crazy

i didn't grow wings til my bones caught the wind
and the breeze offered height when it ran 'cross my skin
no more like the butterfly up on the shelf
whose wings are outstretched with a pin

i didn't have sight till i saw from the cliff
steps i had taken to climb over "if's"
no more like the rocks that crumble and crack
and cause the foot to slip

girl in white

the man squinted close, face so near the painting that his breath warmed its textured flesh
dare he touch the surface and know its colors as warmth on the tips of fingers?
know the shadows, ye man, and how they veil each color
know too the ridges that catch a glare of light to set colors into gilded folds
each gaze steals a stroke for yourself on retina and holds it in close

he turns his head
a moment too long

the man tilts his head
his eyes, unmoving take in the whole of an image out of his reach
you may not know, ye man
but watch how each color fills its role
with details that melt and shout together across a space of floor

and i will be

as i am

even as you leave the room with the imprint of my form submerged in the eyes that sleep open

the radio takes me back

a year ago i was soaking up as much Charlottesville as I could in preparation to leave a town i'd come to love.

a year ago I was hunting for the best Miley Cyrus halloween costume C-ville's thrift stores would provide

I ran about 9 miles a week and had a 5 mile run in mind as my goal.

i had soft curly hair that got shiny if I washed it with the right shampoos.

a year ago i wondered what all those songs meant

i bid

if you sip cider with me by the window in the coffee shop

for today that's all i need to love you

tomorrow I may need a hand to hold,
or I may need space
to stride as a proud young woman

but today i could be madly in love with any of you who buys me a hot apple cider
and sits with me by the window
in the coffee shop

I took Ryan Adams with me on my run this morning in air I could tell was cool, even as my body heated up.
His voice suits a gray sky and a hill full of the good people of Millersburg resting in the ground beneath their monuments.
My obsessions collide. I spend my days chasing words and here a string of them slipped in and snagged on something: "I taught myself how to grow 'Til I was crooked on the outside, inside's caved"
I glanced down at the sleek little machine in my hand as tough "Title, Album, Artist" would tell me anything more about the sad man behind this curtain: this song.
If I can't have my beloved moon on such runs, I'll simulate her as best I can through the music I feed my halloween-head.
Ryan Adams, you glow sad as the moon and that terrifyingly honest lostness of home screams in your harmonica

i think i'm in love with Ryan Adams.

the streets

who will welcome me home tonight
what lonely article of setting and what washed out hint of color
sad reminders i welcome instead of fight
despite the grip i have on my lip with my teeth
pressure-white like knuckles
"come on something, pull up a chair"
"something" the man or "something" the mood
Lord knows i've seen glimpses of you
out in the current
glancing up from my pages
peeking out of the confessional in distracted moments
to see the dancers and drinkers
the thieves and foxes in all their colorful glory
i'll string them as beads around my neck and feel them drum heavily on my collar bone
running turns to spinning. wolf becomes old friend
sing little one, the belligerent Hallelujah of the market place
forget the empty chair at home. It loves you not
watch from painted eyes that catch questions for only a moment then release them to flight
melt wax strings glistening grease for the sun to swallow and cleanse with hot, fevered mercy
the confetti will not stick
open your arms to this sky that is not empty
welcome to your blessed away
your glorious elsewhere home
Hallelujah little one
your God has been awake forever

the rooftop

you won't always have this rooftop
one day you'll find a quiet second to break the din of the followers
and you'll want nothing more

than what is no more

upward

i do a lot of leaving when I'm lonely
drifting from place to place in an attempt to leave before i've created a new location to associate with loneliness: like some stench or virus that follows you and infects a room, driving you out before you've stayed long enough to let it weaken you

i left a lot of places this week
last of all, Anywhere Town, Northern Ohio

I drove "home" with a backpack and a pumpkin in my passenger seat
and the window down so I could let my hand swim in the rush of air

gold and blue
eyes on the upward and the inward for once

for a second
i enjoyed being alone
and smiled to myself at the words
"adventures in solitude"

a real smile too...not the cynical kind that comes in darker times
the smile of a girl who amuses herself
and admits she's found something she likes in her own company

for a moment
and perhaps a moment more

breakdown

i hate that summer's over
i hate that my passenger seat will be empty on my drives back from wooster in the middle of the night
i hate that my fears and insecurities were more accurate than my hopes
I hate that sweet poetry feels so awful when actually lived out
crying in someone's arms in a strange city
arms you can't do a thing with once the grace period is over
I hate that this is the moment you asked "how are you doing? Are you ok?"

I hate that my heart is breakable even when it's armed and prepared

but i love that I still feel like I make pretty good company
and that a clear sky can make me lost for a second

i will find more and more things to love this fall

just watch me


i hate you baltimore. i hate you and the rats on your t-shirts
but i'll probably love you when it's all said and done

3 words that became hard to say

I can always see the lost
when they're gone
out sweeping the plains for a reason the size of a needle

but answers are such slippery things I'm afraid
and questions,
they stick in your palms like the blades of something shattered

a piece of glass out on the beach

you might say

such expensive questions to have and hold

better to smash it into the bricks
feel the muscle of your shoulder moving with the energy of tension
cool air to hot, boiling eyes

a glittering cloud singing high and powdering little shards onto the side-walk like glitter
crack the colors and turn them over in your fragile fingertips
clench of fist to feel
just to feel

well i can do that

Adam the namer

Adam, you namer of things
did i catch your jaw tightening like the fear of an animal that crouches to retreat
sharp muscled corner
as if your words give substance to otherwise ghosts of life
filling them with bones you fear you'll break
and blood you fear you'll spill
you arch backward and turn your steps to pacing
in hopes you'll not be called
to such permanence

Adam these things will live
and grow
and break the cement of your names
bleed they will but not for you as much for life
Adam the names
are for you
relax the mandible edge
and sing in words you've built
to the Maker who fills ghosts

worn shoe

i see you there at the bottom of the barrel
jammed into weathered wood
shoulders squeezed tight into crooked shapes
bowing like a servant should

no one else saw you on muddied floors
tread into hardened soil
head so filled up with foreign storms
that the spine's afraid to uncoil

happy Friday, worn shoe

lace-less
from-less
face-less

Christ

how quiet am I?
in the back of your mind
in the corner of your eye?

How translucent is this flesh?



perhaps once hands and feet are pierced
and the spear has painted red the Holy ribs

perhaps then I will see You

when blood of sacrifice puddles on the floor to block my step
and the black, trembling sky serves witness to a Father's terrible sadness


then will I feel your terrible Love?

empty things

my rooms are best shared
cluttered with someone else's things and someone else's shallow breathing to soften the sharpness of dark nights
the rattle of the air conditioner in the window across the room may be just enough to stave off lonely lonely silence
maybe I'll sleep somewhere else when you're gone from this room we share. Or set my cell-phone on the pillow beside me and in my half-sleep, imagine it a rope in my hand that travels miles and miles to its resting place in yours..
beside you on your pillow where you are breathing shallow, sleep-calmed breaths..
in a room cluttered with your things.

this room will feel empty. this town will feel empty. the laundry basket we used to share and the closet we crammed our thrift-store finds in: those will feel empty too.

empty things scare me so

but i wouldn't dare fill the spaces that still feel like yours

summer

I run like ambition
eat like austere
sleep like an after-thought
confide like fear
but i speak like carelessness
and dress like the brave
drive like the lucky
rest like a rave
i'll paint like the sleepless,
the restless; obsessed
write like the hawk out circling its nest
and sing like a shrug and a sauntering stride
laugh like a child with nothing to hide

mountain on fire

i let down my hair
and you set a mountain on fire

a roaring vision: hills in flame
then spoke of nothing but the feel of the air
and the sound of June rain
as it plays in your head all enclosed in your brain

and we're back again

I'm just a path to be given or taken

not a mountain on fire
roaring and bold
too loud to ignore
to sing of in dancing
or dip down to the floor


just a path un-burning
to be taken or given
not a blessing that happened
just a curs-ed decision


i watch for the day when my foothills meet embers
and the glow in the sky
is all you remember
nothing to speak of the rain all locked up
in a place without air to feed to my embers

oh what a nightmare

i am never ready to be there for ppl

sorrow is terrifying



but we share it and that's just what we do

fear of water

an edge curls up
on my sheet of postage stamps
i too
unfastened; unplanted;
unsorted; unset

pull back from placement


backwards glance
side-ward eyes
hands mid-torso at the ready

a wave approaches
to cool the skin or settle a simmering heat
i hold my breath
until the current thrusts past
boldly rushing about the tightened muscles of my substance
unearthing bone

backwards glance
toes pushed in sand
hands forced down to find balance

nothing is at the ready

ohio storms

i love the color gray
when it's livid with a stirring storm
clouds set to a shivering dance and flutter
light, shade
tone

like lightning; tamed

consumed for a brief while inside the sky

i hear you up there, you gentle flickers of white glow

drench my lashes and drip down my jawline
gentle despite the growls

i feel
uncompelling
unfound unseen
plan B waiting to be

settled for

and i;ll settle for no less

than lonely alone

or embraced in shared breathing










it's getting harder an harder to
shine

y'know...i'm coming to terms with the fact that Im just one of those people who needs or at least wants...shared confusion. It's one of many human needs i resent, but it is who i am.
shall we?

what has made this skeleton so bold
beauty sharp obsideon so cold

wellsprings

i sing for all these nameless endeavors
the steps out the door unmapped
freedom to wonder and wander alike
to find what well-spring's untapped
there's a crack in the earth i'm certain of it
bleeding with deep red wine
where everything grows in reckless perfection
and boasts to the world that they're fine

again

after awhile it feels pathetic to continually wake up still wearing skirts pearls and makeup

10 miles

on Thursday i asked Zack if we could aim to do a ten mile run by my bday in June.
This morning i ran ten miles

my body has a love hate relationship with this ten mile run, but it makes me feel alive and it makes me feel grateful for every last muscle tissue and every tiny cell in the structure of my bones

someday this body will die

but until then... what a thing to marvel over: our bodies and how each portion works in some kind of strange harmony with the others

it blows my mind and floors me with grattitude

windows

windows frame everything so spectacularly
the pale yellow of the warehouse next-door and a set of weathered telephone poles become artwork, fit to fill the greater expanse of a wall simply because the air around it is real and the weather giving its backdrop changes.
a bird comes to perch, then leaves.
a horse pulls its passengers hypnotically by
and the storm-threatened sky has made everything gray
ish
like a lucid film that lifts and settles, back and forth to change the shade of the warehouse's yellow brick ever-so-slightly

This makes it worthy of my glance

the life in it

wonderful as it is, i'd rather be on the other side of that little square frame
running on my trail
i'll get there yet

grace

Grace all sufficient
indeed i beleive it
but grace is something i wear in part; like a jacket that hangs around my elbows while i focus on the sweat that cools off my shoulders and the heat in my exhale as i run.
it isn't on
it isn't off
simply accessible

unused maybe

it's just a word like the others in my ear

but i need those words to run to or at least the chorded notes that crack open like eggs that might one day become words, oozing all over my guarded heart. I wonder how to survive the knotted chaos of fighting rhythms: the pulse of feet on gravel; the rise and fall of lungs and ribs; and the crushing strength inside the song.
cracking outward
storming downward
desperate breath caught in pattern and laced to the break of waves and the beat of wings til i'm part of some natural pendulum that all of life fixes its rhythms to
i am fastened somewhere in the same cyclical repitition as the heartbeat of a hummingbird

all i can do is breath

nothing left for singing amazing Grace
just feet that drum on gravel
and lungs that rise and fall

and a jacket that hangs around the elbows in unuse

maybe grace is the exhale and the sweat that cools from my shoulder

instead of the jacket no longer need

unworth

i hate going through college things.
it reminds me i haven't changed a bit

chapter one

Of course she's from Virginia's Blue Ridge, this author: this observer. She speaks beautifully... but who can't speak beautifully about what's beautiful, i wonder. Even so, there's a peculiar difference when someone writes with truth and seeking in the back of their brain as the context for every observation, like an accent that turns ordinary speach into echoes of some ancient royalty.

Of course she's from Virginia's Blue Ridge.

I'm tempted to think that's where she finds such beauty but the truth is, a mockingbird can fall to the grass anywhere. The art is not in the context, i know i know. It's in the eyes that have taken that smallest step of "being there," and accepted the miracle of being opened to notice
and observe.


what is it about places that render me so ...thorned and snagged like a patch being ripped from the quilt until it's nothing more than a stringy-edged square of fabric without a place to belong? You could sew the patch back into place, but the edges have frayed and the shape has changed. It would never fit the same.

it would need a new place

or perhaps my eyes need opened to notice and observe the beauty in place-less-ness.
or the beauty in awkward fits

may the start of a finishline

you finally got there


distant
quick
so too my joy for it


be well
then be gone

in between

blessedly strange, the in-between
a half smile behind the scenes
glowing blue minutes before night
a salve to cool warm tones
bright enough to blacken me into a silhouette
almost opaque but certainly not solid
not these translucent surfaces stretched across my bones
more likely a hole in the changing sky

still blind
but with eyes that wait
to settle then stir with the blue of night
in hopes an adjustment will come

and shapes become truths

driver

If it's the dead of night
and everyone reasonable is asleep

i'm probably driving

one hand on the wheel and the other spinning spirals into my hair

the sleeves are probably pulled over my knuckles until the car heats up
and someone lonelier than i is probably singing into the small confines of the car from the cd player that keeps my wandering thoughts at bay


the moon will blaze a luminescent shape that isn't quite a circle into the corner of my eye
brilliant with some strange wisdom of ages that have come and gone underneath the dark beauty above


and on this drive, i will probably think to myself how unlike the moon i am
"not I, not I," I will think and not say

but,
like the moon,
i will be satisfied to be a circle
not yet whole

i cannot swim
i dive
with solid black iron shackled round my wrists
and latticed into my skeleton

black on marrow-ed white

carving life into
the deepest blues as i sink and thrash

as though i could ever swim

or ever glide...

the surface, smooth perhaps is far above
and threatened, too with stormy figures
that peak like shattered glass
and thrust like rage into my watery roof

my lungs are somehow fit to hold
forever on some un-remembered gasp of air...

so i can dive and sink
on and on

poker face

i have empty empty hands
so i'll fill them
with pens and books and things to paint

and the ears no one whispers in,
i'll fill with songs
or silence
or the sound of my own endless stories

and in my cold and straight-faced pride
I will show those who walk away how
emotionless
i can be

how happy my hands can be to settle for pens
and how well my ears adjust to
silence

and how beautiful the mirror and the window may find
the patterns and fabrics i hide in

goodnight to the mirror and window
the song and the pen

i brush my own hair aside from my eyes

and i sing my own lullabies

i know it's all part of the pride, but in my mind behind closed lids,
I am the one walking away

another post to say the same

ever onward
ever forward
kicking up the dust
i will leave a trail of tears
and then i will adjust

ever onward
ever forward
watching dust now settle
i will let home and away
act as knife on metal

ever onward
ever forward
opened up to all
i don't care anymore
if i fly or fall
either way i'll feel the air
in a place wiped clean of walls

I, on my own
am never
on my own

the reckless thinker/feeler
she is never
on her own

i break the bonds
that others make
to jump inside
and selfishly take

i, accidental destroyer
am never
on my own

but no one around
this entire place
can see the storm
behind this face

so

i, the joiner
am somewhere
on my own

no one can break
the rubble i make

reckless i
am on my own

find her (Annie)

she is music when she halts
and still music when she dances
it shivers in her curls
and her blue, distracted glances

come and see the singer in the speaking of her day
in the walking and the waiting and quiet, sleeping, sway
come and hear the music she wordlessly exhale
in her smiling and her staring and even how she fails

she is music when she sings
even more so when she halts
to dream or share the thoughts she has
when forgetting petty faults

vagabond

these are not my red walls; warm
not my narrow halled haven to think or draw in
and observe the activity of a town i feel part of.

this town has my fingerprints all over it, yes
but from hands i used a long time ago
and closeted away with a mas i used to wear
or a face i grew out of...

but maybe i can re-wear new paths
or just hold lightly any concept i may have had of
home

become the vagabond others have seen in my side-ward glances

sky-set symbols

caught in between a valley of concrete one forgets where the borders are
where the pavement fades to earth

but in the web of streets and tires
rooftops and commercial lots
and coils of rusted train-tracks twisting like unbent paperclips across the messier side of the blue ridge mountains
a glow of pink evening light fixes it's subtle gaze through the clutter

and finds me

lingering like a hand that puts gentle pressure on muscles i've overused


and at night time when the pink has dissolved into thick, inky black
the moon still finds a way to haunt me with presence
like the brother you fear and love
paranoid in the stark light of something beautifully and terrifyingly observant


the sun trumps them all
but words can't describe what my eyes cannot look at
words can't paint the picture of pure light


in the crevices between the wild walls
to find these things
these heavenward symbols
sky and moon
and sun
i need only lift my eyes

spared

i paused for a moment to hear the rain fall on the car roof
every split-second thud is a marble on the brain
a match to the wick
not the warmth of it, but the brief synapse of sound and sight as
dark becomes spark

tiny but awful

nothing a fine point sharpee can't fix...
or the wordless song of rain on a car roof

lonesome whipperwhil

the sounds of the stage are too loud for the quietness of what you have to say
the whipper-whil has no such platform for it's lonesome call
only a crooked branch rising and falling in the breeze
like a ship on the brooding sea
like the upturned slant of burdened eyes
heavy moods
dark and sleepless submersion into
dark and hap-less bottles

you have sobbing hymns
songs that gray the colors of night
or rather deepen the blues

and nourish the seed of some
weepish
willow



"Hear that lonesome whippoorwill?
He sounds too blue to fly.
The midnight train is whining low:
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

I've never seen a night so long,
When time goes crawling by.
The moon just went behind a cloud,
To hide its face and cry.

Did you ever see a Robin weep,
When leaves begin to die?
That means he's lost his will to live.
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

The silence of a falling star,
Lights up a purple sky.
And as I wonder where you are,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.
I'm so lonesome I could cry. "

-Hank Williams Sr.

never

i stare at open windows and say
"someday"
unattended ladders too
watching shadows of me perching on public rooftops and running down alley-ways in the dead of night

but someday was last year
or yesterday
last week

it was when no one knew me and I hid behind the people who knew their shortcuts home and their long ways to the mountain

when i hopped in a car and the mocha i grabbed on my way was my only certainty
my clothes stuffed in some bread-rack

i am a stranger
so very never

i wear you all like a string

and i'm only lonely in the back of my mind

almost so very never

I have seen ugliness today...

but i love the sound of rock on rock
hand on limb
heel on ledge
slip of stone to curve the step
toes in dust
palm to earth
slide of skin and denim on edge

nothing to speak of the ugliness
or that dark that found a way in

but i love the green of the traffic light
a backdrop blink
two stories up
to color the brick
behind your stage
remove me as i watch you sing
and dull my panic's sting

nothing to speak of the lonely ache
or that dark that broke it's way in

i love the glisten of frost on grass
5 am
new spring warm
arch of the neck to meet the sky
before i let myself in
cold and empty
but free of guilt
and free of tangled strings

nothing to speak of the ugliness
bitter tongues
struggling smiles
prelude to end
vagabond style
or the darkness that nestled in

all i want is rock on rock
soul of the shoe
where water creeps
cold as ice
brief as spring
rock on rock
grip to limb
heel to the air
where winter has been

gonzo

sometimes my search for peace
is like Hunter S. Thompson's search for the so called American Dream
a vulture's eye to mark the death of something only skeptically believed in

and in the spinning heat of some blind-eyed vision
Gonzo's crazed barrage of type-writer clicks becomes the score to my frantic animation
the stumbling of my feet
the grasping of my fists
no less fitted an art than Sergei Prokofiev's illumination of Peter and the Wolf

hardly making sense and far from vapid

but peace has no lasting home in a turbid dust cloud
and it makes only brief company with the flailing of things

this i know
because heavy it rests on my silent stillness
throbbing in a room where nothing moves
until the invisible parts of my mind spin like water down the drain
or the spinning spokes of a Hell's Angels wheel

it strikes me odd how wildly active
a motionless room can be
and how sought-less findings
humble the cynic in me

and i find myself chasing vultures away

congratulations

a fox hangs in the notch between my collar bones
painted on a small glass tile
he is the cruelty in the glance over my shoulder
the sin behind my smile
the sly-er, sleeker version of the ash cross
on my forehead

a more mature version of myself
the reformed and saved
refined and 'changed'
will one day remove the dangling fox
from it's dangerous closeness to the heart inside my ribs
replace the childish arrogance of display with
shame
and remorse

delicate the ferocity of cynical delight
quiet as skilled paws on the forest floor

poisonously elegant the coy remarks of a still-proud ghost
deceitfully gentle as the soft snout that curtains fangs

a fox rests heavy on bone
claws not quite ready to crush

resting in the notch between my collar bones

yellow dress

I fell asleep
in my yellow dress
hours after choosing it
to impress
them


no quality of garments
could improve my rest
and my empty bed's a funny place
to invest
them

maybe just as stark
my other attempts
an empty hand's another funny place
to test them

even nights like this
the ones that left you carefree
laughing
even they exist
only in their brief
passing

the simple truth is this
very few have ever
done it
started out in bliss
to find the end is never
coming

CVP

Rock your heels on the edge of a step
Unhurried descent
Into the gap between
Soft and unthreatening like the blurred horizon of a grassy hill
All can remember the itch of grass on sandaled feet
But this is your stride
The choice of your feet stepping gently and unthinkingly into the itch of stalks and stems
Amidst the gap between…
The earth is packed hard
Others have gone ahead
But this is the scuff of your tread
And the dirt you scatter in your shuffling
Note the beetled air and the shades of brilliance caught in each minute’s blue
Twist your heels into the dirt to feel the grit of your new platform
An uneven sort of solid
formed
Rock your heels
Feel them, now that they’ve been set to motion
Dismantled from the perch
Atop the edge of a step
Into the gap between

colder

you know the brilliance of it
that sure footed fleeting that makes me want

to quit speaking

and your blaringly Hellenistic beauty
sharp jawed ferocities canvasing flawlessness
even your painted smiles makes me want

to ration my own

the wolves have shed the sheep's clothing
traded them for long
sleek
jackets and patterned leggings down to the
tall
leather
boot

the fangs are gone and the only threat
is the deep scar carved into the straightness of my posture
and the strong confidence in the way i held my neck

bones won't break though they will shiver
flesh in tact; though it will cool to a perplexed and fidgeting
disturbance
something turbid under stillness

something fierce and gruesome in the thick of the wild
about to blood-stain the pristine glitter of fresh snow
and spoil it with crimson beauty that far surpasses
the natural

you know the brilliance of it

everything that is out of reach and exquisite in its composure
blindingly unfamiliar like the brilliance of red
statuesque in its beauty

and far

far

colder than i can ever

hope
to be

confession

all cynicism aside

mine will be different
where the heels of hard-worn shoes have smoothed the grain of old wood
and birds lift tenderly from rafter to rafter as though they are nothing more than shadow and light

dust thick spaces
making air lucid and visible in beams of light
like lace and vellum parchment

and maybe i won't say
i
do
as others
do
but there will be thunder and anxiety held back in the slightest touch of my toes to the floor towards some stage-like corner
invisible pulpit
and the energy that shakes in my smile will say
"i give it up"
At last

and i will inhale deeply
the way i do when the air quenches some trembling joy between my ribs and lungs

spiritual

nothing less

only the miracle drug is worth
distracting
diverting
submitting
my wanderlust
wonderlust

lonely and aimless is not a good enough reason


yes i want it: that slow-motion dance in the dim of the morning
under the eyes of the Witness
but not the desperate way a runner wants a cool drink of water
i want it the way the painter
wants just the right shade of hue for the patient brush
or she won't put a single stroke upon the canvas


no one will fulfill my needs
there is One who already does that all too sufficiently
but someone
perhaps
one day
will fulfill my
beauty

i speak like some to and fro past has me world-wizened and cynical
laughing smugly at the dreams of young
but the truth under the bark

though i don't need it
or long for it

there's a young part of me
seeking

the miracle drug

playing marbles. ep. 1

the older i get, the more God seems to slowly take away the things I thought i needed
and gradually
gently
one "need" at a time
show me how to do without the things I once gave such importance

teach me His all-ness

example 1

i have absolutely no long-term plan
and...i can do without it

example 2

a nod of affirmation and approval
no need

example 3

clarity

valentines

savings

meat

health insurance


how great it could be to feel the truth
of what's always been true
that i need not a thing but Grace

all other things are
blessings
on top of
the blessing


of course...how fleeting is my ability to believe this
how blind am i

unplanting weeds

I should find you here
whispering in the layer behind what's audible
and glowing softly in the shades of gray of a shadowed white wall

I am made of such mortal stuff though
not divine enough to create discord with the thick,
opaque,
extent
of my humanness

so long is the row of weeds planted
and so far tossed the God-bit i was given

i cannot guess

when it will come back down

taize

worship in
the rhythm of word-ish sounds
partial understanding and
partial consciousness

the heat is low
the flame just twitching
far-fetched jest of some roaring blaze
some ancestral fire to mildly represent

some greatness, subdued

fingers lift from violin strings
tuneless hum of aluminum pulled taut
the sound of it conjures up an image
a feeling

the show's about to begin

something's about to start

a greatness is about to
be

talitha cumi

God, how do you see me,
your daughter.
Can i call myself that?
How do you see this fickle-hearted girl with no more direction than the falling shell of a leaf
Is there some bond or closeness that I can't access
because i have Grandmother Eve's curiosity?
her genes buried deep in my coding
do you know me with distance
across the table

or do you see from inside my very eye-lids,
knowing some strength of small fingers i haven't seen
and the weakness of high hopes
my daily defeats

do you see me from inside the most strictly closed chamber doors

sometimes i feel like i peer at you from outside the garden
trying to catch a glimpse through the flaming swords

but i think it is truer
that i am so known that i cannot close you out
you are so present
that i miss you
the way i miss the sky
forget to notice you
the way i forget how beautiful and strange
colors are
or the sound of my sister's voice
and the feel of bare feet on an earthy surface

like driving in a car
too deep in thought to remember conversation

or to realize that i've been silent

dove

Holy spirit
roaming dove
come and find a home in me
correct me, but in love

Holy Wisdom,
speaker in the street
come and set your roots in me
move my stumbling feet

human heart
cluttered room
open up your walls for them
the helper's coming soon

human head
dangerous space
open up your walls for them
they come with awesome grace

mortal daughter
roaming too
waters now draw back from land
dove rests, and so can you

foundless

a patterned cloth hangs overhead
broad-stitched little shapes
strung down in ruffled drapes
edges frayed; the corners soft
lash-like lines of green
making cuts less clean

you will never see it
gardened over folds
aging nails soon free it
from two fragile holds

paisley words all set in mud
patternless; out-dated
artfully out-stated
edges curved as fabric's flow
lines that twist and swivel
flowered patterns fiddle

you will never see it
gardened 'cross blank white
tiring lips soon free it
and then again, not quite

U2-Original of the Species

Baby slow down
The end is not as fun as the start
Please stay a child somewhere in your heart

I'll give you everything you want
Except the thing that you want
You are the first one of your kind

And you feel like no-one before
You steal right under my door
I kneel 'cause I want you some more
I want the lot of what you got
And I want nothing that you're not

Everywhere you go you shout it
You don't have to be shy about it

Some things you shouldn't get too good at
Like smiling, crying and celerity
Some people got way too much confidence baby..baby

I'll give you everything you want
Except the thing that you want
You are the first one of your kind

And you feel like no-one before
You steal right under my door
I kneel 'cause I want you some more
I want the lot of what you got
And I want nothing that you're not

Everywhere you go you shout it
You don't have to be shy about it, no....
Sugar come on, show your soul
You've been keeping your love under control

Everywhere you go you shout it
You don't have to be shy about it
Everywhere you go you shout goodbye
Oh my my

And you feel like no-one before
You steal right under my door
I kneel 'cause I want you some more
I want you some more, I want you some more...
Oh no.....

twas the night before tomorow

twas the night before tomorrow and in this small state
too much to 'goodbye' in either place
win win lose lose
freeze under soft snow
and let it sift down
to direct where you go
fall for a second,
lift just a bit
tilt in the air
in the sky God knit
boyant, His mercy
in your snow-like descent
and one day it will matter
which way that you went