Wow. I'm back. I know I was supposed to be bit more "present" on this thing, but....well.....ya know. That said, here's to turning over e new leaf. Wish me luck.

30/30: 4/4/09

Lazarus to Matthew Shepard: A Guide on Returning

The secret
is to not look down.

Rather, to step from the edge
onto a path leading beyond vision’s borders.

Abandon gravity in favor of Grace
and dare only your cheek as shield
against the arrival of the World’s punch.

You must learn to turn corners
at impossible angles.

To slide between strangers’ thoughts.
Bisect the distance between two words in conversation.

You must learn to live in houses built of light & darkness,
called “shadows.”

You will never be more homeless than this,
nor will you ever be quite as free.

You will become a library of all things Breath.
Tomorrows will splay themselves upon your lap

as the Sun disrobes from its petals,
like your own personal dandelion

in your own personal game
of “He-Loves-Me-He-Loves-me-Not.”

Your birthday
will slip from you.

The memory of your face?
Obscured by a blood mist.

Instead, you recall the image of a barbed wire crown
adorning a face that is yours, but not…..

This is where the advice comes in:
Wait. Wait for this Doppleganger to call your name.

You will likely linger longer than I did in my turn,
and your patience stretch into a haunting.

Yet still, you must wait.
And rage upon the fence that is your strange bed

why He does not remember your name
when you followed His exact route here so faithfully?

Ummm....30/30? Day #1

Father

You told me once that I was made
for this life. That my skin was more hairless
because of it. Or that my lungs were overly-anxious.
Too easily excited. How I carried an entire world’s air
inside my pocket. All the time. I was made for this life.

I didn’t know what you meant. Didn’t care to.
In the parked car I could feel the world being digested
by this beast of “Time”, driven by "Change" burned into our blood.
We handle our jaws like steering wheels,
so our words have become slow with “rules” and “signals”.

You hold your fists like seeds:
burdened and blistering from the bulge
of so much uncertainty. I have never seen this place before.
This derelict playground your face has become.
My eyes gather humidity to themselves to curtain this.

The moment is coming undone.
The bus will not be patient.
My bags shiver against the trunk’s darkness.
The parking meter is a clock of all things
that will never be said beyond this brief universe.

And your hands still clasp themselves tight, as if praying
to something you promised you did not believe in.
Your jaw holding pressure enough
to chew a diamond, or re-shape our lifetimes.
Say something. Now. Speak, then…….




Let go.

Snow, late March

“And this was supposed
to be done” speaks the highway.
This comfortless blanket.
Sudden smack from a bearded sky.
The bus trundles forward.
I am cradled fetal posed
above it’s resentful gut,
synthesizing diesel into movement,
though we are barely kinetic
against this layer of clouds’ shedded skins.
The excitement of friction, dashed.
The road begins to speak in hydroplane.
Lullabies slathered by a tongue too slick
for words to stay straight,
or have trustworthy meanings.
Ankle deep in what we hoped
was only “38%” destined,
but who really believes in divination,
anyway?

We watch our distance
stretch unnatural.
My window is a slideshow
of black & white. White & black.
There is nothing to say to this landscape
consumed with birthing and devouring itself
so contentedly.

The billboards have taken
to calling my name.
They demand answers
for why I only notice their wailing
when they sky deems to press its hand
upon human time, and we have nothing to do
but wait.

So, here it is again.
Another bus ride.
Another 2 hour sprint to a city he hates,
to escape a city that now stirs
his ire as well.
Where to go from here?

The high ideas of man
who runs from the grasp
of people who are not reaching
for him. Doors that yawn,
but will not breathe him.
Reach behind the chandelier-like
uvula to pull out
something he will recognize
despite the disgust. Despite the smell
that kicks and screams into your memory.
The reason for him to turn back. To remember
your name, even though it hurts him
sweet as honey still in it's comb,
tangled and guarded, and maybe not even worth it,
but he is a fool. And he holds your face
more tender than he ever would his own.
This means nothing to you. Some humorless
joke. You will laugh like a cannon.
He will laugh with a family of knives
nestled inside his neck. He will laugh
himself headless. And your smile will resemble
a fruit scooped out.