim); and we seemed to ourselves like grasshoppers, and so we seemed to them.”

The spies were SO terrified and convinced that they cannot win, that ten of twelve of them return to lie about the state of the land to the congregation.

Joshua and Caleb tell the truth, and try to convince Israel to fight.

What follows here is something of a poem, or maybe a speech- that one of the other 10 spies (guess correctly which one and I’ll send you a signed book!) would have written to state his case against invading Canaan.

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Helgran × Schurr

The collaboration you never asked for—
but you’re getting anyway.

Presenting:

David Helgran × Theodore Douglas Schurr

in a tag-team event for the ages:

Whiplash Poetry

A poetic experiment in contrast and timing.

2 poets.
6 poems.
No seatbelts.

The Structure:

Round 1:

We each get assigned one random, single-word theme.
No context. No explanation. Just the word.

From that, we each write a 16-line poem (4×4).
No real rules—except one:

At some point, the tone has to shift hard.
Abrupt. Uncomfortable. Maybe even a little unnatural.

That’s the whole point.


Round 2:

We exchange poems.
We cross-post them.
You get both perspectives side by side.

Then we go again—

Each of us writes a rebuttal to the other’s poem.
Not an explanation. Not a breakdown.
A response.

We exchange.
We post.


Final round:

One last poem each.
Part 3. The “final word.”

No coordination. No safety net.
Just wherever the trilogy lands.

The Result:

Two separate 3-part series.
Intended to be read together.

Six total poems.
Six examples of what happens when you lean into the contrast instead of smoothing it out.

The Tag-Team Partner:

Now… about the other half of this thing.

Theodore describes himself as a “literary renaissance sleeper agent,” which is either a joke, a warning, or both.

Reading his work feels like trying to keep pace with a mind that doesn’t move in straight lines, or like arguing with an aggressive drunk person with dementia. One minute it’s sharp and deliberate, the next it veers into something chaotic, fragmented, or strangely precise in a way that makes you stop and reread it.

You’re not always sure what you’re walking into, but there’s always something.

There’s an edge there. And more importantly, a willingness to lean into it.

That’s what made this an easy yes.

This could be really good.
Or completely unhinged.

Probably both.

Subscribe free.
Read both sides.
And hold on.

Driving on a sunny spring afternoon.

Spotify playlist lands on Bohemian Rhapsody.

“Daddy, I like this song!”

My 3 year olds voice from the back seat.

Windows down.

We miss a couple of turns.

Add We Will Rock You, and Champions to the queue.

The Long Way

Taking the long way, just us two

Having fun, just me and you

Early still, one more song

Loud and proud, we sing along.

One small moment.

Now- the song ends too soon.

God help me, my hearts not ready,

When one day it’s you who’s driving,

And me in the passenger seat, praying-

You’ll take the long way home.

To be clear:

This is not an alteration of Scripture.

It is not doctrine.

It is not canon.

It’s one man writing fictional reflections inspired by ancient stories—for creative and literary exploration only.

Still, I’ll admit some apprehension in sharing this work. I know it may be taken out of context or mistaken for something it isn’t. Some may call it blasphemous.

That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

In Leviticus God makes very clear what the rewards are for following his lead. And in terrifyingly graphic fashion, what the punishment is if you continue to turn your back to him. I have read and re-read this chapter several times, and even now it still haunts me.

Walk in my path and the world will know
The earth will share its treasures with you
Your life like your children will prosper and grow

Follow my lead and I’ll guide your hand
I’ll make your enemies stumble
I'll fill your cup and bless your land

Walk away and I’ll take it to heart
I’d rather not do it
But I’ll tear everything apart

For my wounded heart you’ll witness the fall
You’ll fear all that surrounds you—
But even still, I’ll reiterate my call.

Your soul will grow weary of famine and war
The world you know will shun you—
And then quietly I’ll ask you once more.

Ignore me still and your humanity will blur
Choking on the flesh of your offspring
Before long you'll forget who you were

But do not be disheartened by these things you’ve now heard
I’ll invite you to join me again—
But then- only once you’ve remembered my word.

Some lines we write.

Some lines were written long before us.

To tell you the truth,

every now and then it’s hard.

thing is—that’s life.

there is no one coming.

is what you want worth the sacrifice?

a great life is built by enduring

season after season.

and you’ll want to quit.

a day will come when you think

time to pack it up,

to say fuck it to everything

every ounce of sweat you’ve poured in.

purpose doesn’t stay buried

under self pity.

heaven lives in the journey and the destination.

One day a man with a saw cut a branch off a tree.

The branch fell to the ground and was kicked and raked aside.

As the seasons changed, its broken end became covered with leaf litter and new soil.

Through the shelter of another tree, it survived and grew.

It grew until its roots intertwined with the tree that nurtured it.

In time, the two were one.

And after a few more seasons, the rescued tree dropped some seeds of its own.

Now he watches them grow,

in awe of all that has come to fruition

since the days when he believed he had lost everything.

To be clear:

This is not an alteration of Scripture.

It is not doctrine.

It is not canon.

It’s one man writing fictional reflections inspired by ancient stories—for creative and literary exploration only.

Still, I’ll admit some apprehension in sharing this work. I know it may be taken out of context or mistaken for something it isn’t. Some may call it blasphemous.

That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

This one is a short one, so it won’t be the only writing I share inspired by the book of Leviticus.

Leviticus mentions that in the old world, on the day of atonement, sacrifices were made (or maybe abandoned is a better word) into the wilderness, or to “Azazel”. The idea being that in order to atone for the sins of the wondering Jews, a goat would be imbued with all the sin of man, and then cast off into the wilderness, making the early Jewish people pure again. (Interesting factoid: this is where the term ‘scapegoat’ comes from.)

Azazel is never really discussed in the Bible (as far as I am aware), but in the book of Enoch he/it is referred to like a fallen angel of some sort that was exiled to the wilderness by God as punishment for teaching forbidden knowledge and corrupting humanity.

I personally found this character interesting, especially since it’s one I had never heard anything about prior to my recent reading. I began imagining what became of Azazel, and what his/it’s perspective of God’s chosen people must’ve been- hence inspiring this short poem.

Do your own reading, form your own ideas and opinions, and by all means let me know what you think in the comments!

Azazel

Give me your sin,
your shortcoming,
your inequity.


I drink it in-
my becoming,
my destiny.


You do not deserve (Him)!
Your role is to serve (Him)!
And mine is still less-
I’m chained to your mess.


Eternally smote,
Your Scapegoat.

Today I celebrated my first Ash Wednesday. Do I say I celebrated? Participated in? Please feel free to correct me- this is all very new to me.

I didn’t exactly mean to.

I did intentionally walk into a Catholic church. That much is true. But I had no idea it was a special day.

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It has been a very difficult couple of years for me, as two of the most influential men in my life have passed. I am now without any living Grandfathers.

What I’ve written here was never meant to be public. But after visiting family this weekend I was reminded how large our family is, and just how many people this incredible man was able to inspire.

Considering that, it felt inappropriate to keep this to myself. I may have been a fortunate recipient of much of Pop’s wisdom, but it would be a crime not to share it with as many people as I can.

If his words and ideas resonate with you, please take them and share them, so that in this way Pop’s spirit of kindness, warmth, and joy can continue to spread for generations to come.

I miss you, Pop.

Most of you probably don’t know this, but I’m the one who gave Cliff the nickname “Pop.”

Cliff and Nana had driven up to visit us at our house in New Hampshire. I don’t think it was the first time I’d met Cliff, but it was probably the first time I was old enough to really talk with him.

I was sitting on the concrete steps that led down to our driveway when Cliff came outside and struck up a conversation. At some point, I put it bluntly:

“I don’t know what to call you.”

“Well, I’m your Grandma’s husband,” he said, “so you can call me Grandpa if you like.”

“But I already have a Grandpa.”

“Well,” he said, “you can call me Cliff if you want. Or Gramps. Or Grampy. Or Papa Cliff. Or hey, fatso—I suppose you can call me whatever you want.”

I thought about it for a while.

“I think I’ll call you Papa Cliff,” I finally said.

But Cliff had some trouble hearing.

“Pop it is!” he replied enthusiastically, already turning and heading back into the house—no doubt eager to share the news with everyone else.

Pop wasn’t the name I chose.

But damned if he didn’t wear it well.

Pop was the kind of man who could sit in uncomfortable silence forever if he thought that’s what someone else needed.

In a room full of people where an argument had just happened—someone storming off and slamming a door—Pop might wait a few seconds, then break the tension with a lighthearted joke… or a perfectly timed fart that somehow made everyone laugh just enough to feel like it was safe to move on.

As a kid I thought he might be the smartest person I knew. Pop was full of wisdom, and he dropped atom bombs of insight on my little-boy brain on a regular basis. Most of the time, I had no idea what he meant until years later. Here’s an example:

Cliff drank sweet tea out of a jug all day long. Not a cup—a jug. Half-gallon sized. He’d just keep refilling it. And almost every night while we were visiting, he’d eat ice cream.

By the time I was twelve or thirteen, he’d already had multiple heart issues and surgeries. I asked him once, “Doesn’t it scare you, eating like that, with all your heart stuff?”

He chuckled and said, “Well sure it does. But what’s the point of living a long time if you can’t enjoy it?” He had a great laugh, too.

So anyway—here’s a list, as best I can remember, of some of the best nuggets he gave me:

• Eat more ice cream.

• If you don’t take pride in yourself, no one else will either.

• Smile readily. Laugh without hesitation.

• Err on the side of safety—but leave room to have fun.

• Be a gentleman, so others have an example.

• Let them ___—you just do what’s right for you.

• Do more of what you’re called to do, and less of what you’re told to do.

• Movies are good. Books are even better. But nothing beats conversation.

• How will you know if you don’t try?

• Get used to acting like a man, because there will be times when you’re the only one who can.

• Live the story you want to tell your grandkids one day.

• Be you. The people who matter will love you anyway.

• Hold the door for everyone—you never know who you’ll need to hold it for you someday.

• Enjoy each other.

I’m sure I’m forgetting some, but you get the idea.

This past week has been really difficult for me, for a lot of different reasons. The world is full of things that can give you anxiety—things that can make you lose hope, or even lose faith.

But if Pop taught me nothing else, it’s this:

It’s okay to have a good timie anyway.

I love you, Cliff.

Nana—thank you for marrying one of the best examples of a truly good man that my rebellious ass was ever lucky enough to be influenced by.

And to everyone else:

Enjoy each other.

To be clear:

This is not an alteration of Scripture.

It is not doctrine.

It is not canon.

It’s one man writing fictional reflections inspired by ancient stories—for creative and literary exploration only.

Still, I’ll admit some apprehension in sharing this work. I know it may be taken out of context or mistaken for something it isn’t. Some may call it blasphemous.

That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Welcome to another piece from the Margins of Scripture! If it’s been a while since you’ve read Exodus, this particular piece of writing is centered on the passover, and what that must have been like for the average Israelite family, in particular from the perspective of a father. These men would most likely have been illiterate, and had to act on the word of the priests or wise men, who themselves were spreading the word from Moses. In other words, this whole effort was likely a much bigger test of faith than I think most people realize at first glance.

Let me know what you think in the comments!

The father stood outside in the cold, the chill sharper now as he drew water from the pump and splashed it over his arms, his chest, and his face. He washed outside so as not to wake anyone. He had not slept himself, but now that his family had, he could not bring himself to disturb them.

He watched as the thick blood and dirt matted in his hair softened, thinned, and ran down his skin, dripping away into the earth. The ground swallowed it quickly. That surprised him. He had expected it to linger.

What if I was wrong?

The Elder had been clear. There could be no doubt of that. And the Elder spoke for Moses, who spoke for God. There was no room for misunderstanding. 

He continually reassured himself.

It must be so. It must be.

Despite his efforts, the night returned to him.



“What are we to do tomorrow?” his wife had demanded, her voice tight with frustration.

How could she understand? How could anyone? They were barely surviving as it was — little food, little rest, little hope. And still they were asked to give more. She had seen the plagues. She believed the words. 

But belief did not fill a stomach, and faith did not quiet children at night.

“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” he had snapped. “He said it happens tonight—”

“I don’t care what he says,” she cut in. “What do you say?” Tears stood in her eyes. “What will you tell your wife and daughters as you take our only lamb and kill it on a stranger’s word?”

He had no answer for that. He had gone to fetch the lamb.



The sky was lightening now. A thin line of dawn crept along the horizon, and he did not know whether that was a comfort or a warning. More blood slid from his hands and vanished into the dirt.

His thoughts turned to his daughters.

The younger had known little — not enough to understand, but enough to be afraid.

“Daddy,” she had asked again and again, “is someone coming to hurt us?”

He had given her the only answer he could.

“No, my love. We’ll be safe inside.”

He regretted those words almost immediately.

When he stepped outside with the lamb, her cries rose from the doorway where her mother held her back. She screamed his name, screamed for the lamb, screamed as though the night itself were swallowing them whole.

Then the sound stopped.

The silence was worse.



Blood splashed at his feet — heavy, wet sounds that seemed to echo far longer than they should have. He lost all sense of time. He did not notice his daughter until she collided with him, small arms wrapping around his neck.

He startled, instinctively lifting the knife before he saw her face — white with terror. He dropped it at once, fell to his knees, and held her as though she might disappear if he did not. Her warmth pressed against his chest, and something inside him finally broke.

When she pulled back, her face was streaked red — his blood, the lamb’s blood, he did not know. She studied him carefully, then smiled.

“Dada,” she said, delighted. “You're all red!”



He scrubbed harder now, nails scraping skin, tearing free the last clumps of blood-darkened hair.

The older one had watched everything.

“What if they don’t see it?” she had asked him quietly. “What if it rains?”

He carried her sister past her without answering.



Later, as he kissed his oldest goodnight, she said, “I love you, Father.” Then, softer: “I just wish you trusted Mother and me as much as you trust the Elders.”

He had tried to answer. He truly had.

But before he could, she spoke again.

“I’m your firstborn,” she said. “What if they ask for me?”



His nail caught on a splinter now, sharp and sudden. The pain was a relief. He pressed his thumb hard into his palm, welcoming it, grounding himself in something small and immediate.

The sun had now fully risen.
They’d be awake again soon.

What if my wife was right?
What if none of this was necessary?
What will be asked of me tomorrow?

He pushed harder at the splinter.


Then, in the distance, the screaming began.

TL;DR

The Evolpow P3A is an absurd amount of gym in a compact footprint. If you have this plus dumbbells, you can cover ~95% of what a serious lifter does in a commercial gym. It’s sturdy, versatile, and an incredible value—but the instructions are rough, plate storage is limited, and the unboxing/build is… a journey.

Here Why I Love It (Pros)

Insanely versatile

• This thing replaces a lot of equipment: squat rack, functional trainer, lat pulldown, low row, fly machine, landmine station, pull-up bar, and more. It’s a true total-gym.

Compact but does a TON

• Footprint is reasonable given what it replaces. Perfect for a garage gym where space matters.

Rock-solid steel

• Sturdy, serious, confidence-inspiring. The steel feels like something Joe Rogan would confidently shoot an arrow at.

Excellent value for the money

• Considering what you get, the price-to-function ratio is outstanding.

Accessories included

• Comes with everything you need to get started—no immediate “oh great, now I have to buy five more things.”

Fast shipping

• Shockingly fast. Boxes showed up quicker than expected.

Thoughtful storage touches

• Hook storage for accessories and barbell storage are genuinely useful.

Pull-up bar is legit

• Solid grip, no flex, feels secure.

Landmine attachment = sleeper hit

• Didn’t know I needed it. Now I use it constantly.

  

Assembly is doable

• Can be done by one person (two is better). You don’t need to be an engineer—just be decent with Legos.

Minimal tools required

• Took about three tools total (including the box cutter). That said, highly recommend an impact driver and metric sockets.

The Downsides (Cons)

The instructions are… not great

• Faint printing

• Some mislabeled parts

• No written/verbal instructions—only exploded diagrams

• Requires a lot of inference

At one point we used the wrong bolts and had to backtrack.

• Huge build process

• Lots of boxes

• Tons of unpacking

• Many small pieces

You need space, patience, and probably a step stool.

• I’m 5’7”, so yeah, I needed a stool

• To spread everything out as you unbox takes a TON of room

It does not comfortably store a full 240 lb plate set.

• There is optional additional plate storage, but I didn’t get it

Slight cosmetic issues

• Some minor scuffs/scratches out of the box—cosmetic, but worth noting.

No “premium experience” extras

• No stickers, swag, welcome guide, or nice manual. For a big purchase, that felt like a missed opportunity.

Assembly Notes (Real Talk)

• Heavy boxes—plan accordingly

• Took a while, but no step was especially difficult

• Most time was spent interpreting instructions, not turning wrenches

• Lubricate pulleys and cables immediately

• Expect some trial and error

• Totally manageable solo, but smoother with two people

Only required the following tools:

Check out the full video of the unboxing and installation here!

Training Impressions

This rack shines for:

• Rows

• Chest flyes

• Squats

• Cable biceps/triceps

• Pull-ups

• Landmine work

Things I’d improve:

• Adjustable foot height for rows at different angles

• Better storage for larger bars and plates

Final Verdict

If you’re building a serious home gym and want maximum functionality per square foot, the Evolpow P3A is a killer option. It’s solid, versatile, and priced fairly for what it delivers.

The instructions and build experience could be much better, and plate storage is lacking—but once it’s assembled, this thing absolutely delivers.

Would I buy it again?

Yes—without hesitation.

I’d just budget extra time for assembly and keep a can of lubricant handy.

Ready to get your own?

Use my affiliate referral link w/Coupon code: 1MAN and you’ll get a few bucks off!