I remember pleading wishing to see love, too young to phrase what the word was, but that love extends beyond mere language, it was tears and bloodied lips bruised eyes, balled fists, a broken little boy putting up a perfect boxer’s guard, hands raised _Why? Why? Why!? _ _ _ _ Doesn’t anyone love me? _ __ __ How I would’ve held him close, so not even hell should touch him, “All hands are thorns, but God’s hands are flowers.” If I’m careful enough, maybe I can hold you. If I get jabbed, it’s fine, I’m used to it.

Green little sapling up from the ashes of trust breathes in new mercies

Dearest condolences, t’was, alas, thy time to be ever taken for thine power doth wain by season yea shalt thy lordship be forsaken a dream, mere vagary—— a twilight treason borne of rebellious spirit thou were but to the ends of showing divide bound to thine way, so thou occured now broken, buried into Life of Christ Here lies Death forevermore whose grip was flame, a fiery torch now frail and feint, a feather bore —— rests here, e’er silent, ‘neath Heaven’s roar

How beautiful that blood that Thy Sole Son did spill on a criminals cross, for Thy children to heal! How great Thy True love, in such humble display! How far didst Thou stoop so to show dark Thy Way! How wide were Thine arms to the east and the west, so to hold Thy beloved, so to so call them blessed! How sweet is the sound of Thine unending grace! What love! Oh Father, to giveth us Thine own place!

The saint’s hands, rugged as they be scars upon scars, bruised and callous broken and torn, shattered by war wounded and heavy, steel, dented and unlusterous, ragged like faded cloth stained and twisted, weary and labored as yoked beasts, panting under the cloudless sky, bearing the sun between their shoulders, trembling steady themselves now—— and fold into prayer

What blessing be bestowed to me that should I to the darkness flee or hasten to the deepest caves so that I should not know mine place or hide me in mine own soul’s depths within mine spirit’s lightless clefts and nestle me in mine nightmares of me, oh Christ, Thou art aware

That fell beast of flame and wing though slain by fine sword through thick scale rise again each harvest and consume goodly, Godly things of life and all green what fire and wind unshackled by mere breath talons no mortal smith could dream and bellows of molten rock and stone unknown to man or earth or sea whence stands o’er moonless, cloudless skies to gather stars by fierce inhale then breathe and break and blow and burst the treasure of the lives of peace true terror be on men of steel crisps of smoldering wicks be they though humble kindness knows its name and calls, _——“The beast returns!”_ _—“This thief!”_ __ _ “‘Tis Pride!” _

_Should moon have spoken to stay this maiden’s hand_ _or earth groan by warnings with shaking and quaking _ _as man stomps away dogs and beasts of the field _ _or beast could’ve howled and cried and wept _ _like mother holding lifeless child mourns with flame _ _for sun and stars then have neither warmth or light _ _and time could not console the sky of her clouds and winds _ _“Tragedy!” Shouts and roars the pity of that tree_ _and wilted should be all leaves for Mother’s outstretched arms _ _“Cursed!” should have boomed that thunder, splitting sea and stone ‘neath heavens cry_ _With these silent she could have heard that cruelty of hearts curse _ _or tone of serpent shrewd and moved and called,_ _daughter to her strong father _ _“Death!” roars the lion from his temple on the rock, where no ear listens for any time_ _And Adam said nothing. _ _08:08:2025_ ————-

For years we have gone on your hand in mine your head on my shoulder with that gentle sway the one of hearts poured out to God just the other day I realized all this time we’ve been dancing on the water

True freedom means but this to me: that I am bound by love to Thee Though time may claim mine gold and place and man might steal mine rights away and carry all mine own in chains to bind us to the end of days… What man might take mine Lord away? With all else torn, He shalt remain! And if, with me, the Savior be: then though encased, I still am free!

Peel back a layer a small victory then over celebrate with underwhelming days, full and bursting with vicious little moments; hours gnawing away on your bones quietly now, ever so slight and _I bought the cheapest cigars, dear _ __ thought they may hold back the devil, or my skin, or both _ ——they didn’t_ We’re dizzied by the cycle so when the ride is over we’ll not be ready to run, so let’s puke and go again ——I’m so sorry I am me What are we to do with ourselves? When the fair ones deem us better, let us laugh and spin, for old times sake! Bring your hollowed heart! I’ll bring the sword of my tongue! Dance, dear! _Dance_! Show them they’re wrong about us! We’re _worse, _we’re_ dead _before they can tally a point, we’re cursed, we’re coarse, we’re spinning now, we’re only gonna be okay because we know the Owner, no, we ate Him, no, we _are _Him_,_ __ _ _He’s stumbling around in our death, we’re here standing in His brilliance __ __ __ called us better, that lot, Spin, love! _Spin_! _Don’t you dare cry! _ __ _Clap your hands! Mean it now!_ __ _Look at us! _ __ _We’re better! _ __ _We’re better! _ __ _We’re worse! _ __ _We’re dead! _ __ _Aha! _ __ _ _ __ _ _ __ __ __ __ __ __

See, please, good Father, Thy son’s weary soul See how far I fall and how marred are mine bones See the death I becometh by the day, by the night See the dark ransom me by the blood of the light How I’ve whispered in silence and cried for Thy hand Father, wither this hell that drags me to its land Though the moon weepeth not and the sun hath no care See, Christ Jesus, Thy son knoweth this: Thou art there

Storm now mine heart, O Breath that spun the stars, Besiege mine soul, Lord, breach its iron bars; Strike down the pride that stones mine inner gate, And rend mine will, that I may see Thee straight The grave stood armed, yet could not hold Thy light, Thy grace, Thy form of love shining with might, Hell clutched the keys, till Thou didst tear the night, And Thou set free each one who'd give their life Leaveth not one stone then upon another but scatter all mine emptied ways asunder lest I be still grasping mine own vainity in place of mine reaching for Thou only

Blaze thee with thine fiercest day, fix thine eyes, command thine gaze, burn but thrice as bright; be blithe with love, now, with love; _Again_! And with no record, love to forgive! Oft we shalt aim to be not! __ _Nailed! Nailed we art to that cross! _ __ If so then what wrath shalt we store for another? But to hold, and cherish, and to love them as brothers? _Children_! We claim to be borne of that blood! Then _die_! _Die now! _And be borne of love! If in love ye have found that ye harbor yet hate, then be torn at the heart, and be ye outside of grace!

Hath madeth me to eat of the fruit, sayeth mine father, Adam, and so that the veil was made that day, before the temple was, It Was the severing of man and God then, clothed in first death, Adam marched the blood of his blood through the barrenness of Elsewhere, our place—— yet not our home And I said, “The woman that Thou gaveth unto me, she hath given me that fruit, the one which Thou had spoken, ‘Taketh, and eat, for this is mine body broken for thou,’ and so I did eat, and I did drink of the blood Thy daughter fetched from Thy side, trembling I didst know Thou art _LORD_ __ __ At once, then, whence Thy were upon mine lips, I didst knoweth mine shame ‘twas taken from me, at once then I kneweth Thy heart shone unto mine sorrowed forme, but from endless love! Then I saweth the veil torne and fallen, so that none shalt standeth between Thou and Thy childer, for now, clothed in Thy own garment, Thine son so hastens to Thee leading Thy daughter, the woman thou hast given me through this land of Elsewhere, but for a time, until we art once again One in the presence of Thou, forever shalt we giveth praise, in Eden forever shalt we heed and obey, forever shalt we behold, forever shalt we be held forever

You were holding a candle in the dark, pretending it was the sun. Looking far by the light, but seeing so little. ‘_Day’ _you called it. Then the night crawled on eight limbs, crackling like fire, popping like flame, in the dark, where you couldn’t breathe. Chittering and moaning it moved toward you — _intruder,_ __ __ twisting_ _and_ _folding it into itself, teeth and skin and nails and repeat. You thought it human, for you wanted to be human too. Then with a hand that wasn’t a hand, but a world of shadow snuffed out that little candle, laughed at your _Day,_ __ __ opened wide its twelve mouths, and showed you you’re nothing, by the mirror on its tongue

If hope is an anchor I’ll throw it to the clouds because I’ve been sailing in circles, taking on water braving the storms, a coward in my quarters, drowning on air, waving to the waves, alone, looking for the surface in my eyes, swabbing the deck with a broken mast, shivering beneath the sail, burning rations to see if I’m sunk —— O Christ catch my anchor! Make me still, bring me home in time for the tide, wash me away, calm the storms of me, send me off, a little warmth goes a long way

I could throw myself down well, I have before well, I’ve done it again well, I’ll _do_ it again falling and falling I go—— _again_ and You never get tired of me in a flurry of feathers and soft wings I’m back at the start high up again, so I can see it all and I see You there laying dead once more in cold crimson where I ought to have landed but from Your love no rush of silken feathers sought to catch You for You had no care for You but only for me As maddening as it is _love_

“If man is no friend of man, he is enemy to himself” I wrote it, to a friend, who may not see me as a friend — then; thinking, “_Surely I picked this up somewhere — like a man in his attic picks up webs and dust, and dusty webs — or a fire picks up dry things — or how dry things pick up wet._” But no! No! I sought to find what wiser man I’d stolen from, so to shake his hand once more—— but only there was I, my hand to _hold_ and _squeeze_ and _shake_ and _kiss_, then I realized my _pride_! No! It cannot be! _Surely some other has phrased this truth_, I thought then sought and wrought the stoics, the scrolls, the lively voices of bygone men, _But No! _ Then; seeing the state of our _lives_, I determined it could not be, as we are _no_ friends to one another, and so we _are_ besieging ourselves, and _if_ this true, then surely the words escaped _my_ jaw, fleeing from _me_ as _I_ fought that errored war within _myself_; and so; _no_ man heeds what words are _told_, for that, _my_ quote, is not from _old_ but _new_! But _no_! These words could not proceeed from _me_! For I am too, my _enemy_!

At times, I find myself keenly aware of gravity as if the pull of me to reality were some stranger, an object or artifact of dead language, a sort of hum, rhythmic and ancient a witness of time before time that unsettling weight, wherefore I am my own burden — or a stranger, a passerby who brushed against gravity, maybe that feeling, like fate is where I was heading, thinking I was trying to finish out the day, like I am doing what must be done despite my lack of awareness it were as if I was a child walking through the steps of my father’s, packed down by gravity, maybe into the winter snow helpless to tear my stride away from what lies before me _ (Cursed be all imperfect analogies!) _ __ _ _then_ _again, it is nothing of the sort some vision that I cannot see and so shall I fail to define or describe and so shall I fall into that path that endless road stretched out before me that absurdity; that destiny that prison of sorts, or gravity, maybe

Thy daughter, O God, whose bright eyes hath shewn me to Light, sat yestereve holding mine child, mine son, and sang with voice to sealeth the lips of angels, what melody I hath lost by the grace of that sound, whence mine boy’s eyes swelled with beauteous tears, moved like stirred waters by that frail heart poured out by gentle lips, so I, Thy son, gave way to mine own, mine eyes washed away by that gift, Thy daughter’s praise, I fought them naught, but let them flow with that song—— here I see Thy hath been singing all along——_all along _

Leave it to us to pick at the bits we find needful but what use have we for angels if we worry not of demons? What if, as it were, a man is always pursued by these horrible forces, an army of things clad in gleaming red terror hungry, no, famished for truth and joy, love and every pure thing? Then we might think different whence a guardian of those virtues raises shield bright as day, absorbing and shattering that foul blade of despair, seeing then that there is war over us, we may conclude we are desired, and if desired, cherished, if cherished, loved if loved, then _why_?

Whence the heavens, rolled back as parchment, scrolls of all we’ve known, are stowed away, shown then wilt be softly lights far fiercer than man watching dawn by distance of mere breath, so too shalt the earth dance with sway of calm lovers and to music of stones who shalt sing, “_Glory_!” and stir, to lift above the ground, joined to the sea, golden and garmented with brilliant jewels rising up to the mountains bowed, stooped and humbled, with stopped mouths, then shall all low things soar and make right ground for Him to step down to us

Everyone lauds David, rightly so, for felling Goliath with one fateful stone and point to his faith, and say _‘See? We’ll slay giants!’ —— _they_ _ _ _are_ _quite right, but I’ve noticed another thing, gleaned - a token, please try it: for my faith is a giant, a towering man and my doubt was a sheppard, smoothed stone in its hand and but just for a moment I thought I was well and then soon thereafter I, Goliath, had fell

You’ll have to crush me if You will pull the clouds along with You split the earth at my feet bring the stars together sharper yet life must become for the hell in me yet stands waiving its flag at my crown seven times around my head it goes stomping and roaring for my end then my faith comes crashing down to doubt listen to that song, those cries of victory aren’t I still in Your arms and heart? You’ll have to crush me if You will

A Saturday, like all of them of late I stood on the corner holding life high so that fellow corpses may see counting the birds and their foul songs never before being so bothered that I can recall, downcast but not for my sake—— then a moth something beautiful and innocent refused to leave my body, clutching and clinging to my ugly in its beauty, and so I gave thanks and was made glad again then thought it unfair for such a creature to die because of _us_

Memento mori remember _remember_ for now thou art burning shalt one day be ember whence ember is faded t’will soon come to pass that all that is living shalt fall into ash

I followed my heart by both dark and the day it’s every last mark I observed; I obeyed then reading life’s chart I saw I’d gone astray I followed my mind for a time and a time and mapped out the path with fervor and wrath then seeing it wind I foresaw I’d been blind I followed my self this being of flesh it lead me through hell took me to the depths then wishing me well left me feeling dead I followed One other, A Friend, yea, a Brother, Who led me in love to a life far above all my heart couldn’t find, and my head couldn’t mind, what my self wouldn’t seek, be I strengthened or weak, but that Good King did there, guide my wandering me, oh, to Heaven’s strange stairs up by God’s mercy there

_I could’ve sworn I wrote a bit about a dove feasting upon the corpse of a wolf, but I suppose I only dreamed I did. _ The dove having slain every crow in the land clad in clamor and keepsake the night sky commands dressed in ravenly black and with ravenous tact circles moon and the stars round to hell and makes laps and now laughs at the crows bow and laud him as lord and he calls all he’s known spreads his dark wings and soars in a guise of the spoils; the garb of his foes here the dove doth so toil in the flesh of his crows

What fierce ignorance art we to draw cords of our reason to bind the heavens to pull them down for us to enthrall eternal minds by our fading lessons? By very next vesper shalt be as never! T’will be we art a sleep now severed! Should wisest man e’er be so clever what to capture mist in iron fetters? To breach every stone with tips of feathers is to list our wits to the One Who knows better!

She, not merely a symbol of peace, takes flight from the hands of surrender; there as life floated upon death, forshadowing that Day will always have cost of night returning then with sprigs of olives and hope that we may have the oil of gladness, and rest when all that we know is taken and broken and buried the winged white flag, the treaty of God and man, might give us way to endure —— _Or aren’t we those doves? _ __ _ The first, searching for dry land;_ __ _We find no life here in this man,_ _ _ _ and so return with empty hands. _ __ _ Then second, we bring Life! _ __ _Oh, that precious shining Light! _ __ _ And bring Him back to show the night! _ __ _ Then third, we fly forth _ __ _from death’s grasp_ __ _ and shall never consider coming back,_ __ _for there, peace flows as water, _ __ _and love grows like grass! _ __ _She is gone! That dove!_ __ _ She lives on, above! _ __ _ She has gone to_ _ _ _ the Dawn_ __ _where we belong! _

the woman, late 80s, likely called to say there was a man in the room with her it’s nearly 1am I went to chase him away the nurse went to tell her to go to sleep she’d leave it at that, the nurse and, I… couldn’t. I checked the closet where she said the man hid I checked the kitchen, Shown my light into the restroom, I scoured the space, the darkness and assured her he was gone and now I weep in my car thinking on how they say that, in age we become as children _we do _ __ __ I remember calling for my father to come and chase the shadows out from my closet, out from my room, out from my heart, and he would shine his light in that darkness, and lo’, the things were gone now I weep more, as she’s buried her father, mourned her mother, and I, only me —— this shadow of man, am left to chase away the monster ——Father, shine Thy light for me I am afraid _(Perhaps this is where I ought to be, my love —— but may God show us more of His will) _

O mine soul why art thou broken so? Wilted thou hast been lost of all hope, dry as skins poured out of their wine, now doth thou forget thou haveth Life what bittered petals falleth from thy stem such that crisp to ash carried by soft wind heavy and forlorn art thou; weighed down and hath ye no merry tune but deathly sound broken into sands beneath the sea; ye be scattered to the depths of fiery Hades and yet if thou wilt only, in brief, turn to see Thy Father hath never strayed far from thee; so breathe, mine soul, breathe

“Hear, here!” called one ear to the other and waved its lobe as child waves mother reddened then became, like setting sun, that young ear for its fellow, waving and red, no reply said, did not hear the eyes rolled, not unlike the stone, thrown away; the mind-tomb opened then the lips smiled to the living man, “Hear, here!”

_Hast thou become but shivering child?_ _Whence once thou were as flame and wild?_ _What has so now becometh, has broken thee? _ _Why hast thy cheerful banter so ceased,_ _for to my door thy frail hands do knock,_ _whence before thou stood and mine life mocked?_ _See thy soft knees so shake and quake! _ _Whence once they bound in dreadful place! _ _And, my! Thine eyes hath lost their glow!_ _Though once they’d been mine very own!_ _Thy smile! Thy grin! The grim of thee! _ _What Life has overtaken thee! _ _But this: Mine Christ! Mine God! Mine King!_

Who, for sake of oath by even angels, should by their great power so pry but just a creak into a window of mine Home, unshaken? Should mountains rain from furious clouds or oceans stand and war —— or if earth trembled as its pillars were turned to air or should both sun and moon ally to gather every heavenly body and siege against mine Home, would be but a knock on the door —— quiet, unheard were I in my other room

If I put verse upon thine very eyes at cost of mine own timely life or say softest word in thousand lines whispers, thence so tender, near lies or have dear quill of angel’s feather to scribe free ye from thy fetters or cherish, wrap thy wounds in letters or by tongue maketh thee king and I beggar, gather such forms of heavenly stars with gentle touch of thy temple impart such brilliance into thine breaking heart and ammend thee to light herald’s hark _ Lo’ Babel! Foolish nonsense! I die! _ _ T’was vagary to seek, by verse better! _ _ Anguish for ye and to mine harm!_ _ Speaking to winds and earthen ire! _ _ Yet screaming to fire, “Be ye wetter!”_ _ Vanity is mine, but thy soul dark! _ __ _ _

Giant King Og of Bashan fast to his molded bed of iron so shivered and quivered his subjects slept not For the shaking and raking of his gold and bronze plating, his night of awful quaking, pleading with sizable aching It would melt away, his life wax unto the sun, his eyes under the ever-fire of God his hand whispered, ‘_Be destroyed.’_ like dried scrolls into a forge until then Og had not wept his tears were blood and torch burning and searing him bereft and grounding him into meal —— a dust of ash and powdered zeal The people slept not, for Og slept not, for Israel slept not, for God slept not.

(Finish what you started, please.) _Should_ the clay say to The Potter, _“Why hast Thou maketh me so?_ __ __ _ For I thought Thee hath made me_ __ _for Thy good things alone!_ __ _ But here I hath suffered, _ __ _I breaketh by day!_ __ _ In hell I hath wandered,_ __ _in mine pain and mine rage! _ __ _ Be it Thou shatter me,_ __ _so to make me a dust,_ __ _ thence with water _ __ _give me forme of beauty or such! _ __ _ Give mine shape only riches,_ __ _ mine vessel be comfort!_ __ _ So that no more I winceth _ __ _ and mine shell no more contort!” _ __ __ _ _Here, we come to conclude: “_But alas, I hath spoken _ __ _to The Hands that have made:_ __ _I hath spoken in anguish_ __ _and yet Thou hast sustained _ __ _ all mine breaths in mine sorrows_ __ _ in each hour and day _ __ _ for Thy glory; I’m borne _ __ _ and for Thou I shalt break_ __ _ but for these fleeting moments _ __ _ I shalt carry this flame _ __ _and thence once Thou art readied _ __ _ I shalt carry Thy Name_ __ __ __ _ _

_(hello, old friend) _ __ __ __ __ __ _As the sun groweth weary_ __ _seeing men shun its light _ __ _thence it at once was dreary;_ __ _all the world turned to night _ __ _Neither moon or its stars _ __ _thence were kindly to earth _ __ _so to rekindle hearts _ __ _trading flame for mere dirt_ __ _So that man would not see _ __ _neither should he believe _ __ _there is here in the shadows_ __ _any peace, love or glee _ __ __ __ __

_(I envision him, beaten, bloodied with garments torn like Christ, with glowing face of Moses, singing praises as the Free Slaves marched him outside of the walls of the city.) _ Psalm of Stephen: The Temple of Man ¹ What world might men so maketh to contain Thee, for Thou art more than all earth should bear! _Selah! _ _ _² Should we men of dust gather together sun and moon and stars, we could not build Thou a worthy dwelling! ³ Yet here we doth, in vain, attempt to house Thee in temple of stone and bitumen! May Thy mercy find us! ⁴ But Thou, oh _LORD, _hath built for Thineself a dwelling which Thou hath foretold! A temple Thou see fit! ⁵ Whence Thou breathed Thy Spirit into Adam, our father, Thy were showing us _we_ shalt be Thy home! ⁶ Glory! What are we to contain Thou, oh Christ Jesus? What are men that Thou hath indwelled Thy beloved? _ Selah! _ _ _⁷_ _In all of Thy creation, Thou saw nothing more loved than us! Here we shalt be Thy home! And Thy shalt be our home forever! ⁸ Lo’ we hath every hour forsaken Thy ways, and no man shalt stand blameless apart from Thy blood and forgiveness—— Thou rest in _us_! ⁹ Who then shalt taketh from me? What can they taketh that Thou shalt not restore? ¹⁰ I am Job, broken by the darkness, and in Thy light I will yet standeth—— even with Thou in the mightiest of winds! ¹¹ Though I am broken and mine bones scattered, Thou shalt gather me! ¹² Though I am utterly destroyed, Thou shalt see me from mine death! For Thee shalt never cease, and liveth here in me! ¹³ What is pain? I have nothing of it! ¹⁴ What is death? A word which I hath forgotten! ¹⁵ What is life? Except that into Thine hands I now marcheth! ¹⁶ But that each man would see! Oh Father, I prayeth to Thee! For these who seek to take mine life, deliver me to Thee! _Selah!_

I'll hear your song of thunderous praise My son, I'll hear you speak again Your voice will sing in endless day Upon a morn' all mourning wains, there'll be no pain, no fear nor sin I'll hear your song of thunderous praise When dead men into light are raised, and swept away by brightest winds, your voice will sing in endless day We'll stand before such Golden Gates The Christ shall every wound amend I'll hear your song of thunderous praise If not here God should make a way or give you no sweet speech to send Your voice will sing in endless day I'll weep for all the things you'll say and sing along without an end I'll hear your song of thunderous praise Your voice will sing in endless day

Thy mask has fallen, and so art thou thy visage; horrid thy countenance; rancid for thou standeth at that great mirror what with hell upon thy face thy eyes; shadows thy smile; artifice thy soul; hollowed and all from the reflection thus: that deep within we know death _us_

A nice hemlock tea then? I’ll be right there Ground the petals in your teeth Bury a rose, keep the thorns save them for us, be angry a few more shovels and you’ll be right as if I haven’t ate the world is if it hadn’t ate me Here now, I’ve gone onto the clouds never, never, _never! _Shall I come back down But throw rope by the fibers of my soul, and hold on by hope and hope that you may climb for: Everything’s sweeter just before death, gives the flies the go ahead——there’s the bitter end, the syrup of all things, we’re eaten away by the days, Rotting lillies are sweeter than fresh, yes and dead men have more peace fools smile more and be _blessed_ frolic in the filthy meadow’s green the loudest things in this odd life do not declare what’s good and right Warm hearts have led men to make war or death or love and nothing more if every man should seek their taste alike the lillies, we’ll waste away away! away! away, from me! I’ll take the bitter; _damned_ _be_ _the_ _sweet! _ Or truth! Please, _truth! _ ——I’ve learned to crave, for all else rots, it shall _remain! _ Or shall I say that death is fine? _For you, I’ll wait, I have no time._

Simple to see there’s a problem impossible to show enough others —— for stigma and dogma rhyme well enough, if the President told us to follow logical conclusions, that being that he followed them himself; then the world might not die so often, or if he were to pry man away from our spinning singularity of thought fasten us to some anchor, Higher than us it must be, it _must_ be, that utopia, that euphoria of how things _should_ be, which both the fool and the wise claim—— but were we to drink wine, go back to our togas, think to what is beyond, where Logos may lead us, to explain what is to come, that scale that is what has been done—— the science of finding truth, the study of how foolish we are, where all understand that they must understand, for to know is to be more alive by the day, that being wrong means there is right, that men ought not kill men, and why, and see that we are the result of what we do, and so we are bound to be, to beg and urge and encourage, we sinking creatures in the current of current, fast as we blink we are at the bottom but the way forward is to think the fastest way home _is_ the longest trip round; but to change radically from what we are, to what we may be—— we will strike such things dead, then later lament them, laud them as logical It’s simple, we aren’t

“God’s going to use you to do big things one day.” She said, smiling face and popped knuckles, the psalmist mother warming her vocals before she hit me, weeks before —— decades later, I stood with God’s promised children, bowing and fighting my head in prayer; the young drunk, a fellow wretch a black man surrounded by my brothers sought to go and move on, to fall back to the earth—— and had I focused on her knuckles I could’ve dodged the punch; maybe swung, or sung something to make the hate go away—— a chorus of “_I’m human with you, please_” but I wouldn’t have ran after that man who deep down wonders if I hate him when deep down I wonder if he hates me—— to show him my tears, my heart and said to him, for God said to me “God’s going to use you to do big things one day And I know that things are hard right now Things are going to get worse and then they’ll be better You’ve just got to hold on for tomorrow is coming And when the sky falls; I will be there for you I will be there for you because I love you I love you because _God loves us_ “

What if it’s true? What if our ancestors weren’t all liars? _Can they be? All of them? Liars? _ What’s that say of _us_? Are our fathers _truly_ so ignorant to spend their time creating _mere fables_ encased in stone and gold, so that we, their _children_ should have their _lies and stories_ instead of their _history_? Perhaps, but it is _worth_ thought —— should _our_ future children think we lie about all our ways today? __________ Our fathers shown the gods came down to them, mingled with their daughters, made sons in their image, rulers who had powers over mortal man like lightning and gold or fire the depths of the sea, death and life, and life again, and strength to make monoliths, artistry to baffle mankind and steal their hearts They made our father’s fall down to worship and to give poems, epics and murals, statues and festivals for the glory of they, the lesser gods who finally then lost their reign by the ruling of Truth —— which like they, our old gods, we call fantasy and lies we call our father’s records artifice and foolishness, their tales; simple jests their legacies; mere legends their hearts; only _lies_ — we rotten children

_The headline! _ _“_**Motive Unknown**_”_ The Slumbering City Star, its head down as far as it might get into the ground! The human opened fire on praying children, then sacrificed themself atop the altar of misunderstood ideologies because the Church lost its love, letting serpents spit poison into the eyes of those who should be held, and helped; and loved regardless, and held _then_ held accountable—— the order we were shown! How _weak_ have we grown! One man said, “Where is God now?” Here, child, here! Now! Where _is_ your faith? He is with the gunner! With the babes! Standing there, neglected in your face! We aren’t meant to stand and watch the divide go on and on forever; but to hold out our arms, to link them together, to be the Bridge unto the bulletstorm; the world who thinks God hates them! “When will it end?” There’s a headline; or “Someone Should Do Something!” or “There Isn’t Any Room For Murder In Perfect Love!” but, “**Motive Unknown**” is just flat out deception, complete unawareness, downright idiocy; or some combination of the three ——which only makes tomorrow bleed, you know?

I found myself walking into the bright and cheery day where birdsong weaved its wandering way a chorus, lively gracing through the sun’s soft rays o’er flowers brimming and shining, in meadows lay there, with skies clear as the still face of waters trees were as far as my kind eyes could wander the winds, brought forth gifts of such heavenly scents but then, to my dismay, peace lay dead in my hands, I could sense a thing—— intruding upon what this story should be; and so causing ruin—— a vast misery a wolf in the tall grass, his fangs barred, tearing at a bleeding, a bleating white sheep Then the day turned to night; and a murder did caw The clouds masked the moon; then they fell to make fog Each bloom lost its pedals, they fell to the ground Then did Death come for joy, where in me it was found

I am the one who wandered the desert seeking and searching for that bitter mountain dragging my heart through the fire sands following that flame before a path of glass, by night moving through the cool shade of that dark cloud, by day then finding the place where my heart was to be placed I brought down the blade swift —— lo’ God caught my hand, then He lay there upon the peak; the spotless Lamb——unblemished Sheep

Samson, likened to a fool, did offer up his life to his lover, and we are quick to call this a flaw, that his strength went by another though we miss that he gave all for the evil and filthy woman who had his heart long before his life lay in her hands; know then we sought to slay the Judge, Whose prowess stay unrivaled and Samson’s eyes were put out, but Christ’s flesh then unraveled the lesser then leaned onto the pillars of wicked man; and fell them the Greater then leaned onto the gates of Hell and Death, to quell them the first was gathered to his people, to his fathers; the second rose again, to gather love and sons and daughters and what should we lovers do, holding that covering, watching the sacrifice, the One who most loved us crushed for our deceit once laying at our feet knowing He bled by our deeds?

the man’s face, reddened like glowing liquid ore orange-hot; spit-splattering, popping, hissing from his lips; steaming a sizzling mind—— could cook an egg over charred eyes, sparks flying this way, never that; a fire spreading now and I just thought that he only needed to be loved, perhaps a cooling hug

“I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all; but whatever I have placed in God’s hands, that I still possess." – Martin Luther ________________ What haveth I that I hath made? But all my stores Thy hands have gave! My heart, my head, my ways and name, are in Thy hands; there shall remain!

I prayed this was one of my smaller mistakes, a fool’s treaty to the ears of A Wise King, the sheep wanders into the heart of a pack of wolves an effort to evade the Sheppard, Thinking, _Finally I’m safe——He will never find me here _ And just as the wolves close in In runs the blazing sun, staff breaking the skulls of the dark dogs blinding them, placing their bones in the shape of crosses, pelts now tied all together roped to my back as I climb up the man and from the pit go home

They say forgiveness is a virtue, but we’d rather keep our anger. They say charity is a blessing, but we’d rather get than give. They say truth is for the best, but we’d lie to the moon if it suited us, if the stars came down with it with clipboards and ball-points putting nebulous microphones to our earthen lips; Neptune taking photos of us, our hands on the Bible, _we swear, _beside_ _ Mars_ _and_ _his ardent blade of flame, Minerva, near him, shuffling our files leaned over to Jupiter—— he’s shaking his head with Juno, clicking his tongue contagiously enough to make Vulcan follow suit, then Venus, then Vesta; Orcus whispers something into the burning ear of Pluto—— whom laughs a lingering laugh, slapping his rotting knees, maggots falling like leaves, “_They said they were a good person!_” Pulling in his elbow to his hollowed side, like a man who’d just won the lottery snorting like a swine tears igniting like lavaflow down his correct face

Here is another fine line, a lack of self-love means we die; an abundance of self-love means we hate

than to awake in ‘morrows morning up before the sun, never having slept to go and catch birds and knives to welcome them back home and plea with them to be family again to watch them fly away and wonder where they shall go to land, how we do fly by flapping knives at our sides, cutting through the air and then I’ll fall back down and rest for sleep can wait a day, I know This I learned from my time as a bird: I _must_ go

The longest stairway looking key gets the garbage door in the garden Always check your pockets before you close any door The coffee from the machine is tainted it’ll grab ahold of you by your throat Front doors open at six thirty Hover about them ‘til seven When you hear a man whistling and there isn’t anyone there and the hairs stand all over you just laugh and whistle back, but never return their whispers, people may think you mad, or faithful And as many hymnals as you find they don’t want you speaking on God never mind the cross atop the building Get used to seeing people dying and more used to not helping or giving any hope to desperate men When the long nights leave you alone in your head, write down what you see, read about everything The lights that need flipped have color to them, you’ll see Don’t be afraid to think deeply you’ll learn to swim in due time Wash your hands often; the elderly rely on your hygiene with their lives Telling the Truth when it’s difficult especially when it’s most difficult is always the best thing to do You don’t have to wear the uniform but they much prefer you do The hot water in the breakroom is strange as well, just use the office water heat it (In a glass cup, my brother) on HIGH for two minutes One thousand opinions don’t make a single fact The boiler room is known to flood just call the man on the clipboard There is no such thing as radio etiquette; try not to let it get to you Read what your father’s wrote Sit on their knee and listen closely You can be six minutes early or late but seven gets you points Don’t be too proud; you’ll humiliate yourself The golf carts are more fun the truck is far safer You’ll may never see the Light if you keep on this way The man at the lobby each morning talks much, but cannot understand you Everything we eat; will eat us When in doubt, make phone calls; it’ll take the blood off your hands Love does not scream, load magazines, hurt others, or mean merely _happy_ but it is good that you strive for it Text me if you have any questions.

I wrote a draft of that phrase 5,000 words or so enough for a book, well, a book of poems (Poems take more space and in less time) I mixed my treasure with worms and under a banner of bitterness It was great theology, things of beauty, things of ugly, things of thinking, reflections from my study, anger from my falling, and God was in it and He was not Then, one day, I set it to flame along with the other rubbish Noticing what I’d done, I mourned my loss I mourned my words; then Thanked Christ for taking them from me and found a poem in the fire

or a shepard or a lion I think and I’d say, “Great work! Young friend! Here, follow me!” and my class or my sheep or my prey; I do think would say unto me, “Mr. Canvas! We want to be just like you one day!” And for a time, I treasured the thought that I was a teacher; my students were taught but I looked to my lessons, all the hell that they wrought Then I was a raven in fields of decay; if they were like me, they would soon fade away “It’s Rubbish!” I taught to the unruly class and I took off my face; they beheld my true mask Now the gasping and grasping; the wrestling souls have forgotten their teacher, for they’ve scattered from hope

The broken heart is a requirement, a command even—— go on; fall apart It’s unbearable, this life, this world and it’s _meant_ to be, we are our burden, cursed and shattered, it’s a wonder we smile at all; our hearts are in pieces, when it’s quiet we can hear the glass shuffling we can cut our palms on it in the dark we see it better, this wound that we despise; for it will not mend all that to drive us into longing for how things _ought_ be where nothing is like we know now we bow to that idea —— and Christ bows to lift the cross; no stranger to our pain, There He is broken in our place; and our heart-glass is remade

When it clicks, springs to life whirring and whirling the wheels come turning buzzing and clunking but alive—— so _alive_ and you stand up and take your first few steps your very first breaths and you shed your first tears On that day, don’t thank me

The thought of all the mosquitoes in existence, a sphere of buzzing blood and wings, rolled up like a scrapped paper ball and tossed into the burning lake——_sploosh_ Oh my ears would leap from my head with joy But of course that’s bad theology and suffering shouldn’t make us hate

The gown—— white as snow the veil of a maiden fair as pale moon for who we’ve lived and died adorned with deception we throw our ring to the sun Then, trample that serpent the way we press grapes to make wine purple, that blood we dance with freedom’s song merry, with bare feet in the corpse of our killer his fangs are soft his bones are fall leaves his venom is water his blood is honey When we divorce the serpent king

Yesterday, I went to feed the birds singing my way to where I go beneath the warm sun I go and settling in, I saw a bird wings put to flame coming down from the rainbow overhead so full of shame that bird landed in my hands, wings of all hues weeping with tears of shining gold bleeding from the knives of our kin and asking me if he would be loved despite being so utterly dirty—— I assured him, with my foulest plumes; that home is readied for him too

In the quiet hold each person seated silent in their rows save the foremost man milk foaming from his mouth then these made butter and cream and cheese and the small boy’s stomach growling wondered then why the stronger men asked not for any meat

I thought growing pains were all behind me I don’t think I’ll see 6’3” Surely I’m capped at 30 but all this awful agony the tossing and turning around and back in my head shaking the bars of my eyes ratting the cage of my mind my soul, growing too large for my body now pours down into the day cascading through the night rivers of thought and Truth collide only to go and gather more ache to, in my chest, collect and hide —— As tremendous is the pain tonight we prayed, whatever our fate, on You we’ll wait, “_That You are glorified._”

Sometimes I lie in bed thinking on impossible things colors I’ve never seen or shapes that don’t exist or putting words in that certain order which as I pursue them turn to mist that one that seems to be a dream the words strung in such a perfect way where when you heard them you’d understand me

A portrait: The young man dips his spoon into the Good Book brings the verse to his lips with a slurp he takes the Word Ink steaming up to his face gently, carefully then another spoon feeling it’s warmth and favoring flavor —gulps the bowl down a slap of the knee a pound of the the table a gold start to a day of dirt

Perhaps maturity is to find myself saying to me _Of course! You fool! How did you forget? _ For as I sat there today dwelling on my desire to be more than I am to have more than I have to be more than enough Poisonous thoughts brought me back to the cliffhanger of my old life Then the radio in the beater truck reminded me to be less than others to give away more than I want to to be a servant of all people that none will find joy in pursuing joy but find it in humble, loving service ——although it may as well mean I’ve got growing to do

I have wanted to give up As if everything I’ve ever been is only death waiting to happen As if all I’ve ever done was postpone —— as if all I am is my delay So many times back into that tomb I crawled out of as if Life were all too much for me as if I couldn’t stand the Light So many times I have pleaded to the silence my eyes pouring and swollen head pounding and heart empty breathless and aching just for me to be something good for me to be anything that I am not So many times You have been there rolling that stone further back away Your hand in mine Wiping away these awful tears Pulling me into Your arms It’s more than I can bear, Lord Your mercy is a beautiful burden Yours is the love that builds me so many times I tear myself apart so many times I wouldn’t see tomorrow so many times You have carried me I don’t know what to write anymore I don’t know how to be anything Let me be broken Let me be still Let me be Yours Tell me, once more, how I have never left Your hands What comfort have I apart from You? Make me the fire again, breathe into my soul, alight me with Your flame and send me to the embers, send me to the tombs, send me to those hearts like mine, these candles, waiting on Your love —— be close to me, please stay my hands when they reach to anything but You Apart from You, I am a tomb a place of death to all who rest in me So many times I would see the end So many times You raise me again

We went with thanks and asked for protection through winding country roads single lanes, narrow bridges enough corn to bury Rhode Island (Sorry Rhode Island) Barns and horses and cows then: apples and smiles and pictures then: apples and apples and apples enough apples to bury… and, for the life of me, I can’t get over the six yellow butterflies that flew under our tires on the way to the apple orchard Thank you, God

I didn’t ever think to pick up a cicada no one ever showed me that you could so I just thought you couldn’t they’re as cute as they are loud harmless as they are clumsy please, go tell someone to grab one tell them to pinch their sides from the back, gently let them know they’ll fly away from your palm, very suddenly, when they’re ready let them know they’re much bigger than their husks let them know we have that in common

_Phone _ __ _Wallet _ __ _Keys _ __ _Smokes _ __ _Phone _ __ _Wallet _ __ _Keys_ __ _Smokes _ __ __ Take them all away Give me lint Just _lint_ And I’d be the _richest_ man

How do we explain the sun to men who’ve never seen a candle? How do we explain the oceans to men who’ve never seen rain? How do we explain diamonds to men who’ve never seen dirt? How do we explain the splendor of home to men who’ve been born as captives in this foreign land?

I have no idea where to go with this prompt. We just aren’t meant to be angels. Anyway, I thought it’d be a loving thing to do to give some of the young writers here some advice. It seems that creative writing and poetry sort of tend to die off with age, and most of the users of this app are still in high school (I think). I’ve listed some resources below to help young writers lean into their passion and find support early on. I’m old now. There’s much less support when you’re old — unless you’ve got far more talent than I do. If you’re an ‘unejucated’ fellow—— there is much, _much_ less support. But for you young folk who spent their time writing and want to see if that leads you anywhere, you have an opportunity to participate in a massive realm of support that will soon largely disappear before your eyes! All I ask is that you consider _why_ you are pursue growth in writing. If it’s for money, you may end up being greatly disappointed in the economics of “professional” writing. Wether or not you are _solely_ in it for money, it’d be good to research what it takes to make money as an author—— or worse, _a poet. _I’ll digress on that subject for now. Here’s my conversation with ChatGPT. Fact check everything. I do. Even if some of this info is slightly out of date, much of it will be easily found online. This post is more for raising awareness that you youngsters have a lot of very cool, and soon to expire, opportunities available to you. Also, I’d like to ask you to _strongly_ consider sharing this post/info with your Language Arts teacher. They should be seeking out students with a love and passion for writing—— and they should be the ones telling you about these opportunities… not some stranger on a writing app. Tell them I said to do better. Tell them I said I love them. Tell them I said they should love people more. Tell them I should too. Tell them they can be mad if they want. Nobody likes being told they can do better. Anyway here’s some stuff: Here are some fantastic literary journals and magazines that **accept poetry submissions from high school students**—many of which are either teen-exclusive or youth-friendly. Each opportunity is paired with key details you’ll want to know: **High School–Specific / Teen-Focused Literary Journals** **Polyphony Lit**
A global online literary platform dedicated to high school writers. Accepts poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, and provides feedback on every submission. (Polyphony Lit) **Élan**
Hosted by high school students, this international student literary magazine welcomes submissions from grades 9–12 in poetry, prose, creative nonfiction, and more. (california-poets, MUSE-FEED: Writers' Resource) **Apprentice Writer**
A teen-authored, university-affiliated annual journal featuring poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and photography from high school students across the U.S. and beyond. (Mollusk Literary Magazine, APRIL HENRY, WRITER) **Blue Marble Review**
An online quarterly that publishes creative works (poetry, fiction, nonfiction, art) from writers aged 13–22. No submission fees or accounts required. (california-poets, Mollusk Literary Magazine) **Ember (A Journal of Luminous Things)**
A semiannual journal encouraging submissions from writers aged 10–18. Accepts poetry and prose across genres. (california-poets, Mollusk Literary Magazine) **Hanging Loose Press**
Founded in 1966, this journal welcomes poetry and prose from high school students and offers thoughtful editorial feedback. (MUSE-FEED: Writers' Resource, NewPages.com) **The Interlochen Review**
An online literary journal run by creative writing students and open to writers in grades 9–12. Accepts a wide range of genres including poetry, nonfiction, and hybrid work. (MUSE-FEED: Writers' Resource, wordplaywisdom.com) **JUST POETRY!!!** (National Poetry Quarterly)
A longstanding poetry quarterly published by the Live Poets Society of NJ, open exclusively to high school poets (ages approx. 14–18). (justpoetry.org) **Other Youth-Friendly Literary Platforms** **Balloons Lit Journal**
A biannual, independent online journal for readers aged ~12+, featuring poetry, fiction, and art with no submission fee. (california-poets, Center For The Arts) **Rattle Young Poets Anthology**
A print and digital anthology featuring poetry by young writers. Accepted submissions often appear as daily features on Rattle’s website. (california-poets, The Teen Magazine, SODA CITY YOUTH SLAM) **Youth Projects like Write the World & Young Writers Project**
Online communities offering writing prompts, competitions, and occasional publication of teen work. (california-poets, Center For The Arts) **The Daphne Review**
An arts and literature magazine that publishes exceptional work (poetry, prose, art, etc.) by young artists in a spring and fall issue cycle. (MUSE-FEED: Writers' Resource) _ Great question — there are several highly **prestigious writing awards for young people**, especially in poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. These are the ones that really stand out on applications, résumés, and for building confidence as a young writer: 🏆** Major Prestigious Awards for Young Writers **⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ **Scholastic Art & Writing Awards** (Grades 7–12, U.S.) The biggest and most recognized youth writing competition in the U.S. Categories include poetry, short story, personal essay, flash fiction, dramatic script, etc. National Medalists get their work published and may be recognized at Carnegie Hall. **The Adroit Prizes for Poetry & Prose** (High school & undergrad) Run by _The Adroit Journal_. Highly competitive and judged by well-known poets/writers. Winners are published in _The Adroit Journal_. **YoungArts** (Ages 15–18, U.S.) A national competition across the arts, including creative writing. Offers recognition, scholarships, mentorship, and even the chance to be named a Presidential Scholar in the Arts. **Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award** (Ages 11–17, International) Run by The Poetry Society (UK). One of the biggest youth poetry competitions in the world. Winners join a year-long development program with mentorship. **National YoungArts Foundation** (Ages 15–18) Covers multiple genres of creative writing. Provides masterclasses, financial awards, and entry into a lifelong artistic network. **The Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop & Contest** (High school) Kenyon College runs both a workshop and an affiliated contest. Very prestigious for literary-minded students. **Smith College High School Girls’ Poetry Prize** (Grades 9–12, International) For young women in high school. Prestigious and linked to a top liberal arts college. **Bennington Young Writers Awards** (Grades 10–12, International) Hosted by Bennington College, famous for alumni like Donna Tartt. Categories: poetry, fiction, nonfiction. Very competitive and highly regarded. **Iowa Young Writers’ Studio & Contest** (Grades 10–12) Run by the University of Iowa (home to the famous Iowa Writers’ Workshop). Competitive two-week program and associated contests. **The Patricia Grodd Poetry Prize for Young Writers** (Grades 10–11, U.S. & International) Sponsored by _The Kenyon Review_. Winners are published in _The Kenyon Review_ — a massive honor. Well there you go. There some stuff. Maybe one you will be the next great poet. Maybe one of you already is. I don’t know. But I just didn’t wanna stand by and watch your dream die out without saying anything. That’s rude—— and wrong. If I could go back, I’d be submitting to all of these haha. I recently got accepted into my first lit mag. Then a few days later got my second. That’s after submitting probably 30 or so pieces over the last two years. There’s nothing stopping some of you from being published in lit mags or anthologies by the time you graduate. Especially some of you who are more passionate about your craft. You know who you are. Maybe let the world know too. Could be fun. Edit: Though the resources lean toward poetry, there are countless prizes and journals who chiefly publish creative writing of every type. Non-fiction as well. And art. And music. And anything really. If you make stuff, there’s someone who wants to help young people to make their stuff more and get better at making said stuff.

You know, I read somewhere recently that true friendship requires vulnerability and then I read somewhere else that we ought to aim to be a friend to all and so, maybe I haven’t really been a true friend to you—— so I’ll fix that up I’ll tell you about how I ate glue in first grade I got peer pressured to try it by the other uncool kid I can’t remember the taste, now I’m tempted to try it for old time’s sake or how I always think about the little black girl in my second grade class at the all black school, when we sung Gloria in excelsis Deo beside Wade in the Water and other splendorous hymns of the slaves, the slaves my fathers took of their fathers, and how I love my fathers who killed my fathers to free their fathers, to free _our_ Fathers and that little girl wept because I sung her songs, because my voice was a whip, my tongue was coarse rope and I wept because she wept, and because I thought I had to be my father, and because I wanted to be a true friend to her and I carried my vomit to a trash can out in the hall, If we are to be _true_ friends, you _must_ know how in third grade I didn’t fit in, because I was too wounded—— but I just called that being lonely back then and I’ve already told you about the abuse, no need to scratch scars here, we’re friends after all or how my mother crushed the pills on a cutting board, that always gave my a new line to think about, how my nose doesn’t work on the left side, if I was a true friend, I’d tell you that I….. only just made that connection—— It’d be nice to have a bit of air go through my left nostril, nicer to not know about the physiological and psychological consequences of adolescent drug use—— thank God I’ve got friends or how when I was 8, I got ripped off at a Yu-Gi-Oh tournament, trading my holo Jinzo for like 30 garbage fillers—— and how my dad was angry at me for letting myself get ripped off, and how I was happy that he cared enough to be angry or how I cried that one time, in my room, alone, for no reason whatsoever, and I knew, even at 9, that it was all the pain that I couldn’t suppress anymore If I am to be a true friend, I’ve got to tell you I’ve got awful teeth, and and ugly temper at times that I feel as though I’ve got to do something great but that I’m not great enough to do it I’d tell you that I cry _more_ now, not less or I’d tell you that I’ve been off my meds for awhile now, I replaced them with Words, I eat them daily, they help like nothing else can or I’d tell you more on how we were homeless, hopeless, filthy people, hapless, horrid—— real Cretans, burnt by the sun, skin like worn leather wrapped tightly to our bones and how I miss it sometimes because each second was so obviously a blessing; a true friend, vulnerable, I suppose or I’d tell you I think of you often and That I wish, I wish, I _wish_ _ I pray _ That you only knew how much I loved you That’s what I’d say were I a true friend; because love _is_ vulnerable He really is (Note to self for future edit that you will almost certainly never do: Here’s what you wrote elsewhere Vulnerability is the root of true friendship Truth is the water We’re friends then, right? I pulled you into my heart, even lit a little candle there so you could see Didn’t I tell you I am afraid of elevators? )

What a funny thing it is to ask someone for a bit about themselves, for if I went on and on for hours, told you each of my most memorable thoughts, took off my shoes, ate my feet gave you everything I could think to give, wrote a book, no; a collection for you, my autographed autobiography a carbon copy; If I painted my face with ink and rolled it over your mind to show you every fear, every tear——each of my good joys you’d maybe, _maybe_ have a glimpse a little hint of my shadow but I am not my shadow and you aren’t yours and I don’t know you and you don’t know me and we never really will even know the people who wake with us in the morning for time snatches us away just as we were having a look ——we are always strangers so please, just love what you can see and gather all that you can glean I wager here’s a speck sized piece about my dreams; but not of me

We art Barrabas, the murderer, boundeth before our fellow man, whom we hateth as foe who careth for us not, our brethren, tho wouldst see’st Truth die, to loose our binds——let us go and with woe cryeth they, for our release, “May His blood be upon us, and our childer also!” Then we art unshackled, cast upon our beloved——and He who giveth Life, now judged in our stead, whispers low, “It shall be so.”

Miserably Inadequate That’s the definition my brother gave me when he dug it out from a wise-man’s tongue and spake, he and I, then until dawn as men spake to _both_ heart and mind when we sought to understand Truth regardless of the outcomes and built that shrine, which Paul stopped and stared, rattling his chains to shake the stagnant minds; He and I, decided on life meeting and exceeding that definition—— but could not agree on _why_ Perhaps if I give him poetry but, no it cannot be given—— only taken_ _ _Pathetic _

Love is a story An old tome, dusty and strange, packed with new life—glowing and growing a pamphlet, brimming with pages upon pages we’re bound to forget a checkbook, really, always needing balanced——how we neglect it so a flyer, for God-knows-what, stapled to our windy hearts the town paper, at least the obituaries and the funnies will do—— we laugh and die too a bit of self-help, something fit for the Times——we’ll twist the words into twine; so to lasso a lover a sticky-note, stuck over our eyes; reads something along the lines of: _Everything is fine _ or rather; a matter most unflattering a scroll, rolled up aimed steadied swatting at the wall-fly; who’s scouring A billboard off the highway at sunrise reading, _you_, as much as you read it so yes, Love _is_ a story though not the story we’d expect

I told myself I’d be ten minutes a little resting a little folding of the hands the days _are_ evil and I was supposed to be the sun to rise and go shine to give light and to give life and, by my sleeping, men had to move about with eyes peeled in the night falling over their feet; they went holding onto one another holding hands with the void holding out for a morning while I dreamt of you

I’ve gotta find that chalkboard put it back up over the mirror so when I go to see what I am I can read what I wrote when I was ——when I wrote _You are a servant _ That’ll tell me much more than the mirror, I know

So Thou hast said, that men must worketh the ground; keepeth it that earth shall bringeth forth thorns, thistles, other points such to teareth away our skin as we teareth earth to bits but to shew us only that all things hath now spiked joints or that the rose, in her day’s beauty beareth upon her yet Thy curse of death and that hearts and minds and men art now full of thorns by e’ery breath

I’m off on my stroll on solid ground, dry as sun-blasted sands—— not a drop to be found with walls of water at my sides, running my hands slow in the sea, checking the fish for confusion then through the walls of giants I march, they fall down all around me; I am unscathed the rubble turns to steps for me, so I climb up and move onward into the blazing furnace I tred, unphased by the flames warring on my flesh; then, without even the odor of smoke I stop into the den to visit the lions, they are affectionate as kittens; little purring bundles of hell and teeth and I cross the great rivers, my feet make the water become still, to become as a bridge for me; I go forth The mountains lay down flat, so I may be unimpeded, the valleys stand tall so I may go on with ease, the trees shuffle their feet, gathering to murmuring crowds at my flanks, storms break in two, split off, fall away behind me as I go all things move to make way for me for You have called me to where You would have me go for You have made way for me to walk into death; and how death has been parted; divided; cast aside nothing will keep me from You; save that I refuse to move See what you’ve done?

I have breakfast each Tuesday with about ten other men each of them at least twice my senior a few nearly even thrice… less young I go to find wisdom but more often I find them speaking on baseball, mostly how number so and so was traded to so and so and batted a so and so and so, I listen in and nod but I don’t know baseball and I didn’t play it as a kid I played with knives and fire and words so I just go back and remember Solomon said don’t write too much and so I guess I see why; The depth you find in things doesn’t measure to the depth you’ll find in people ——But that’s vanity as well

Everyone’s swearing by the Bible these days, _ ‘Do you swear to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?’ _ Do they do that in your courts too? And we ‘swear in’ our President, his hand on the cover of a book that he almost undoubtedly has no depth of understanding of—— perhaps it would be fitting, or maybe just symbolic that we should swear by AP World History V or Physics for Dummies or 200 Keto-Friendly Recipes to Make You Shred Pounds Fast —or that book I never sent and I said I would and it’s gone the one I signed wrote a few poems by my hand stowed it away for a season, now it’s only sitting in my mind sharp against what I’d say I’d do ——but Christ said to take no oath only let your No be _No_ and your Yes be_ Yes_ _ _and_ _so I am sorry Of course we should swear by the Book, only if we must swear by anything though how greater it is to simply do as we say

man, stuffing his heart into a book horrified that it won’t fit and there’s no time _See?_ If you squint you can see the clock behind him laughing and swinging its scythe right over that little one there _that one!_—that looks like a flower——petals all pulled out and falling like stones down to that other, _that one!—_shaped like an eye, dark and heavy Don’t you see the crow circling the window there like he’s trying to land on _ that one_! what looks like you when you were standing there in the clouds all your tears raining down onto faces that say nothing now you took them as far as you could but men have to ask to be clouds and don’t get there without some awful pain, with falling down and doubt like that One there, far above the rest doesn’t it seem to be a hand holding us together? _That One!— _Tell me you see it! __ __ _ _Tell me please! __ __ __ My arm hurts from all the pointing! _ There! _

Oh child, I saw you in the clouds Above the fall dew of the ground I gazed upon your heart and eyes for days I donned this stark surprise or moments only; here—withdrawn for knowing surely nears; we’re gone a mist, I saw; a shape of you amiss, I call; then fades the view until the day we meet at last —then will the pain release to past

——brothers eyes his wails for Mother, the car drives off taking us onto greener pastures stiller waters —_his cries_ I only thought I’d grieved it away hands no bigger than my boy’s laid down so desperately on the plane of glass a frail petal lay there on a coffin a world of pain——his small heart gnashed _Sisters_, broken, torn, beaten and battered crying so awfully to stay with Monster looking to me for any sign of hope though empty was I of any good thing —my brother, my sisters what I would change if I could go again how close I’d hold you—everlong and in our breaking, I’d be strong What joy it is; you do not recall and so do I beg you to go on and so do I pray you never fall —so do I pray; Christ be your all

the rose unburned amidst a field of flame where all life withers into ember and night blazing falls to ash— -How can man write without ink with no hands no tongue or face no tears or a fleeting feeling with no pulse flatlined upon the gravestone of dreams and life laughing watching as the flame touches that rose not but reaches he and all that he touches?

I read a poem the other day on overthinking and how to stop doing it but I’m not convinced I _should_ stop dreaming on what it’d be like to fly up into space wrapped in one of those drab, off-white, mass-produced suits then further wondering, no, knowing that some dime-sized space knife, in the right place at the right time broke off from some other rock when my great-great-great-great-great grandpappy was a sly wink from a man in white then spiraling at such great-great speeds that little rock, making great strides would smite me through my helm ——hit me right between my eyes and how I wouldn’t be surprised Of course, they’d never let me in their space in the first place, _ so I think_

You know they built a tourism center on top of Göbekli Tepe? I know what you’re thinking, “What’s Gerbeksky Teepee?” Google it. No shame in not knowing. Only in not trying to know. And then you’ll think, “Well, so what?” And then I’ll send some sharp letters like “I” or “V”, “X” or “W” Through this page, like arrows sent out from a string of ink something to dig into your head and heart——to help you _think_ so you might wake up a bit, or sleep less at least for before Zeus cast down mighty lightnings from Olympia and before Jupiter did the sort of things that _only_ Jupiter does and before the gods of Egypt— when Ra and Horus and the family of pharaohs were not even dreams and before we had records of Yahweh, or Allah, or Vishnu, or Krishna, or Agni or more or those other gods, whose names are so foreign that they can’t be pronounced or even before love came down and bled our ancestors, who left no name for their God——built the walls and pillars hunter-gatherers, who left no words and had no true tongue which sweeps the legs of spirits rising from civilized men built stone upon stone to worship and fellowship——our ancestors, nearly naked and always weary built what they saw in their hearts, a soul that they put to stone and before poetry or pottery probably they fell to their knees and looked at the stars in wonder and awareness that there _must_ be more than us and so, _no_, there shouldn’t be a tourism center built upon the oldest church and people shouldn’t park their cars on our father’s pews they should take off their shoes two miles away ride by camels or crawl on their fours hungry they should be with a spear always ready with shifting eyes or slither as a serpent on their bellies neath the scorching sun backs carrying the weight of life they should be terrified and sing low songs and breathe very deep with their mouths in the sand and be quiet holding a circle protecting the flanks the women and children in the middle the sick and infirm over their shoulders and sweat; they should sweat the whole way there and they should lose something along the way a friend, or a spear, or a skin of water and they should lose their temper and break a bit, sliding down a steep and stony slope and then collapse into the hands of what we’ve all but abandoned today plus, true archeology requires a sanitized workspace

I baptized Charon in the River Styx you were there, my child, oh child of my soul, and Charon wept on our shoulders for he had no coin to pay for himself and took off for his hundred years of wandering with the rest of restless souls——lined up far as any mortal eye could see rows of lost men, feet drenched in those crimson waters and you bid him to wait and I said to him _ The debt has been paid! _

And I’m not _sure_ that I will, of course but I’m helping it along by the day I’m all in on Lucky Golds; but I’m not a gambling man: I’m a poet, I _think_ ——and you know how there’s just some poems that you’ve gotta say out loud, like if I got chemo, and I’m not _sure_ that I would, but _if_ _ _I did and all my hairs abandoned _my_ body and the Doc walks in, clicking his tongue along with his pen over my chart and he gives me that same look that he gives every dying man but refuses to give to himself when he falls short——by the day he dies too and he says to me, “I’m so sorry…” then I could say the poem, if I even care about it by then —_All my hairs are numbered _ _and so are yours, sport—_ _ _and he would just smile and I’d laugh a real dry laugh and we’d both go on about our lives dying together

(Full title) “A non-exhaustive list of things that I may never get to paint, that should be, at minimum, captured in language should time, perfectionism and apathy continue to be my enemies” _ In the dark: A humanoid streetlight seated at a bench beneath a man with a shining, warm and smiling face or A couple of cows counting heaps of money and staring into a field of grazing men or a wailing infant, yet covered in red with one of those unisex hats pink and blue stripes on a combat helmet little hands holding a rifle or The thought-yarn, tangled and twisted——of every color and of none at all, pulled out from the ear of a man who’s tears shower a globe or this idea: that keeps haunting me which feels so foreign to my mind as if it were something that crawled into _my_ ear: A man harvesting alone in a field scythe raised high into an overcast sky all the white grain in season’s yield but wearing a modest suit and tie (Oh God, I see why—— it is _I_ _Thank You!)_ or A fashion mall built on Potbelly Hill where the ancients sell their goods to men who’ve sold their souls for souvenirs, such as: “My friend visited God and all I got was this lousy shirt” or A book of poetry, with arms and legs and eyes——a man divided in its hands, the book cries——the book understands or Five little sparrows flying far over the head of a crow, seated at my window or A long wooden pipe, stuffed with hearts and coins—sitting on the forehead of a shadow, laying in a casket or a man, struggling to lift a cross——Christ helping him to stand——his wife seated on one branch of the tree, his son seated on her lap—pointing to that Celestial City in the distance——all with joy in their faces

_They’re lying to you about the golden years, young man!_ “Oh, are they?” _Yep. You get to be my age——only gold you got is in your teeth, you gotta head full of silver and an ass full of lead_ (Then I thought about whether he was a poet or a thief or a borrower at least) _ “_Well, my generation won’t make it to fifty if we keep on this way——so I guess these are my golden years.” _Ha! Live good, young man! _ “I will. You too, friend.” _ _

It’s a village here they’ve got two restaurants two ping pong tables about two-hundred bathrooms about a thousand steps from one end to another and all sorts of dying people plus the lively people we take care of I find men at the under stocked bar I find them at the understaffed chapel my favorites are the ones I find at both

Growing Strong means that we once had to be weak Having Success means that we once had to fail Finding Out means that we once had to seek Moving On means that we once said farewell Doing Good means we know right from wrong Falling Down means we’re yet still growing strong

It’s not saying, “What’s that on your shirt?” (then booping someone’s nose) Or even saying, “I bet you $20 you can’t lick your elbow.” The oldest trick is no mere quarter on a string Or nothing of court jesters bringing laughter to a king Not backing down else coffers with a weighty, hefty bid The oldest trick, in the Book of books is, “Follow your heart, kid.”

there was a hotel within eyeshot —I told a man today that I am new to this labor and he said to me he couldn’t tell we ran out of bird food the best problem to have and neither of us were cut but I’ve yet to have a knife pointed at my face a gun, in someone else’s hands, pointed to my heart pointed to my Spirit and I’ve not yet fired back a round of Truth into a man’s chest or watched him stagger and stammer, and lay down his life, and be still there on the ground, a mess, a poem, weeping and covered in that Blood but today I was a fire speaking with a Voice that wasn’t mine thunder shot from my lips my feet shook the earth my eyes were as burning coals my heart was still today I plundered hell and I made a bird weep who had no place to call home and I told her _our_ story and I couldn’t not cry when everything she was was just broken and everything I am is just broken and everything we’ll know is just _broken _ and when the tears rolled down Your daughter’s face then my Voice wouldn’t stay together and broke with the Love that was broken for us and my eyes become a baptism of my beard then I saw her smile knowing she was welcome home and I’ve been smiling in my heart, ever since —Let me know this joy forever of being a hired sword; a lowly layman

The room of my 15 brothers each of us with our heads bowed our hearts brought low to the feet of our King with no dry eye among us there, that is where this world just rips in two and falls away where the air is filled with the scent of home where the darkness is broken where hell is helpless against our plundering then I can smell God’s blood in the air that I breathe 09:06:2025

We don’t have to hate each other not anymore You don’t have to hate me and I don’t have to hate you and we don’t have to kill each other not anymore and we can love each other I can hope for good things for you and I can help you like you were my blood like you were my body and you can tell me when you’re dying and I can drop everything I can pick up my heart and go and we can die together there and you can go on knowing that you are loved and I can go on knowing that you are loved what else is there, really? But where is this Love?

Life is a story. Stories are chapters. Chapters are paragraphs—those are sentences made of words. Words are made of letters. Anyway, don’t spend so much time looking at your darkest chapter that you forget how to spell. ——— The next time someone puts a knife in your back, and you go to return the favor——check how much room there is on their back first. Maybe say something nice. Or love them. ____— Joy is like a cat. The more you chase it; the faster it runs. Let it come to you. Crouch down. Click your tongue a bit. ____— The world’s full of broken people; some of who are helping others get togethered. ____— Wisdom comes by having your fill of folly. Folly comes by never having enough. ____— Time waits for no man——no man waits for time. (Most likely someone else said this. If not, shame on us.) ____— Knowledge is a sword. Wisdom is how well we swing it.

I walked through the hall on my way to write poetry and heard a very faint voice as I often do; then thinking it was just a ghost or a dream or the wind I carried on walking and the voice called a half-whisper louder——and it so softly cried, “Help.” So, realizing one of these fellow humans had fallen I followed that sound to each door fusing my ear with every one until I heard the awful sound again and, sir, please know, I did what I was told to do because I am not trained to lift humans with paper skin and so I called for help from the educated beings on the radio and I called and had only silence and when that silence had gone on for just a tad too long then I opened the door because I had to do what I was told and so I saw the woman trapped and draped over the edge of her tub, her eyes were dry but thankful and I grasped her by the hands and, when she was ready I ever so gently and ever so greatly lifted her to her feet and shielded my eyes from her shame then walked her with caution to her couch——so I could go and ever so gently and ever so greatly lift the dozens of paper-minded people that should have been there but were walking around on their backs but we _don’t_ help one another and _our_ voice is coarse from laying on _our_ back for ‘I don’t know how long’ and I tried to call for help too for so long——from my back and now that I’m standing what sort of hell would I be let you lay there and wait?

i went looking for me awhile ago caught the train to my reflection missed the switch didn’t find myself spotted a glimpse of me happy in the fiery trees just enough to make me sick no sooner seen then gone sought by the Good Book sliced my throat on the Word I watched me fly away a cubit over my spinning head I caught my heel in time for me to carry myself further into my own mind off into the cursing clouds up into the burning sky   anyways, that’s why I’m late

If I was afraid of elevators—I am because, sometimes I have a feeling they’ll take me someplace other than where I told them to and the doors will open up into utter darkness——there’ll be a sound there, something scraping like bones rumbling—and it’ll quiet down, when it sees me standing there—hitting _DOOR CLOSE_ __ __ firmly and silently; I’ll look into the dark and the dark will look into me the doors will close—we’ll share a laugh ——and so, the next time you take an elevator or however else you intend to die——I hope you end up where you’re trying to go and _think_ on where you may end up

I thought to get one, you know? A fishing hook for my hat I saw a man the other day who had one When I set out to go fishing and I thought to ask him if he’d caught anything good lately or if he was getting any bites and he’d say something like “Nothin’ but smallmouth bass. You?” and I’d tell him I don’t fish ——but you know I’d worry about that fishhook falling off my hat and finding one of our feet so maybe that isn’t wise —and when we’re older you can tell the other women “My husband’s out fishing.” when they ask; if they ask and they’d maybe act interested, “Catching anything lately?” and you’d say “Lord only knows.” and we’d all laugh —that’d be neat, I think

Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get. I mean, sometimes there’ll be a sort-of loose guide, but they can only tell you so much of what you’re going to experience when you pop the morsel into your mouth and chew, chew slower. It could be caramel ganache, or a turtle, or that raspberry goop—we eat anyway, knowing we don’t like it. It could be a truffle, it could have a fly, sweet as can be, who flew into get a closer look. It could have tears from a young boy, twelve years old or so, who lives at the factory, in the basement, in a coffin, who’s wondering why he gets all the nasty bits of life from the box—or a broken, little chunk of a razor blade, so when we bite it—it bites us, or a flavor that we didn’t see on the box—not on the guide—tasting like how when we’ve eaten our fill, we _will_ die—making us _think_,_ _for just long enough to swallow our heads, after mulling them around a bit—we’ll run our tongue through our teeth to see what’s left. Or it could be white-chocolate coconut. Just keep eating and find out.

The rift opened—— that’s me staring at the pit of the earth where I’d have to lay you if God took you before me and they’d have to pull me away, a few men, an army of them from where I put you to rest and when I finally let them after I had told you a thousand times that we will meet again they’d tell me there’s a sun in the sky but I’d live the rest of my life night after night cold, colder than I’d ever been time would shiver and be frozen and I would go back because I know without anyone planting them a forest of flowers would grow there, over you my love there, over you my friend ——dragging me through it

The world would say a man is mad for spending his days smelling of one flower but what say that bloom was of heaven’s scent with petals of light and a shade of love’s power and if straying away that man turned to waste then he’d stay never change never trade for all days If that love lifted him unto such gleaming place so I’ll stay I’ll remain til the end with you for you’ve proven your love by great grace never fades

Yesterday the divide screamed as good things fell into it I told a dead man we will laugh at us two thousand years from now they’ll read about you and me call us primitive, hunter-gatherers and with a yawn and pitiful smirk they’ll turn the page and read about how all the colorblind people weren’t colorblind yesterday when the Black man fell upon the White immigrant and she couldn’t keep the red contained anymore and lay there to die on the city bus or the train (I heard both as fact) or the valley on wheels there in the pit of your heart and many fools raced to raise flags of color and brought forth George Floyd and if we kept staring a bit longer than we could bear We’d find Rosa Parks, I think and no one seemed to scream there, not when it happened but only when the world took opinion to be Truth and called back from the driver’s seat and screamed——all over they screamed and the one side of the bus split off and was shoved away because we still haven’t learned anything on how we’re the same and how many times the man with the blade screamed to the doctors before that day ——but for them all we did pray, didn’t we dear? For all of _us _we did pray Though I heard such empathy is toxic by someone screaming with a knife in their hand

it’s all we really know anymore like how, when a lion wanders into a village of we hut-dwelling folk how the only way to shoo him off is with hordes all stomping and clapping, groupthink and screaming and throwing stones until he’s gone, Truth——but he stays just outside our camp laying low in the grass quiet while we go on shouting and waits for someone anyone who wanders off in silence and asks right questions so he could show them not all screams are correct

o Father claim mine liar’s heart and sunder in it Hell apart and plunder all mine death within o Father break this man o’ sin   for I cannot yet see the day I loveth Thee, yet I betray so maketh me Thine place of war lest I relive mine days of yore   Dear Christ I bid Thee hear me now There is no Lord apart from Thou Maketh me ash, I ask Thee would until I see Thee as I should

and people are celebrating and cheering and asking if the bullet was harmed and I think something’s coming for us to stare us in the face because Truth doesn’t require hate it never has but can only be sought through patience and love by grace and measuring thoughts and I wish I could say that Brother Kirk did that perfectly, humility and love must accompany Truth; this is the standard we must strive for else men climb buildings load ideas into chambers abandon reason and logic foresake the unity of human, the optimal form of the human experience and try to kill their way into Truth …but no amount of blood will lead to Truth Truth doesn’t change, even should we slay entire nations Love is a mandatory part of seeking Truth -When will we learn?

I Say We Just Chop Em Up Into bits Everyone who has a differing opinion gather them up bind them with our thought rope them, their children, their pets once they’re dealt with we will be right their blood on our hands will tell us the truth and we’ll tear down their houses leave them in heaps of dust douse them in kerosene let them burn and should any man remember them or step foot on that rotten earth they’ll deserve the same fate then, we’ll fix our eyes to progress and, if anyone questions or has a different view of progress we’ll gather them up and throw them into fire so that truth will belong to us and we, when we fall short of our progress will bind ourselves put our heads in that noose kick the chair out far and they’ll be no one left to question, _ what is Truth? _ __ __ __ For there will be no one left to misunderstand the truth__ __ __ __ Or are we really just on the same team? Is it really just us against misunderstanding? Isn’t that all there ever was? Who’s spilling less blood and more ink? Who’s willing to love? Who’s searching for Truth?

Debate is when two or more people take swords and swing them at the ideas behind one another. The best idea is Truth. And Truth will take the day. War and hatred are when we swing the sword at one another. And both of these kills Truth. Striking at the person can be as simple as insulting them for their idea, targeting their appearance or other characteristics of the person——or, in its most severe form, it can be murder and physical violence. Violence perpetuates violence. Hate perpetuates hate. When we target the human and not the idea, we create more people who target the human and not the idea. Love will perpetuate love. Love does not swing a sword at the human, but gently and cautiously carves apart the idea——not with a spirit of rage or hate, but with one of seeking Truth, the very spirit of debate. All debate is and ever should be is men and women communicating as a team to find what is True and what is good for humanity as a whole. Love is the way toward truth—we must place value upon all human life. We must not place value upon war and hatred. When we accept this to be reality, we will see people seek Truth. If a debate carries on without this in mind, hatred will fester and blood will be spilled. And Truth will run further away from us. And, if this is True, then it should be spread to mankind. One man helps the other up the ladder, each on their way to what is Good and True.

Desperate, we settle for mere life Indeed, stifling the desire Enduring the fleeting hours Daring to pursue the night In search of the warmth of fire Entwined inside a whisper louder Dreams of more than heights Invariably, the sights are liars Eroding as flesh in which we cower Doomed to kill and be dead Insidious as we are everyday fading Each of us measuring all things Dragging the tape of our mind Inching off bounds; when crossed Everyone becomes a hostile force Don’t you know—we’ll never see Insisting our fellows should bleed Evermore for all their crooked dreams? Division will remain until we make peace Into our heads and hearts must go love Everyone who is living and dying

When the stars fell; like knives upon the stripes of us deadmen red and white they were; liars crashing down on visions and we paint our faces; bold in the blood of yesterday spreading out like a fire; Love extending beyond brightest flags stretched out from desperate reach of skin and earth and the divide and it all melts away; we walk through the ignorance and hate; rage loosed from its high place the notion of death; the war must cease and peace must be the acceptable form of being alive

If nothing else dear boy, knock whether your hands are strong or not on the old oak door the small path brought when you’d twisted free of life’s erred knot and sought purpose through the most vain taunt —knock there with vigor on the doors of mystery and wipe your feet of pride and misery (you’ll pick them up whence you do walk) but on that door, my dear son, knock your faith is the key; open ye Death’s old lock

By soft soil of the prints of man’s traced palm   and with such roots inward dwell by God’s breath   see the blooms and blood —it’s fruit like sweet song   branch to branch no soul could measure the breadth   or there by eons number the bright seeds   in Life’s wind leaves wave to the face of death   and perched there on oak arms the angels see   the fruit of palms ripe and strong, full and true   all lips will taste then praise to Christ the King

Your soul is the color of the wind,   making the fields dance   under the moonlit sky,   showing the forest   where to seek the sun;   assuring the night   that dawn will come;   humming heaven’s lullaby,   to show the dead where life resides

The world; the heart a place of shade And blind are men who claim much sight soon stumbling they forget their names Oh bride of Christ where is your light?   The soul; the eye, a place of shade And deafened men would say they shine and guide the way for proud and lame though venture to the deep of night   The day; the life, a place of shade Yet crimson never shone so bright than He who bore our sin and shame and made a glow for us to find

I stepp’d to the sands flow’d to the river’s edge follow’d by that going water under the cloud by the day warm’d by the flame at night then came to the meadow rest’d at that promis’d field still’d by the shore and assur’d drank there I the cup of life in the garden of violet lillies they being accompanied by roses ones missing the thorns of red encompass’d by sea-like poppies tempered with orange-glow bloom with a gold-petal’d sonne flow’r there there amidst the garden I burned with curs’d flame sword sown in earth being dead I saw death die its last fell breath brought blossoms where ash would ne’er be, there where man should ne’er be Aye, I wept with sprouting eyes   and flourish’d something I’ll fail to say

In which people openly disagree Start with your brother when you debate someone ask them three questions about themselves like favorite colors or films or music ask what they think of the stars what inspires them tell them you love them that they are valuable to you ask them what scar hurt the most have empathy smile when they smile and cry when they cry then work on Truth together because you read somewhere recently that any true movement needs to have an enemy and so you decided the only worthwhile enemies are the Twin Kings Misunderstanding and Hate and if you raised a sword high enough against them people may rally under that banner of Truth and Love and no one need be killed by the end of each episode and should you or the other humans turn your passion and rage to one another then we should stop make it clear what we’ve done raise our hands in surrender circle our human faces for we are united against our enemy and friendly fire is foolish at best hellish at worst

_Perfect_ is a strong word Overused and underrated _Murder is easy_ __ We do it all the time We’re burning the false flag at this point and flying the captain’s skin the ship goes now where the water wills I’ll write with the blood of my hands smearing my awful verse until they’re clean of you Hatred of the image-bearer daggers to the throat clubbed with noisy gongs clashed with cymbals dashed and thrashed with symbols of vainglorious clamor burning us away by the day with kindly and hellish intent ——draw me with your cords of love quarter me so I may be rinsed of this dreaded, feral ichor washed of the crimson guilt that makes me to witness love me to death and go on and go on, you lover, you thief

Then the naked earth shivered   as the sea sank into the sky   wormwood fell into the divide   raining down both cure and poison   the rusted moths staked their claim   turning all treasure to dust and waste   strong men wept in rumbling caverns   holding fast to their kin, hate and joy   (Today I thought I’d missed it.)

**Victory**   tastes of molten gold of rusted nails and dogwood thorns and vinegar a virgin’s tears a torn veil trembling earth ground serpent’s head a bruised heel the agony of separation the merry soldier’s dance and of fasting and much prayer

In barren wastes I wandered not with food or any water and I sought no end but pondered through the sands of lands of fonder and my bones began to ache and my blood began to boil there my soul in me did quake each small step became such toil I collapsed into the valley and I stared up to the mountain there I had no tears, though sadly my heart poured as if a fountain then the Sheppard reached his hand in such love, pulled me to greet His eyes; two fiery brands though His tone was soft and sweet and He gave me food and drink the likes of which I can’t compare to any course of men or thing —‘twould be a crime to call it fair and the Sheppard held me close and so we walked into the sands in barren wastes we found no host though, in fact, we found a man In barren wastes he wandered farther not with food or any water and he sought no end but pondered through the sands of lands of fonder and his bones began to ache and his blood began to boil there his soul in him did quake each small step became such toil there the Sheppard left my side and I had such thoughts and fear _Who would help this fading life?_ __ _Who would lead him out of here?_ Then the Sheppard spoke within me, _“Lift his head, for I am near.” _

I wept for you this morning and I thought to wear the tears into my workday and should’ve any man asked I thought to say “My Mother is going to make it!” and I wept because you’ve begun to breathe again and I thought I’d lost you and all these years we’ve prayed over your lifeless heart and as we accepted you were gone just then, for good reason you jolted awake to show us to never call a dead man dead and so yes I wept for you because the breath of God has filled your lungs and His blood has been poured into your veins and you’re coming to now and you see that this Love transcends beyond the fullness of Man and you are in the Savior’s hands What should a man do when his child is born, but weep? I will weep this day away and smile for you

I fought like hell Victory at an arm’s reach And when I held my blade pressed against the throat of God then He said, “It is finished.” and I’d realized that I was the traitor that my allegiance was to Death but my heart sought for Life that I’d fell the thousands by Hate but my soul was desperate for Love and after I had died and rose I turned to face my brothers and sisters

I _think_ if we _must_ kill that we should make sure we must and that, say a man _can’t_ help but kill and so we _must_ kill him that we should have in the presence of that man’s final moments another man there to plead his case that he could do better if he was given another chance and there should be yet another to weep for the loss of life if we _must_ kill and then should the killer be embraced in some way and the killer should murder the man if we _must_ kill

Walk gently, son, through dying days, when youth should fade by perished night, hold fast to grace, abandon rage   Should pain hold you to harshest flame, or wisdom wain or stray from sight, Walk gently, son, through dying days   As age falls weary on your face, or plight and hate take place of light, hold fast to grace, abandon rage   For seldom men should find the Way, or lay their eyes on brightest life, Walk gently, son, through dying days   If dark remains, or shadows reign, and daze you by all earthen strife, walk gently, son, through dying days, hold fast to grace, abandon rage

My boy,   stray ye not from that path o’ blood, where I showed thee by Savior’s love —winding as that Way may be my boy, that Way I pray thou heed   should worldly scorn beset thy face, and chaseth thee afar from grace, fear not to turn thyself around, thy Savior’s love persists, abounds

It’s a day as good as any for a storm.   Someone called for rain the day before.   As if today were somehow different, or if clouds had some sympathy for our feelings. Maybe the sun might shine sometime after. Maybe after this storm, we’ll be dancing as one.   The oceans and skies ‘fore my eyes become one! This whole world, my own mind is a storm! What will remain? What will come after? Loose any downpour but drown out this feeling! Should I see the sun again? Would it appear differently?   The storm rages now, all things are different! The wind and I rhyme, the rain and pain are one! The misery of the century, a flood of feelings set here to devour me into an endless storm! How can I be the same as I was before? What will I become in the wake of the after?   I thought I wanted to remain and be me after. In this rain, I change, I am here, different. I can’t be the man I was before. For in this storm, I found the One. He sought me in the eye of the storm, in an eve of many bitter feelings.   The eye will close! I will endure these feelings! For He is with me now ——and foreverafter! Only His hands can quell a tempter’s storm! In the quiet or the roar, I am forever different! He has made the weary to a joyous one! And how His form bore my before!   You were with me in every storm before! You held me together through every fearsome feeling! You gathered the broken and made me one! Father, what is a storm in the light of what I am after? In the eye, and in mine, You’ve made me different. And Christ, in my heart, You surge as a storm.   So I am not the one, and will never be the old before. Your Word is peace to the storm, Your comfort brings new feelings. Here I am, after Your will, in Your eye, becoming different.

I tore my fingers plucking at the thorn in my side For awhile I wondered where I might have caught it I thought maybe from some hellish place or darkened way by fiery blooms that twisted out to me Then I saw that it grew from within And soon was joined by its fellows until I had a dozen bloody hooks and not a single rose they squeezed their way around my bones and nestled in my flesh and wreathed me in my misery pushed me off to be a thorn in the side of this mass it ripped its fingers trying to be rid of me wondering what hellish place it must’ve picked me up then we trembled as the gardener came to make of us a crown then I was a grafted branch among the Vine and the thorns were far from sight tho’ here I wake with great fear of what I’m growing

If we’d ever hope to love someone to the Truth nothing less than our death will do lo’ nothing more can be done for when God sought to hand us Truth to show us the Way He did so with perfect humility laid down on that cross —the one we made for Him when we disagreed and did not protest as He lay upon the Tree but loved He, His enemies

I don’t expect you to understand because my mind is not my own and sometimes it’s all too much when I set my sights on the beyond and move free from this shadow soaring ever higher each time I go to that place which I shall only reach by my inevitable sleep that realm, which to me does only now appear to be a dream though none may stop me from my journey to above but death is, yes and only has it ever been the absence of love

If you hold the world and you give it its spin if you paint the heavens the stars shining therein if you raise the sun each and every new day if you show the moon it’s one course; it’s one way if you breathe your life into dirt; into clay so they turn into men and they give you their praise if you can forgive _me_ if you show _me_ grace to _whom_ shall I go but your loving embrace?

the hammer hits the nail and His blood is warmer than my hands, i don’t feel much but He does as i lift Him up into the dying sun entombed in darkening skies i wanted His garments and so did the others so we cast dice into the sanguine pool at the feet of the tattered Hebrew and i rolled snake eyes every time i gave Him rotted vinegar to get the dry taste of death from what remained of His lips and He kissed the sponge fixed to my spear, and i told Him to give up and as the day died He obliged, and the earth trembled when He breathed his last gasp and when he exhaled i cried for the first time and i meant it too   and i cried last night for the first time in a long time and i cried today when my foot wanted to go to the floor and i had the black thoughts of redlining the speedometer and the dying son rose from the tomb in my chest and said don’t give up so i cried harder and drove slower and i obliged to survive

Hold your breath as long as you can you’ll flail your arms naturally the water feels like fire the surface might be missing don’t drop anything make sure you’re alive that your soul is right don’t lose your mind double check your pockets hold it all together let it all go sink and think and climb and die the first rule of drowning when you collapse into your murky heart you’ll hear lies pulsing through you circling their way around pulling you to the depths that you are temporary you are meant to drown you are death or dead already —turn the Light on, child if the Son doesn’t shine the surface will run from you ——when you see the Day you’ll walk on waves that’s the first rule of drowning

‘O, Æther, Perish!’ - A Sestina ——   The faceless soapbox man after informing the accuser   that he is no poet, and     the front row human          shouted, ‘Well          what are you?’,           and after the                 being            responded,        ‘What are any of       us?’ and just after     many mumblings and    all perturbed creatures  looked to clouds for some reason, then the wretch cried out with a words as a raging fire,                        —   I   For yonder fools roar,         O, Æther, perish! And sonder and ponder       days of fierce grim! With wild wonder question, with ire, with whim or shake fists to dark skies,       pursuing Why! Break we ourselves and        all that we cherish And find we some truth     ‘fore light goes to die.                       — II   Or by time we mean           every life will die, and all answers bloom         then fall and perish! And Numen eludes       or man might cherish! With twisted faces        we laugh with foul grim! We lose our limbs in        the sands to find Why! Lo’ errant voids crash,         mocking every whim!               — III   Zeus call your lightning    on this wretched whim! Hades make the truth    known so we may die! Hermes bring us news      for to end this Why! Poseidon reveal the depths,      make doubt perish! Ares show your face        that we may be grim! Artemis birth truth       for man to cherish!              — IV   They are dead lights, those stars that we cherish! And pray to part clouds        and enshroud this whim! Curs’d be that reaper,       that thief we name Grim! Oh, Occam make simpler        Why men must die! Search out an answer;        nights mustn’t perish! Time tears our garments;       we roar and ask Why!               — V   Follow the wind to farthest        cries for Why! Hold on to yourself,      bind all ye cherish! For only few days come;   all nights perish! Follow the wind to far       reaches and whim, to the place where every    question should die! Grin and know! And go!    Go and show, ye grim!               —VI   Our twisting faces   only now show grim! Every limb formed   to the mishape of Why! Eyes no longer see      anything but die! We yearn yet for truth!    But lies we cherish! We are only seeking      our every whim! Hope eludes us all!   We squirm and perish!             —VII   Perished is our peace! Whim and answers prove cherished in its place! All of this will die! So will die Why, on a sweet morn’ of grim!           —IIX   Grim, raise your sickle! Die, thy hellish blade! Whim give me no kiss! Or call this bliss and perish! I found here something cherished! I found here the blessed Why!              —IX   Why tear us to pieces! Perished are our days! Die, or live trying — and watch us become grim! Vanity, our guide; our master is whim — each fleeting thing being far more cherished!            —X   Cherish the answer, shun the question, Grimly faces ‘neath darker crown! Perish, all you mudmen, fall and be at home! And search for your hands, the hands you named Why! Will the soul in your eyes die? Did you kill it with whim?           —XI   Whim peel away from your eyes, Why burst from your empty mind, Grim’s laughter resound shrill and still the living dead! Fold your hands with thanksgiving for all you squander and cherish! Breathe ye, return thy borrowed breath and perish! Few ever live, though all will die!            —XII   Die on the hill in your head, cherish the moment; the Why down the winding road calls back to us, “What whim!” shaking a fist with a feasting mouth grim. Then something in all man cries, “O, Æther, perish!”   Die, ye of light and grim, perishing eyes blind by Why! Cherish this life! This wisp! This whim!

Twenty years later the man walks free the prison collapses behind him he doesn’t stop to stare or care the world is different now it’s a coiled adder a constricting serpent suffocating the prey it’s a graveyard full of mirth a casket of laughter sidesplitting red roses a place now so foreign the man sojourns

And sure we have world peace now …but where is my happiness? and there’s no one left standing to disagree …but where is my happiness? of course we’ve conquered and cultivated the universe …but where is my happiness? yes, people live well into their two-hundreds, and cancer is gone and war is no more and no one dies by the hands of another and art is rampant throughout society and man lets no man go without and people are free to sing songs and we travel to the ends of the universe by the power of sound and resources are abundant to every man and each human values the other as their self we compete over who can love others more and who has more poetry …but where is our happiness?

We are the bride, humanity who forsake the Groom we left Love at the altar and ran out to every man in town made our home Hate but we visit the bed of Despair and give our many affections to Death all the days of our lives finding every place but our Groom’s house and He comes and finds us in all our filth and shame in all our rage and pride to let us know we are still welcome that He still wants us that He still Loves us that it was never about what we do or if we would stay or if we were enough or if we were perfect or if we were loyal but only that He loves us regardless of if we return to Him and He appeared there while we were at the house of Lust bringing with Him the altar laying there to die for us ——that is our Groom, now alive there waiting for us until our final breath ready to have us back and hold none of it against us —that is Love, now alive What is the Bride to do? What are we doing here? We should be going home, I _think_.

I had a dream I wept on the street corner and a man tapped me on the shoulder and he assured me that all would be okay then, not bothering to speak that day I turned my gaze away fixing them back onto the decay that is my brothers, my sisters, my fathers, my mothers and wept all the more for my good King said “Love one another.” But we do not love And we’ve no room to spare How we hate! How we rage! How we hoard and won’t share! How we rinse all the dust at the end of each day, then we drown in the blood of those we call too strange and we dress to impress all the people we shame and we claim we have life, but death becomes our way and we look to our fellows, and we each take a blade and we kill! Oh we kill! And we question our fate! So I then dried my eyes, and I looked to the man and I saw there my Lord, and He reached out His hands and I saw they were bore and I saw you there too still yet calling for war and I wept for this Truth

In a world full of roses be only a humble wishflower standing in the same grass knowing you’re equal in every way that matters then, decide to love roses even when they trample over you even should they choke you with thorns because that sort of love is how the garden grows only say, “I’ll love you anyway.” and when we care about someone we ask lots of questions so look for answers as much as you look for sunlight walk in love as much as you feel the wind and love every flower as much as you wait for the rain

We can’t keep going on like this where we are divided in two are you red sir? are you blue? are you left? or are you right? are you brown or are you white? what flag do you most like to fly? are you Christian? Are you trans? are you from some distant lands? what’s your blood type? A or B? Sitting or standing? Please tell how you pee! We’ve not a seat left for the people like you! We’d much rather us to discuss our own views! You stay over there, we’re all out of love! You stay over there, else there will be blood! (Blessed are the peacemakers)

We stand here calling for unity And watch as the divide plays out Swords, He spake, I say If we don’t stop the fire soon The flames will reach our children Isn’t that the measure of a man? Such a world we’ve left to our kin Right and Left are all we know anymore And how few men sit back and listen Even opening their mouths to speak Lies like daggers into image bearers

The pickaxe is all I know anymore it’s the only thing that’s vital and for all the days I’ve toiled I have more work to do And I’ll work until I slumber chipping away at the stone trying to find your eyes so I might bring them, one day, back up to the surface to rinse them in clear waters dry them with cloth cut from clouds That you might see the sun again What else is there to do?

So said the Father unto His sons, _Who could pry thee from Me?_ _If in my hand thou art and wilt be _ _What legion may take thee from Me? _ _What man may claim what I make mine? _ _Should I make mountains fall in line,_ _what man may make them lag behind?_ _What mount could stand if I say lie? _ _Doth man posess an army that could tear apart the skies? _ _Doth earth have strength to hold the stars, to make them live and die? _ __ __ _If in Mine hands thy life is placed,_ __ _who shall remove thee from Mine grace? _ __ __

line up ten humans order them not by flag not by income not by gender not by age nor race nor faith nor politics nor sexuality nor by who can yell louder nor by who can shoot better nor by ideology or worldview only by who has the most equal measure of Truth and Love And should the one in the tenth spot who is determined to count themself as nothing compared to others If that tenth-spot-human, determined to be the most possessed by seeking Truth and Love if they do not immediately turn to the others to help them to their level or if they feel proud to be the winner or if they feel superior to the rest take that human and switch them with the ones who were less and put them to the same test ——the greatest will serve the least, and help them to Love and Truth, line up the world then and see who Loves more and who sees tomorrow better _that’s_ how we best escape this death

By hand you were —you _are_ being shaped like a portrait of Love He went Those same hands Pierced to illustrate grace to turn the finished piece from canvas and oil to Blood and Life _Tell me again how He’s merely a great teacher…_ __ _Tell me, what have you learned? _

Once you’ve slammed the door and ran away, fast as you can to anywhere you may go and even when you’ve forgotten His eyes and you’ve scaled mountains you’ve traversed ravines and forests even careful to cover your tracks and when you’ve done every sort of good and bad thing we do in life and you’ve filled your home with memories of all your travels and you think, for a moment you’ve managed to escape His love with all the shame and guilt you have scattered, like traps around the room and you look to the door barricaded with all the times you failed and the windows, painted by the blood you’ve spilled and the fireplace, still yet burning with desires then, taking a deep breath you go on to die and He will still be there even through all of it because He never left —There is no _fleeing_ from His love If only I’d stop trying

For there is a river flowing like a mirror reflecting the heavens from that Temple in the East which was born from old when the Roman spear met the King’s side; it began to flow forth and has moved about the land carving a channel through the waterless places through the drought of man’s soul ebbing its way ever forward to the sea where Death resides so to fill it with abundant Life and men and their families will gather together nets will burst from the catch of that New Sea, the sound of joy will be there on its vibrant shores; our men shall be clad in crimson and women in white robes they’ll wave in a cool breeze like flags of surrender and our children will smile and dance and shout to the rain with eyes of streaming tears we will sing songs we’ve never sung loud so the earth may tremble roaring over the waters breaking over the shadows; and Death will not hear from the depths of that Sea Death will lay silent and still as we move through the land; the river goes

society wipes it odiferous arse with man of cloth naked men whom forsook clean garbs for Moses’ robe ——then entangled fig leaves —then nothing at all conjecture and splintering etiquette hair-splitting crises ego-driven entomology hell-hand Gnosticism nomenclature of the stains of man Tartarus beckons the Bride lo’ she heeds no one at all tho her pocket-god of Self

What manner of love dost Thou possess that findeth me in mine regress,   when I hath trodden o’er the edge and put to flame mine every bridge,   when I hath hidden mine face from Thee and donned mine mask of worldly glee,   and through the valley o’ Despair, to curs’d lands I built mine lair,   what love, sweet Christ, dost Thou possess, that Thou, my Light, to death extends,   that tho’ mine hands, have nothing gained, and all else dies ——Thy love remains?

On my door, when I was not home and you, my love, told them that you were merely a flower and I, a tree (How much that meant to me!) ——those twin birds who brought their gods and whom you greeted with Christ’s love; how awful my heart aches for them as they articulated their uncertainties and as I bowed my head: they did too and we spake unto the One True God they, with their spirit-fingers crossed I, with my mind solely on that cross Now, the accuser laughs for I did not weep despite the Spirit’s pleas and yet here, those two shall meet with me in ‘morrows eve to True Things speak and so, remind me to mourn and to be loving to tear their shadows apart with this Light upon my heart

…Where there is light there is always a shadow close behind Where there is life death lingers and waits for its time Where there is Christ Light breaks over the dark and shines Where there is light… (🔄)

So the man built a fence around his estate or a fortress, let’s say, around the crops that he planted and another man was hungry so he scaled the wall and took of the fruits of the first man then, being caught with a full-belly by the first man, brow yet sweating from his labor and harvest who, promptly decided upon insisting the other man reap what he sow, and to have respect for fellow man enough to leave his belongings alone without asking and we shall say he removed the full-bellied theif from the fields what he’d planted to feed his young and, let’s assume, even he used some force against protecting that which his hands had built —I suppose I should get to the question: why _should_ that second man have right to take from the yield of that which he did not labor for? moreover, why _should_ that first man make every effort to ensure that the trespasser should be forgiven——and to be loved——and to be fed——and to be valued at all by the first man? and finally, why _should_ anyone ever look to another without knowing them to be inherently valuable beyond what that person may or may not have—or by works that they have or have not done —or by if they’ve planted much or scaled many walls to plunder what was there—or by if they sit in else man’s fields with bellies sore from a feast they served by the aching tendons of another human? Also, why _should_ _anything_ be so, really? And why _should_ anyone _love_ anyone? And why _should_ there be _any_ justice? And why _shouldn’t_ that first man kill the second? Or the second kill the first? And why _should _there be Truth? _ _ And don’t you know I _love_ you?

I guess what I was trying to say was that the masses are cleaving a divide down in the valley at our feet and despite us calling to them they will not cease to claw at the earth but continue to burrow both day and night without rest, they tear apart the rock and stone and a few brave souls leapt down to reason with them and have been trampled and broken by those masses who labor to kill ——the only thing left for us to do is that we lie down over that division, to help these others cross even should we fall right after; yes, we must be the bridge

Madness and chaos everyone’s out for themselves peace is a squandered notion we spend the day barreling about rebounding and colliding with the people we claim to love recoiling when we are struck laughing as we go soaking up the impact with our heart and soul and all the tension gives us whiplash —but we blame the other drivers, vowing to hit them harder next time

I take the flesh and blood with hands stained with hell hold them up to my profane lips breaking the flesh with my rotting teeth pour the blood over my liar’s tongue shovel it down my throat of graves into the corpse of a man I am and beyond my hellish heart it goes down to the depths into the light it makes in me into the life He gave to me

He gave away his treasure and bought food for all the starved took with him no tunic for he gave the bare his garb the fed began to sow and the robed began to march all these gathered flowing water for any lost soul whom was parched the watered men were drunk but by the Spirit, not by wine and they moved about the city and the Son in them did shine they fed the lame with bread and many fish and bits of Word then they marveled at the mystery of everything they’d heard and the first man missed his treasure not, for everything it brought, and the fortune laid upon his soul, he knew would never rot

Beneath the willow, You will find that all the time will so cease to wind Then will the wind blow through the leaves to straighten out your false beliefs The sun will shine and filter through the light of day the dark of you And you’ll awake to see the Truth the night has come The dawn brings new

…and from that Burning Bush a spark of God’s fire might have met the tongue of Moses setting it ablaze with the Lord’s voice as the Spirit so burns within us now so Moses walked with the Creator back to the land he’d escaped and God said unto Pharaoh “Let my people go!” and Christ tred on the head of that serpent with the force of every plague and every measure of wrath and fire even laying His life down under the force and weight of His fearsome judgement and said unto that deceiver and said unto the death therein, “You will let my people go!” though what we heard may have been, “It is finished.”

Nothing here is sacred, safe or sane or so we’re led to believe by the shadow standing in the corner yellow-eyed and smiling We shake ourselves awake and rise heart pounding as we sleep our way ahead to the family room of the old house where we held hands in the dark speaking sweet to the dead listening out for the reply of the candle-lit board who spoke words to us, we were young we were a shadow in the corner then when something rose up and sundered the chair and left three large gashes in the back of the seat which was firm against the wall and our flesh ached from it after all the terror, the lights came on and we had those three claws running down our back bright red stripes, almost burns on our young skin then came voices in the depths of night conversations from below, as if whatever spoke had more to say and would stomp its way up the family stairs thirteen heavy steps, then would rest and watch us pretend to sleep and whence we played hide-and-seek the old woman in a gown crossed the hall smiling and we could see through her, we children and asked about her to adults who became ghost-white whispering to one another if someone had told us their mother had died soon before and would walk the halls smiling, having forgotten all things, then forgetting how to live at all portraits would come alive and be merry, which was fine they would wave and we would wave back and knick-knacks would climb down from their shelves dancing their way over to our bed where the dark-haired young woman lie wreching at our feet she was too ill to look us in the eyes, but only wept and spat from her fours and waited for a moment to vanish even after the lights came on by our sister’s hand then, as a teen, we saw hell’s face so clearly in the red-glow of a clock out of time and the people laughed and cried downstairs in the dark, but we were braver then going down to see if they’d speak making them angry at our trying they gave chase, some awful creature the head of a lion and the body of a man on fours, he twisted up the stairs and we pounded on our foster parent’s door for help at fifteen, sobbing and kicking that door with full-force and no reply, as if God said they should not help, I’m glad He did as the thing watched with a satisfied stare from the edge of the stairs and then we were taken up from our bed and shown many things in a barren land where the dust choked us all of the evils gathered and charging forth and all of the Children shone bright under the heavy sun with swords in hand we flew to bring Life to Death I suppose that’s happening now or we’re crazy, or we’re unsafe, or we’re sacred

it’s as if there is a colony of mold on the roof of a septic plant flowing first through some awful funk down into the gutter of rot oozing then, thick like a horrible gel steaming as it falls from the downspout in clumps of festering forms splatting into the mind of humanity we clap our hands and wait for the next batch

Today I matched half a red, wooden apple split down the center from the stem down a little spot of weary Velcro in its middle with half a red, wooden tomato and I told my boy, “They are the same, but they are different too.” And I thought about when he’s older I may show him Stalin and Hilter split down the middle next to half of Donne or Bonhoeffer and then I thought I should just show everyone that men aren’t made of color but of God’s breath

Ha! Bill Maher called out Christians for their ignorance and silence as our Nigerian brothers and sisters are planted like seeds in the ground their blood taking roots, digging deeper and deeper into the earth they rattle the chains of men, they do who walk around with lies and guns whose steps are fire, curdling that precious blood of my kin who I weep for and fold my hands as the forest grows greener each day …and he’s right, you know

I couldn’t sleep at all because I’m so tired of closing my eyes

Leave ye no flow'r on mine grave nor visit me with tearried face if thou shalt weep, keep thine hands raised —in Christ mine death has died And sing to me no somber song if you must grieve—do not be long for all mine sorrows wilt be gone —in Christ mine death has died There'll be not time for gloomy clouds nor streaming eyes—nor bitter sounds the Son on high shall cast them out —in Christ mine death has died Yea, tally not in memories and when thou leave, please go in peace my God, my Lord, shalt make me breathe —in Christ mine death has died

For $1 I bought the book “American Poets and Their Theology” by Augustus Hopkins Strong from the bi-annual library sale its cover ancient and yellowed its pages falling from its spine its print back from 1919 just shy of the roaring 20’s having been donated to the Southport Baptist Church Library back in 1974 by a man named Rufus whom I’d wager is with the Lord were I a betting man but I am not that sort only the sort who enjoys staring back at my ancestors the sort who would’ve paid $100 for this tome of my Fathers the sort who thought I was nearly alone a sort of fool, thinking heaven will be scarce of poets a sort of saint, trudging along the pages of a world of sin maybe one day my pages will fall from my spine and my children will hold me tightly hanging onto every word I ever said be they petty or pretty or proud or profound and I’ll hold out a bit longer to wipe tears from their eyes and to show them, once more, the Two Paths set before every person before I reach the end of this Good Path, and go to find my name written into the Book of Life

Your grace is more than I could ever bear -It’s lighter than a feather, Lord

I prayed for a sign today for the Spirit spoke to me words of places and of people who I do not know but I must be sure they are not of my mind alone and so I lay my fleece upon the threshing floor Father, give me a sign that it is me that You are sending, then I’ll go, and give clarity to my ears to hear You more

So I must move with cautious haste and careful to no second waste for e’er do mine own hands plot to see mine life become mere rot Herefore I tred a narrow path and harrowed by mine now and past I press ahead each night and day unto the heights of love, by grace and, wary of mine hellish hands I fill them with Thy great commands to venture forth, e’er toward the Son Who wars against mine flesh—Who’s won! Though by mine deeds I hath this shame, mine Savior’s love hath never changed His burden placed upon mine back ensures that I shalt ne’er lack Be mine steps quick or pained or slow I walketh careful as I go For e’er do mine own hands plot to see mine life become mere rot

I’ve written maybe 5 good poems I don’t know which they are There’s no good in looking for them I’d never find them Or they’d change themselves before my eyes Or before yours taking on the form of another nearby from the mass of bad poems I’ll hold what I thought may be good and at once shall only grasp words I despise you will too and the Good would just appear in the distance laughing and hopping away I suppose that’s True of many things