irony

Held my breath, closed my eyes, squeezed them tight,
crossed my heart and stepped off the ledge.

And then I fell, fell, fell, fell. Where are the angels to grab my feet and lift them?
Where is YHWH to say, "Just Kidding! I just wanted to know that you would be willing to jump. Now that I know you are, I'll save you."

Fell, fell, and hit the ground hard. I heard bones crunch and all I'm seeing is stars, and I think that's my own blood.
This must be when I'm miraculously healed and all is made new again. This is restoration! You asked me to jump... you wouldn't leave me like this...

And I wait. I don't move a finger. I'm holding my breath, waiting in faith, I will be healed. I will be.

My bones still hurt, in fact I think I'm getting weaker for all of this blood I've lost. Why hasn't YESHUA picked me up yet?
Friends have noticed. They have come by and tried to lift me up. They keep telling me to stand up and they'll help me. Why don't they understand I'm waiting for YHWH? I have faith. I'll show the world who my God is. He loves me..

It's been days now, and no manna has fallen. I'm weak, and I hope you're happy YESHUA, but I'll probably be crippled. I'm not waiting anymore. No one has offered help again. I told them no too many times.

Finally, I open my mouth and cry for help. Any help. Someone help. I can't move on my own. And help comes, a friend holds me and I weep. Why has this been so painful? Why didn't you catch me before I hit the ground, or heal me once I broke?



I'm stiff and there's definitely a limp. But I'm walking again.

I've jumped more times than I can count now. Call it blind faith, but your WORD says you are good. And I thought I believed it..

I don't get you YHWH. You have not caught me once. Every time I have hit the ground, nothing breaks my fall. Your angels must be a joke. You must be a liar. Good my ass. No good father lets his kid hurt himself.

But the jokes on you. About five jumps ago I broke my fall with a roll. I didn't break a bone. And this last jump? I landed on my feet. So maybe you're trying to kill me, but I can take it.

Keep on asking me to jump. I will, but it won't hurt. So whatever it was you were trying to prove? Forget it. I beat you. I'm stronger than I was before. I still don't get what you are trying to do...
But, my bones don't ache. I am whole...

deep breath.
are you ready?
i'm not i'm not i'm not.


walking brooklyn streets and the village is never quiet
but brooklyn is.
and she's beautiful and i love her
and i love the violinist on the l
and deep music deep below the empire

i even love the empire herself, she is tall
and her roots are deep and full of strange people
speaking socrates and little sense

but oh how i love them
and her empire stretching to the sky

esperanto to union to prospect and tompkin
oh tompkin's, full of dirt and travelers and beer
and stories.
oh the stories.

brooklyn, quiet lover you soothe my soul
my home is warm, and the christmas tree is in the corner.

christmas tree and santa next door,
chris kringle you are dear and warm
and oh my love, my home is brooklyn
my feet walk their way and know they are
where they ought to.. soles my soul

oh my love, brooklyn
from the roof one last time i say
goodnight sweet empire
i am walking south these days

This town is quiet.
And YHWH I don't know what you're doing, but I trust you.

And I just want you to know that I'll go where you open doors.
Kicking and screaming, and then with whimpering, but I'll go.

Are my feet wandering to Pakistan? To kiss the feet of children and sit in tents,
drinking chai with bedouins and showing love greater than Allah ever could?

To the heart of Brooklyn, cooking dinner and opening the doors
to broken hearts and weary backs.

Or, beloved please tell me not back to this town?
This alcohol and sugar saturated place
of football and guns and.. and what?
Hearts that I love and places I don't want to see.

There are no homeless here, I beg you lead me on.
I said yes and I will continue to say yes to you,
but I am fearful.

And wounded, and breathless to begin again.

i have no pretty way to say this.
i rebuke your words that took worth away from me.

heart aches.

it's difficult
to love the works of your hands,
beautiful as they may be
when your words are loose and false.

i am seeking quiet places,
long nights full of few words
and only the presence of other bodies around.

i don't want to tell my story anymore,
there's too much of me
not enough of You.

every time my mouth opens, a sigh comes with it
and a groan that I am not speaking more of You
into this mouldy air, this bent earth swiftly tilting

quiet heart, be quiet soul
let me sleep- i have eyes heavy
for each moment of my breaking heart
for this world, for their hearts

for cold streets with
warm bodies on them; there are enough beds.
there is enough bread

i am less, but i will not be nothing
i will be a voice for your voiceless, who you cry for
who I will live for.
You.

And how much til I'm crawling out of my skin-
all of this churning deep down in my belly,
burning down the soles of my shoes.

Justice in my hands feels so weak,
and Truth seems a whisper around my mouth.
And my spirit rises against this-
my soul can only cry YESHUA
and hands want nothing but to feed.

Fingertips are electric,
everything pricked in tension,
twisting out of my fears
until there is freedom.

Freedom, freedom,
oh my Yeshua I want to bandage your bride
and nurse her wounds.

I want to pull her from the
twisted paths
and rest with her in your presence.

Truth has burst forth,
I could not contain it.
Justice is on my hands- for you are on my heart.

Yeshua be near
I am not worthy.

oh, but this is still true.
drash Çôwdh.
seeking out a way through the desert,
to find you, to find intimate counsel with you-
in your tent, face to face.

oh how i tremble to imagine.

meteors and matthew
and tonight i'll wrap myself in your covenant, and a blanket
lie on the roof waiting for your beauty to fall across my face
and into the city skyline.

and what wonders
this twisted piece of your glory, this earth displays.
all the city lights make these miracles hard to see,
but i'll pray them brighter
and urge the lights to fade.

------------------

Jesus I'm terrified of you and what you're asking.
You're not such a lamb these days,
but a lion and I know you are good
but I am so weak.
Be strong when I am weak.
Be all when I am nothing.

I'm asking for wholeness and for a family together in your Word.
But if that's not going to happen Yeshua I need more of you.

I have been turned out and I'm terrified.

Did you know
the life and fire you blew around my ankles
when I met you.

And it's burning in my belly now,
hotter than anything before it.

Brighter and deeper than eros ever was.
It is deep deep hot, in the pits of me.

Stirring places that were nothing but rotting stumps,
drawing out the dead bones,
and oh how the new growth hurts.

it is sharp and i cry out
and water alive with truth is rushing forth,
and my veins have none of the old dry dust of before.

i am all alive, all senses tingling,
every breath and dream are your words wrapping around
my tongue and bones
and all.

You're the flesh and bones of every heart I love
and every body I embrace.
I'll love your weary bones and tearing muscles,
and I'll cry tears so you won't have to.

Deep blood companion,
I'll find you.

And I'll wake when all is dark and you have not slept
and the prince of this world will tremble
at the life and truth we bear.

Sword of peace, I will slay your death
and war with my tears
and I will hold your broken veterans.

And it would all be sweeter if there were two hearts
instead of one.

Yeshua found me.
His words are haunting my dreams.

Tonight my heart has been groaning and weeping more than ever.
Father the burden weighs so heavy. I am weeping weeping crying for your lost.
The broken are with me, please be near. The broken are crying
and I am their tears.

So what's your word in all of this? I am so weak weak weak,
and sick low and weary.

My bones have been aching for days, burning in grief and fever
over so much lost.

Listen listen listen,
you must be begging me to.
I'm desperate to hear,
Father be near- my bones are broken for you
my body is yours to heal.

Be my help, send manna
and grace. I am weary, soul is weary,
body is broken
all I have is a heart ready for you.

After wandering through Middle Earth or somewhere near Inwood
my heart is beating stronger, laughing louder; it is well.

And all of my delving into YHWH, into HAKKADOSH have been beautiful,
rich walks between long stretches of wilderness.

And yet I have been heaving and hurting for more, wondering where
the manna went, where the water went, how the honey fled from my lips.

I stumbled into a haven, a room full of strangers I must have known for always.
Or at least a moment. And they opened their mouths and
sweet thanks rose from their lips.

The broken hearts were not ignored; they were tended to.
But first we cried Hallelujah, and told stories about gifts from strangers,
and sweet cups of coffee.

And oh my Yeshua- how long has it been since I've thanked you?
How long since I remembered you!
There's so many books after Micah, yet I did not see them.
Have not cracked open those words of life after the conquering of death.

But now I remember, and there's a spring through the desert
that has not run dry. and there's a path, a very small one
and on it I found my honey and manna in each step that I took..

and now what I ask for is my Sam. Who will walk through these woods with me,
sometimes muddy yet often rich and warm.

Change change change,
I have fought you
cursed you
and run after you ever since the moment I declared war
on apathy
and poured fire to my belly and mud around my ankles

and my head is full of ideas
and memories of hearts lost
and fingers stained.

and always is a tremulous word,
but I believe in her.
Sometimes.

YHWH, you change, I think
but you are faithful to yourself
and to me.

And you are love,
and so love must do the same.

it changes, and moves, and runs, and weeps, and slows, and speeds..
but it is love all the same, and it is true to all it binds.

bind me to all that is faithful,
and loose me from all that decays.
i want living love, covenants spoken true
and all that is fire, earth, and heart.

there's something about a gentleman,
holds the umbrella over head, or at least halfway
laughing as the water hits my left cheek and eyelashes

asks questions,
cares for the answers.

smiles brightly,
laugh laugh laugh
my soul let your eyes smile.

this is the time for things to mend,
for knitting and making
and cooking and creating.

sweet yeshua,
gentle men, those rare
living breathing imitations of you
they exist! HALLELUJAH, all beautiful things
have not died.


HALLELUJAH,
all things are not broken in this
bent and less than glorious earth.

Warm love, with achingly everlasting cups of cocoa.
The air outside is frozen, but our breaths and laughs and bodies have warmed the living room into something like a home.
Something living and breathing, with flesh and blood and woolen socks.


I curled up with comfort and let him hold me through the night,
and the first night it was sweet, sweet, warm, and safe.

Then did you hear my heart beat fainter? Did you see me roll away and ache to sleep alone.
I covered myself, head buried deep beneath a pillow, hoping to postpone existence
just more more minute, hour, day.

sharp air bit my nose, uncovered by morning
sharp drop to my stomach when i remembered
the evening of comfort, caresses in bed.

from healing to wretched
too quickly to catch the change
a fatal moment of naivety.

tonight i sleep on bare wood floor.
i want no more secrets,
i want only to be whole

gilgit

oh, and my bones miss you pakistan
they are aching to walk in your dust and splendor again.

hours on the trains, warm pages

Smiles seem to have wound their way back around my vocabulary. I've been testing it mostly with strangers, funny strangers on the deep long trains. Easing my way into the waters of the Basement, that fluorescent cellar of true ideas and grumpy people. Smiles there feel good, too. But smiles when you ask how I'm doing? Terrifying, but suddenly here and the words well even came from my groan. So much tearing and daring to speak truth, to declare in honesty who I am, to decide earnestly who I will become.

Lewis's words are reaching deep, deep, deeper than I wanted.
We were blinded in Eros, worshipped his terrible feet, and pleaded our lives for him to be among us.
There was no depth our love could not reach and, and so there was no hope in our grasp.
I hated Venus, course but sultry lover, wanter of all that feels like you.

You loathed, and perhaps still loathe that Eros, he that bound you into me,
gave you no door to open outside of my own.

But Venus, she cut me and I did not feel whole or good or loved in her presence.
She's a dirty lover, she's a course replacement for things that should breath life.

And the quick pain of shame tore the veil of Eros around us from my eyes and out of my senses,
haze lifted, lines sharp, who are you?

I ran, clawed, buried myself beneath so many pages of safety, of Tolkien of Steinbeck of Wolfe
oh oh and Micah and Isaiah, and some strange strange psalmist and Solomon himself...
and tore Eros away from me, though he's always at my feet
and in my sleep, reminding me of love that I left.

Of you, but I called YHWH's heart to be more than yours.
I screamed and wept and sat quietly, slept fitfully in every sort of
desperate and resigned attempt to love YHWH more than you,
to bind Eros to my deadened flesh
and something beautiful to Hashem.

Husband, the true Eros himself; please bind me to you.
Yeshua, here is the bride, here I am and I'm not clean.
Venus is mingled in the scent of my hair, but I've cut it off.

Shaved and homely and in all my lack of glory
here I am. I am for you.

All of this caring has been wearing
on my everlasting, wait, always heaving always musing blood.

Season of distance, season of resistance to your pull.
And long hours from embraces, and a damn long bridge
from talks and walks with the other talking walking parts of my soul.

Mumbling whining blood, foolish blood that wants to color
bike trails far from here. Wants to run back to where its thickest, to
deep dirty soil from Alabama.

And wants to run under the East River,
through the L train and the Q, soak right deep in to the belly of
the Empire. Wants to run through the limbs of my loves,
its other highway home.

Wants to be the life and move and pull, wants to be essential,
and begged for. My longing rumbling foolish blood
would never stop pulling us all together. Our hearts could be nothing but
one, because we'd all flowing one to another.

Yeshua's unity, and something about
YHWH's love for me,
and I think it's all muddled again.
This blood's been run through rust and it's carrying
bones from long dead loves. It needs to be alive, carry whispers
of a different ghost, a Living ghost, a Holy one.

The skeletons have been knocked loose, they're going to
clammer through the flow and into another's and then
it's all out in the open. Then I'm there staring at the ugly
decay that was in me. I'll see it and we'll all see it.
Oh, and YHWH, you'll see it, too?

But it'll be out of me, and maybe this blood
will stop being so foolish.
I'm asking for wise blood, I'm begging for clean blood.
I want your blood to be my own.

Dam broke today.
God Damn broke today.
Can't fix what ain't broke.
Money won't fix it,
mama can't fix it.

manna, manna can fix me.

I think I think I think,
I'm thinking more than I feel and this is so strange.

I'm thinking that you are good, Hakkadosh. You are faithful, El Hashem.
So love me well, world. You are loving the King's.
Something like a Monarchy is wandering through my mind.

Elizabethan blood is boiling again. Rising hot to my ears and if I am not careful from my soul and out of my ill guarded mouth.
My heart is setting, the cement has been loose and wet and movable for too long.
Courage is hardening up. I will be unmovable.
You, who loves what I have to give and yet does not love the heart that gives it, you will make no more imprint. And your impression will not set.

Father lay hands on me, and press your heart into mine. Let that set, let that be immovable and solid, and let it show deep. Faithless friendships and lovers who seek no end, please pull their greedy hands from my heart before they're permanent. YHWH, I'll write your name in a thousand languages, over my skin and into my deepest parts. I want you written all over, your face your heart and your hands imprinted into this spirit of mine, reflected by this body of mine.

That's what I want, YHWH. I'll weave fabric from your words and comfort from covenants, and I'll wrap myself in them. They are royal robes, deep and wide and purple, and they fit so well.
I want Elizabethan blood tamed by your breath.
Lover of my Soul, this is what I want.

I have found that bicycles cure most ailments.

I am worried, because the pattern is starting again, and I'm a slave to it every time.
Sleep, and eat. And sometimes don't eat.
Just sleep. Sleep. Hide from all things in a safe place.
Hide from conversations and reality.
Sleep.
I am worried, because there is no one to pull me out.

monterray

As of now, I officially close the doors to any more shocking, upsetting, unsettling, and life altering news.
My heart won't take it, and for once I mean that in a very physical and literal way.

He's getting married.

I need an attempt at real articulation. Without speaking in whispers to myself. I'm learning a lot about myself these days. There are some things that have been told to me enough that I'm starting to believe them. And repeat them, and that is a terrifying thing. According to my Enlightened friend Jeremy, who knows nothing of Jesus and everything of community, says I'm a connector. Says I thrive when I'm facilitating relationships, when I'm a piece between hearts and voices. My friend Stephen, called me a catalyst for community. My own heart tells me I am happiest when people are thriving around me, and I have a hand in that. But the picture of my identity is so muddled. I do not see my worth. I do not understand how love works.

Here's where things look less pretty. My heart loves until it aches, and usually until it breaks. When pain walks into the room, I cannot turn a deaf ear to it. I see it in their eyes and bring it to the pit of my own soul. I break break break, cry, weep, retch, and grieve. It's black and ugly and it starts to tear me apart, and some days I let it. And I sink my own love into dark and despair. Lately, I'm learning how to hold it, grieve it, and then thrust it upon YHWH. HERE, you take it. I can't hold this, I can't bear this, I can't heal this. And then I can be ok, and the soiled mist lifts and I can breath again.

And here is where circumstances and a fallen humanity drag me into hard places. Sometimes, I love someone. And they choose someone else. Some other girl, some other ear to listen, some other soul to thrive with, some other partner in crime, some other friend on a dark night, some other friend on a bright day. Or maybe they just choose to drink in my love, and do not love me in return. And that is the greatest betrayal of all. I have been picked over. And I don't know what your hand in that is, YHWH. Sometimes, maybe you hear my heart ache and you move in my reality and help me, and provide a better way. You say, that person's heart was going to continue to hurt yours, and I'm your Daddy and I'm jealously protecting you. Or I'm jealous of your love for that soul, love MY being. And sometimes I think you hear my heartache, and you weep with me. And you say, I know my love, it isn't fair. But you can't manipulate someone else's choice. You influence and you beckon and sometimes you even command, but you cannot make a heart love me, or you. You cannot bend a heart to love my own. It must hurt for you, too. It must hurt much more than I ever could.

So here's my honesty YHWH. I don't think it's fair. And I'm hurt and I'm angry that life has not been just. That people have not been just.

And I am at a crux. I cannot continue on as I have. Something must change or I will throw myself under the feet of others as an unjustified martyr, and I will let their indifference or their selfishness kill me. And it will not be for your glory, and it will not be for your good. So I've got to learn how to love with discernment, and care with wisdom. Maybe somewhere along the line I will have to love with an understanding of my own worth. But right now that is muddled, because I look to people to instill my worth and they have spit in my face. So I turn to you, but I'm so bad at hearing truth. It has to melt through scars and burn through cuts, it has to wrap itself around my doubt and shout and whisper and hold and beckon and prod and persist. And sometimes, just a little gets in. I like those days. I like seeing clearly and living truly.

YHWH, i fear that my worth has been trampled and I've let my unbelief shape my reality. I am fearful that what they say and do not do is shaped my reality. I am fearful that the damage is done and my worth is ruined.

There was love and truth in words and silences tonight.

And if there's any proof that the purest love has no promise of marriage attached, it's between you and I. I would like to be bitter, to hold some sad song over my head, but the truth in your silences spoke more love than I could know.

And this is when I know that the Spirit lives.
Because it's all ok.
Because it's all actually ok.

Bicycles, and gin, and pipes, and picnics, and late nights, and early mornings, and real deep true forgiveness, and silence.
All these things are good.

Getting these letters in the mail,
Ink sinks straight to my toes.
I want to curl up with them forever.

I think I'll curl up with the gin instead.

She is strong, graceful, elegant.
Most of all, unmovable.

Some parts of me admire that stone conviction.
immune from one temptress, emotion.
Strong alone, without a man's helping arm.

I am a decision away from her.
Less moved I shall be, than before.
My heart has hardened to man's breath.

My back cold to their proposals.
None shall move my soul
as it was torn before.

None shall hold my hand,
and lead me into danger.
Into uncertain places
where I had run to before.

Strong woman?
With heart wrought of stone.
She has seasoned her life
to walk holding no arm.

I am a decision away from her.
Ready to close doors and look hard,
but I am not she.

I am made to open my heart,
hurt with another
and bleed for them all.
I have no decision to make.

I may walk alone, but not
with a hard heart.

I do not know who or what justice is.

Or If you, YHWH, are watching history fulfilled in each day of my life. Rather, are you watching and walking through this with me. Are you working in the mis-strokes of this painting into a picture that will reflect your glory in the end? You finish all works well, right?

Finish me well.
And I will fight you every step of the way.

When people play guitar, well when men do, and they do it well. I think I fall in love with him or the music for as long as it's playing. Muse, sweet sounding muse.

YHWH. I miss you. But that's silly isn't it? You're there. I'm here. But there and here are all really words I'm using for, now. You are. Now. And so, I think that makes everything ok. Peace has wrapped itself around my veins and lungs, and I can breath.

I can breath, I can breath. Hallelujah, I can breath.

I'm torn between too many things.

To pursue and to be pursued. What if our friendships rots away to nothing, because I am prideful and don't always want to be the one who pursues.

Or what if I should let it rest, if you've no heart to look for me.

Where's the balance? Because I keep running after and calling after, and you've left me with nothing but my imagination to cling on to. And that's a very dangerous place.

There are no friendships, always. I do not heal, because I've no strength to let things lie.
Deep aches hurt, I am hurting.
And YHWH, you aren't the only one I want to hear my story. That's the problem. I want someone with real eyes to look at mine, and real arms to shake me back to sanity. I'm selfish. And if I said I believed you were ENOUGH, I'd be lying right now. Because I've begun to look at how I actually live, rather than what I say I believe.

And my life says I believe you are anything but enough.
Let's change that.

I think I'm still beating, pulsing, moving, breathing.
Just a few sharp reminders that I am very much alive.

What's life without memories, and what are memories that do not move us, and what is moving that is not passionate, and what is passionate that is not painful?

Perhaps.

It's a Tuesday evening. I have committed to far more hours than Wednesday has to offer, and so I'm attempting to bleed some of those hours out of when I should be sleeping.

It's one of those nights where I'm sick to my stomach, uneasy and weak about tomorrow as much as tonight. It's everything. Head rushes blood, and stomach drops, and my arms tingle, and heart is shoved up against the wall.

I want to curl up with a strong arm, connected to a warm body. And live in celebration.
Where has the celebration gone? It's been poured out of me, bleeding for others. There is little life to pour out in celebration. It has all gone to interceding, and warring for you and for him and for all of those.

This is where I plead for restoration, for Holy water and deep magic to woo me. This is where I collapse at the foot of the well and drink and drink and find it hard to pull myself away.

There is much desert to be travelled, much more drash to find my cowdh. Much more seeking to find my sanctuary.

I think my head is confused and I'm sick to my stomach.
And there are waves of this.

She's been mouldering, quietly churning over old thoughts.

And then the release. Anger! There you are! I have found you and I'm holding tight for now. You are so new to me, but the agony has been released to you. Fury, of storms brewing deep down in dark places I'm not sure I had.

Retch, retch, retching in a cold sweat waking from pictures and sounds I buried under the storm. Fury is moving and stirring and pushing the storm up and out.

Storms pass quickly. I cannot hold anger. The mouldering lost its valor and is now a sallow pink. Fury rolled into quiet tears and slower tearing and folding, not so much thunder. Only murmurings.

Night after night I curl up and read poems aloud to myself. Often times I write them down and put them in envelopea, but there is no one to address them to.

I am home on Humboldt. I think if only I can find the words for what is aching, it would release. Some articulation would puncture the wound and let it drain. I've no damn words. I've had none for weeks.

Slow, slow, slow. Please heart be slow.

If I had words, I'd use them but this is most likely of no use.

There has never been such a bitter sweet breaking of my spirit. Each dip back into this timeless place leaves me unbelievably filled and hopelessly yearning for more.

Such a sweet picture of you, really is all it could be.

How do these stories fit together, how did I become so entangled and whole among them?
A toast, to the best of us. Over cheap chardonnay and fried okra, candles, stars, and smoke. It's wholeness and goodness and reality that warms better than rum ever could.

Where's the brilliant turn? The Wes Anderson conclusion that pans across this strange family, showing each of us together and whole?

Words don't come for this, it's all spirit and there are no words. Maybe one day there will be.

Tonight, I have no pretty words or poetry.
I have only to say that a young man spoke to me over coffee. And a smile has never been truer, what a beautiful beautiful soul. I think rarely have two connected so well as we. I'm not sure there will be another like him. His words anger me just as much as they give me hope.
"Why weren't we friends before, why did I wait so long to get to know you?" "I'm very sure that we met at the right time, and we'll meet at the right time again."

He may never know that I have not blushed so deeply as when he told me I was worthwhile. That I've never valued words so much as from him.

When is the right time? When do our paths cross again?

YHWH,
I'm angry. No, I'm weeping. Do you love as my father loves? He looks at me with dimmed eyes and chants is disappointment toward me. I am not perfect, I am not clean, I am not good. I know all this, and so does he. I know I know I know I know I know, oh Yeshua I know. And his dimmed gaze refuses to meet my eyes. Always looking around and over me, never asks for my heart.

Do you love as my father loves?

Or do you care as my lovers have? Begging and grasping for more leg room inside my skin with me. Dripping my blood with their own and pulling me into a less than holy kiss. Promising forevers and onlys and leaving me with weeks unfinished and other women loved. Do you love me only as long as I can love you? Do you care as my lovers have?

YHWH, hear this and answer me. My father does not love me. My lovers have only used me. How will you love me?
I have recovered from so many blows, again and again I have reached out grabbed an arm and stood.
Do you love as my father loves?

Book of short stories.

Did Steinbeck write me into some story of his? It's very like him, to endeavor into too many characters. He's got a hand in ten different ink jars, writing character after character into this twisted tale. No one is the hero, we're all villains stepping over the carnage each other have wreaked. Who comes out smelling like less than shit, none. Only the story itself as it scrawls off into different bedrooms of other lovers.

We're left to find solace in some artistic purpose, hope we're making a brilliant page turner. If I can believe this will be a story like so many I have read, curled up with and fallen into home with, maybe it will make it all easier and sweeter.

You can't write me as the antagonist and protagonist, as the narrator and the foil. Am I the author's surrogate or Checkhov's gun planted to fire ten years down the road? It's really too much to ask for a character given life by your hand to span so many stories.

I'm holding ellipses and run on sentences together with semi colons here; I'm running out of adverbs to make this shit look pretty. The clock's been ticking in the belly of the crocodile for years, you can cut it out and let me see the his grin already. Is this a metamorphosis? A tragedy, fire side poet's failure, a fucking satire? Pick your God damned literary genre, plot, and get a better editor.

You're confused. You must be. You forgot the conjunction, the and, the but, the however. You put a period there and I know you must have meant a comma.
I know that tomorrow I'll drink coffee and eat waffles and believe that hope exists in your eyes, while Wolfe and I take a train far away from here toward the Hudson. But tonight I have no appetite and Baudelaire dragged me into his parisian stupor.

All I'm saying is, I could be a good writer, too.

remember, the story.

Maybe this is all about figuring out our story, or even remembering that we are a part of one.
Each day I write, I remember something. There is a vague impression of something missing and I'm starting to remember
that it was supposed to be filled.

Each day I write, it gets harder to remember but the longing grows even more. Maybe that's why our children are always asking questions. They know so clearly there is something to be found out. They are not naive, so much as aware of the reality that escapes us.

What a shame that newborns cannot speak. So close to birth, they must remember His hands folding theirs into fingers. Covered in warmth and safety, curled up around His Spirit, being sung to sleep. And then thrust into a bright hot world, away from the warm covering of the Spirit. As soon as the chord is cut, the remembering starts. But it must be so near for them, but they have no voice to tell us what they can still see.

Seems like creation turned against us. Each day the craving to figure out what story we've been written into, is one day farther away from the beginning and from a clear recollection of the author.

But there's redemption. There's answers for questions asked, but then there are many many more questions. And all I know is that I'm one of Faustus' own right now. Grasping for every book and every conversation, wanting to know all things so that I can piece together this story. And remember that it is I've forgotten.

Sometimes, I am a jealous and awful soul.

I'm so jealous of those who spend time with those I love, of the work that consumes their time, of anything that keeps us
from sitting in the grass and talking, and not talking. And breathing and laughing.

If I could have it my way, I'd pick them, each of them that claims a part of my breath and we'd all live three apartments deep in the grand sea of brooklyn, where roofs see the skyline and none of the noise.

And back yards grow wild and hairy with wide bladed grass and crickets.
And I'd never had to be alone again, and I'd never have to sleep alone again, and we'd sit on the fire escape and lot hot sticky summer slow our souls and sweat would drip from out bodies.

I am Faustus, longing for more and more intimacy. For human hands in mine, for voices all around me, for the simple quiet presence of a one called friend.

Avarice spreading through my grasp and holding onto every conversation, unwilling to let one single word slip by unclaimed.

Friend, come sit with me and just be with me.

Something is brewing amongst the talking towers.
They're up to something, up way high to something fifty stories above.

Weak.
I am weak, father take this thorn from my flesh. Father take this thorn from my flesh. Out of my heart, apart from my mind, gone from my soul. Father, take this thorn away.

Your grace is enough? You are sufficient and your glory be done?
All right.

I am zoey,
you were tom.


And then the tables turned, and I will be tom ever more.

All be damned, I'm soaking in the after light of a wonderful night,
and the phone rings and I shudder.

Her fingers might have curled around a paintbrush or a violin,
her voice rung out with sweet ballads or spoken with passion
to a weary and broken people. Her feet walked city streets or hiked
worn paths in green mountains.

But she is quiet, no voice to protest her future.
She is quiet, no one fought for her life to be given.

Heart breaks, breaks along the same lines it's broken a hundred times before.
Each time trying to heal and each time ripped along the same lines.
Oh, what a tender piece of flesh it has become.

Child lost, and does your body ache for it?
Hope spat, do you mourn for it?
Breath smothered, did you weep for it?

The force of this blow was unexpected,
the depth of loss much deeper,
the news unwanted to my ears.

Holy Father, if you are so good and so merciful,
so tender to your children, so swift to defend
the cause of the fatherless and the widow,
to uphold the righteous and fight for the innocent,
where does this child's story lie?

Where have Truth and Peace
and Justice run to? Why have they abandoned these streets, found no
rest in our homes?
Death is the whoremonger that has cast them out, she has lied too many times
and stolen the unwanted.

Let no breath be unwanted by us anymore.
Why does this feel so near?
I will weep, even if no one else has.

We're all coming to meet each other.
Separated by births and deaths and miles and lives.
But we're all going to meet each other on the roof.

She's from the sunshine state and he's from brooklyn,
and Vegas and Virginia and the great North Wet and somewhere deep in Georgia.
But we're all together now, dining under the setting sun seven floors above
the world and the Upper West side.

Nineteen and fourty seven, but they both love icecream
and there's no denying we're all breathing the same air.
The same sweet seventh floor rooftop air.

It's sweetened, now that we're all together. And milk and honey
seem to flavor this glorious rooftop air.

Sun set and the river keeps flowing and we keep
knowing that we're all in this together.

I'm sure we'll all end up together.
I'm sure that we're all going to live together.

Dante had no idea.

The other night, there was this dream that circles in my head and left me waking nauseous.
I died, I'm not sure how or why I died but I did. And there was a big line of waiting fools and some magical doorway and me. The winding line for thirty flights of spiral stairs. I was anxious, didn't want to wait anymore, just wanted to go in. Up up up the stairs and holding my breath and then a rush of air.

Doors open, rush of air in and I'm in, I'm in Heaven?
Ok, the colors are a little brighter, and my feet feel a little lighter. You know that flying thing you sometimes do in dreams? Well I could do that in Heaven, too.

And it was nice, for a while. Wandering around, it seems like the world wasn't so sick anymore. No gold paved roads, but there were no cracks in the pavement. Everything smelled good. I remember that.

But then I started getting restless, there was something missing. Something I should be doing. People, that's it. I walked in with all these bodies, and was walking alone. Then Joel staggered by me, beer in hand.

I found that odd but didn't think it was enough to rule Heaven out. I tried talking with him, but he was just miserable. A wretch really, mumbling and stumbling from one old car to another.

Things weren't right. The only person I could find in the damned place was a babbling idiot and where was YHWH? Where's the big man? I'm supposed to staring at His feet, soaking up the courage to look into His face. And things were getting dim, there was supposed to be light at all times.

And my feet were getting heavy, the lightness was gone. And Joel slipped off to somewhere else, and I was alone.
And this was not Heaven, It was Hell.

And I shuddered awake.
These are not the things I want to see when I close my eyes.

thomas wolfe and forevers.

It's all running and tumbling around.
And falling and hurting and skint knees and bloody knuckles.

My fingers are bent around his heart so hard, white around the edges.
Refusing to release and let live.

I keep remembering to forget and all that remembering has made you impossible to forget.
But I read all these novels, and know it's all been felt before. And that's comforting, some how.

You're written about a thousand times in a hundred different novels. Crafted into beautiful sentences that paint you uglier and more magnificent than you could ever be.

Magic and everlasting words, sentences that weave stories fit for kings and for me.
I'm always going to have my nose and eyelashes pressed against the pages of a book while the rest of me heads for the clouds.

Rush rush rush.
No one breaths or eats, just runs and rushes.

Sit, quiet, breath, rest, listen.
But instead you run, loud, choke, wrestle, and scream.

I saw a man today, dressed just right. Truly handsome. He walked in and caught my eye. I spent the better part of the night making up his story. He would be talented but humble. And strong but soft spoken. And heart warming, but have wit with a bite. He would love you and love his mother, too.

And the night wore on, and we caught eyes across the room and across the table and shared the same ground. And finally, we met. The moment rushed, I would meet him and he would remind me of new ways to be alive.

He opened his mouth and all hope was lost. Too high, and too sickly smooth. His name is Alex and he is playing the same games that all sweet talking men do. He was not a man, he was drunk on two glasses of champagne and called me sexy within two minutes of conversation. It is tragedy when we do not have men, honorable men.

Insanity!

I read a book worth eating.
MMM, it was good.


Write me letters, and I'd fall so hard.

sister.

Yesterday it occurred to me that I am in fact, alive.
Thriving even?

Everything bursting out of me and through me and to you. And this city's a big heap of broken pieces that are so sticky they cling to anything they touch. These people are dying for community. Their souls are thirsty, their eyes are straining for the refreshing places.

And you're there, overflowing and big and wonderful and approachable and terrifying and awful and wonderful.
I shudder, because it's too much to take in. It's like when I walked into Strand bookstore yesterday and flipped through pages of new books and old pages. The scent of stories told drenched the air and it makes you shudder. There's so much potential in that room it's frightening. There's so much of me and so much not of me. So many wonderful things I'll never have the time or brain power to read or understand or even touch.

That's how I feel about you. You're a giant bookstore.



My sister is a beautiful woman and she is strong and she is wise. She's got steel eyes full of truth that are the softest and most beautiful pools you can imagine. Her fingers work talented circles and lines through design and dreaming. Big dreams and beautiful designs.

And I can't say enough. But she is a reason why I thrive.

You work fast, eh?
A few hours later and I'm embracing a dear friend, who walks with me to Esperanto, has a cup of coffee and talks to me for hours while looking me straight in the eyes.

I didn't sign up for this to learn so much.
Or maybe I did.

All I know is that this has been a giant heap of shit and hurt and mess, and YOU. How does that work, right? I need a smoke, and a good hug. There's something that has been killing me in all this. I barely touch people here, everyone has their walls up and their arms out to protect themselves. When do I get to sink into someone's arms and just feel their body against me. When do I get to sit in quiet conversation and look someone in the eyes.

I need a new book to read, and some Esperanto time, and a little coffee on the side.

I know this heart ache. The one that got away is for the second time hurting more than anyone should hurt. And I stand apart from him, can do nothing but weep for him.

His heart is beautiful, it always has been. And I know you love it. I know you do, so hold it. It is aching. It is scattered. Worn, weary, and beaten. So hold him, hold him. Love him, fight for him YESHUA. And her, she must be hurting, too. They need your grace, your strength, your everything.

I never thought loving people would be like this. I never thought it would never end like this. I always thought it would be prettier than this.

Shit, we're all so messy.

blick

Here. Let's add to thing list of things that make me glow, and spark, and fire and fury, and passion and soar.

Dick Blick, or any other art supply store. Where I can smear pastels over test sheets and smell pads of 70lb textured drawing paper and dig my hands deep in bins of pencils and tickle my face with brushes that have never seen paint. And it's a giant good smelling overwhelming blank piece of paper. It's all the elements to relieve white space, all the tools I need to create something.

Heart rate rises again, and there's a good bit of drool building in the corner of my mouth.

If I do not draw soon, I may perhaps perish.

I'm really alive here. I am. Not discontent, not unhappy. I'm thriving. But sometimes, I get a whiff of free air, an echo from the wide open spaces.

Colorado, Oregon, Washington.
My heart starts beating fast, I start sleeping less, thinking and dreaming. It stirs me up, lights up everything in me that is dull or muted.

So right now. I am thinking and dreaming and wondering what all of this means.
In this city, I am constantly calling to life the things and people around me. Creating color in the concrete and moving with the masses of people.

I am thinking of a place more living, life in the very soil and musty earth. Full of color than pours into my skin and out of my freckles. Where my sun flower eyes are reflecting reality and not a dream.

rebuild.

YHWH, you are sweet strong arms that have held me so well.
I weep at your beauty, it astounds me. I am in awe of your glory, it humbles me.

Nehemiah worked with his hands and trusted in your words. I want to do the same. I want to rebuild walls and hearts and work my fingers through the soil. I want to stand open faced and in wide eyed wonder, looking toward you. Catch a glimpse of your robe, maybe maybe one day when all the walls are rebuilt and all the hearts are whole I'll look you straight in the face. Right into your eyes and I won't die. I'll live, be more alive than this broken walled world has ever let me be. Yes.

Hakkadosh, you are HOLY OF HOLIES. This city is going to live, live, live. Burn through it, HOLY SPIRIT, burn up the chaff and we will stand naked before you, waiting to be clothed by your righteousness. Ready to let TRUTH escape from our lips, and chase through the city every LIE and every DAMNED deception of old serpent, and destroy them. Every slippery half truth and twisted story and shaded lie, they'll be devoured by the TRUTH and the GLORY of Hashem, the ineffable name. Mighty God, YESHUA.

You have taken my breath away.

No words.

Sitting at Mud coffee, realizing I've been here for four hours and have accomplished very little, except consuming three cups of coffee and a very nice breakfast quesadilla at 2pm.

People have circulated in and out and in and out, always leaving me in the corner. If you had a time lapse camera, I'm sure it would be an interesting sight to see me remain stationary while dozens of new yorkers flow around and behind me.

I'm pretty sure Thomas Wolfe and I are going to grow old together. Or at least up together. That writer has my damn life printed on 938 pages of this old worn out hardback from 1935.

I'm getting a little looney from lack of human connection. Mud coffee is no esperanto. I've been spoken to a total of no times in all my lounging here. And slowly my things have crept out and spread out over this whole corner. Journal here, glasses there, book here, laptop on the floor, well not now, because I'm typing on it. And my back back wandered somewhere over by the first chair I sat in.

I'm finding that having very little purpose is somewhat excruciated and if I'm to retain any semblance of sanity, I'm going to have to find things to do. Otherwise, there will be pages and pages of this senseless writing about my mundane doings. And there's no Wolfe worthy fury or passion or everlasting earth in that. And if I'm to remain a protege of Wolfe's protagonist I must constantly be weaving through crowds of a million strange faces and remembering them for eternity. There must be fury, and everlasting earth, and gold, and magic cities, and shining lights, choking fury, and cold sweated brows from long nights spent pondering the train.

Well, maybe that happens sometimes in my life. But AHA! I have found a task. Inventory of the church office bathroom and cleaning supplies. Genius.

Check please, I can now live worthily again.

So much.
So much.
Too much.
I am not enough.
You are enough.
Satisfy me. Heal me. Help me. YHWH, I am nothing and I am vile.
Break the pride.
Break my back.
Break my lies.

I need you I need you I need you.
I need strong arms to hold me and a deep croon to tell me it's all ok.
Fight for me. Fight for please fight for me.

I am living with 9 strangers in a very small place on very uncertain and strange terms. Who are we, what body do we comprise? Is it yours, or is it someone else's?

Everything in my body hurts, my tongue is swollen, my throat so tight it may rip and so raw it may bleed. My stomach is in giant bloated knots of angry cramps, and my arms and legs ache from 5 flights of stairs ten times a day. This is what I get for a walk up. My back is achey, and my head is foggy, and mostly I'm just complaining. But I have no strength to do this. I am in pain and I need you.

Damnit YHWH,
Nothing is solid and much is wobbling around my finger tips.
I just said good bye to my music, my passions, all the pieces of my heart.
The Empire is coming swiftly, back to sweep me off my feet and take me to the heights of the city.

Driving my beat up black Yamaha scooter, with red racing flames and a busted head light and muffled whimpering horn. Rolled away from Ford Ct. and the mass of smiles and smoke and asphalt wetted with spilled drinks and littered with red cups. The last of social events I'll attend. The boys, those beloved rascals, harassed me as I tried to leave. One jumped on after another, planted a kiss on my cheek, and once on my lips. And my Venezuelan soulmate, I watched her grow smaller in my mirrors.

Summers are hot and sticky, but then it's the early morning hours and I've got six miles of two lane highway to cover. The air is damp and chilled, and my thin silk shirt does little. I'm tensed up, huddled over my handle bars, gritting teeth and squinting into the insect bloated air. I'm chilled straight through my muscles now, and the earth feels clammy and I don't want to touch it. My clothes are strewn about my room, my raspberry red and orange and bright teen girl room, and I don't want to pack them. And I don't want to sleep. And I don't want to say good bye or leave or face the fury of the coming months.

Damnit YHWH,
when do I stop growing and leaving and beeping farewell on the Yamaha.
The Empire is waiting for me to come back to her, such a fickle lover. She is not so sweet or quiet or gentle as my lady, Alabama. She's fierce and strong and hard, moves so fast and loves so loudly. But I go back to her, always. I go back to her.

Damnit YHWH,
I'm so drunk on your love I can't be mad at you. I see you toss the laso around the moon and bring her to me, and I see you toss me on a plane and toss me toward the North. You're one of those crazy foolish lovers, you'll stop at nothing to prove your love. You've one upped all my other courters, I face it. You've won. I'm sliding my fingers around yours and we're going to walk slowly now, toward change and madness and fury and growth. But I trust you, I'm mad for you, have no sense left in me. It's all heart from here on out, and you own that now. I'm crazy about you, YESHUA. We're going to be together, be together, be together from here on out. Empire or Alabama or somewhere in the great north wet. We're in this together, I swear.

Now here is my South.
Fred's feed n' seed,
owned and sat in by Fred for forty two years
and counting,
and he's got a beard like no other, and fingers that pluck strings and pull them
and woo them into sweet sweet melodies.

but tonight the barn was filled with a hundred slurring Southerners
dancing their bare feet on the dirt padded floor to the Blue Mountain stringband.
i danced with strange old men, with white beards and pony tails down to their knees.
the place was full of sweat, and plaid, and smoke, and beer
and sweet sweet melodies.

night of fury and dancing and pipe smoking and some marlboros
and ohh i don't like marlboros
but i do like Uncle Jem, who smokes two packs a day
and is a lesbian trapped in a man's body, so he says.

none sense and dancing and smiles across the room, and harmonicas and banjos
and fiddles and mandolins,
and steel drums and old gibsons
and screen prints and oil paintings
and old saddles and the smell of old dust and wood.

sweet summer air, wisteria and honey suckle
blooming
and we even fried kudzu and ate it
and old faces and old bodies
and newer shoes and less than classy ladies

alabama may not be the city, but i danced with hundreds
in a bar full of fiends and characters and mostly good ole boys
and i could never be prouder to claim this as my own.

Fred hugged and kissed me on the cheek tonight as i left, all 67 years and ten inch beard of him.

Stomach just dropped at the notion that I'm leaving again. I don't know why this goodbye is going to be so much harder than the last. I see some people and their smiles make me ache. Today was a perfect day.

6 am swimming, riding my thin withered friend, reading Thomas Wolfe, writing letters, drinking chai, smoking my pipe, swimming in the river with rope swings again, driving around town smoking out the windows, napping with good friends on wide couches, boxed wine, talking, laughing, crying, and even singing karaoke, well it makes it damned hard to leave.

It's foggy in the mornings here, and I think the green might even hint of Ireland. And then the sun comes with the breeze and by noon it's hot and sticky. Then the summer rains monsoon for an hour, quieting the already meek town into a wet haze. And then the humidity lifts and the sun shines and the breeze flows and I breathe sweet southern air.

Here, I talk gardening and soil. And YHWH with his green thumb and my aching muscles and tanning arms. YHWH, if you want, if you want , I'd stay here. I'm torn a hundred different ways, I'm stretched and weary. I hugged and didn't want to let go, wouldn't have if Time didn't move so impatiently. It hurts, it hurts. Today hurts, I don't want to grow anymore. I don't want to say good bye anymore.

And always I think of you.

deep magic, old rope

We stretched our limbs less limber than childhood and scraped our knees and forearms with grainy black tar mud. And we climbed the roots of a washed out hill, crowned by the oak tree. The faithful oak tree, who lends his boughs for the youth evermore.

Muddy river, rising high above the watermarks on the banks. It's been raining for days and the earth is soaked and bloated. Climb up the mud bank, look up the big oak, see the old rope.

And I was twelve again. On the river with the same boy and his sister. We were trembling with excitement, feeling the nervousness wind around our stomachs, flow down our legs to our toes and through our lungs to our fingertips and tingling lips.

Stand on the lip of the last root, hold the knot of the rope, take a startling breath as keen as a newborn's, close your eyes tight tight tighter than the blind man, and let go. Not of the rope but of the earth, forget about her. Leave her, we're not bound to her forever. For three seconds we can forget our feet must be rooted solid, and bring our heads much closer to the clouds. The great oak creaked and sighed as I flew from her roots and toward the sky that she reaches for. Like a fisheye, I watched the ground then the water then the trees and the heavens.

And then you let go of the rope. There is nothing holding you to the hard ground or keeping you from the everlasting sky. Flying, my eyes are open now. Rushing up and then into the great muddy bath below. Hit the surface so hard my lungs rang, and swallowed great orange river water. Knees sunk and hit the bottom of the river bed, felt the rocks and the twelve inches of rotting mud. Let my toes feel all the fish shit and river banks washed from miles and miles before down into this bend in the river, by the great oak.

Burst to the surface, tasting whatever the water had tossed into my mouth. Looked back at the boy and his sister and my best friend. Their smiles told me I'd done all right, had flown as every twenty year old that can never die should. I'm twenty, and I'm not old at all. My heart forgot to walk with my body, and is still playing in the mud at twelve. Found the deep black mud in the shallows and painted the last frontiers on earth. A canvas full of soft white flesh and now covered with hard black clay.

The mud is magic, the oak is ancient, the river is changing. The flying is eternal and I am twenty and I can never be old.

Stumbling around, groping for solid ground. Friend, who are you?

They strike me when I least expect it. I sat around tonight with four of the most bizarre and beloved boys in my life. Two straightedge and bitter, two full of liquor and love. Oh what a group they make. How is it that these hearts are full of life's bitter shit and not an ounce of Christ's grace, and yet they love more genuinely and loyally than most?

They're playing beer pong in the kitchen and I'm eating taco bell and laughing til my cheeks burn from grinning and my sides ache. They've been around for years, always the same love. They'd fight for me, they already have.

How is it, amidst these silly profane boys do I know I am loved so clearly, that I have never once doubted it. I can walk through their door any hour, be welcomed with Supersmash brothers and a place to crash.

Brings an aching joy, remembering so many nights and so many trips to who knows where and shows full of breakdowns and adolescent tomfoolery. We grew up together, the group that was once twenty strong has split in twenty different directions. Few left in Auburn, fewer still less than enemies. But these at least, these are still here. These are the strange friends, that somehow, I know are going to be here when I'm a crazy old cat lady.

ra
This is going on my body rather soon. Alabama has slowed my soul, I'm breathing deep and not gasping for air anymore. The green is seeping into me. I've been barefoot for days, soaking in the red clay and black soil.

And the three of us, we giggled. And pranced around the pool in anticipation. The air was damp and a little misty. We flip the flood light off, and the moon glowed through the mess of clouds weakly. One, two, three.

Pull the dress over my head, unsnap the bra and fling it aside. Toss under wear aside and stand breathless.
One, twoJUMP.
We're in, cold rush between my toes and around my body. Skinny dipping, seventh grade seems fresh again. Floating, bare bottoms up, we can't stop laughing or treading.

I can hear the crickets, and the frogs. They're singing about us. The lake isn't too far away. Just down the path and off the dock. I run and they follow and we're alive in the noises of the night. Splashing into the green hued lake, feeling fish nibble our leg hairs and the mud sink in around our toes.

The night was endless, so was our youth. We curled up in towels on the dock, remembering first kisses and unrequited love. Fell asleep in the endless night, woken by the everlasting sun. Warming my freckles and their tans. Hot shower, hotter coffee. Eggs sunny side up and fresh faces with bare lashes, callousing clay stained toes bare from shoes for today and tomorrow and that's forever as far as I'm concerned.

Breathe in sun, breathe out honey suckle sweet breath. I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive.
Time enough to sleep and even dream. Days long enough to wake up early and go to bed late. I forget about clocks ticking and deadlines and green paper hurting hearts. We're all alive here, feeling the fury of our youth. Twenty years full of foolishness and unhinged joy. Here, I'm not all grown up, and I'm here forever, or at least until tomorrow. But that's forever.

I remember this.

Played over and over again and again. I'm not going to lose this time. I remember this. You talk and hold my hand, trace your finger softly behind my ear, murmur things like beautiful and sultry, and pull me along toward your gaping hole of a heart. And I follow where I'm led, holding tight to the pretty words and hand around my waist. And then you leave and I am soft and quiet and desperate and warm tears and deep aches.

But I remember this.
And I'm white hot steel this time. I'm loud and full of fury. I'm sharp and I'm on top. Winning, winning, winning. Never stepping an inch closer to sweet spoken promises. I won't lose this time. Fury is choking me, letting hot tears run down my face twisted into fight.

I remember this.
We both walk away bleeding.

i have a thousand lovers in a hundred different cities
strangers that have met my eyes and nothing more
and we are in love in a thousand different places
running from the fury our of misguided intentions

but the army couldn't take you far enough away
and we are tangled in a story
not fit for the silver screen

you've held more than my gaze
know more than my face,
i didn't run when i should have
and now i can breath out
the taste of you muddled
with turkish silver and sweet cabernot

to you i am
the siren, to me you are addicted
to you i am beautiful
to me, i am willing
closer to something real in the worst of times
in the worst of places
we are in love in a thousand places.

i meant to run away, i had every intention to. but the minutes turned to hours, to days to eternities on this everlasting earth.
fury swept us into her bed
and we fought to stay away from tangled love
and fury was this everlasting earth, and we caught her running toward wide scripted time, past hours and days and months and lives into forevers, spreading my reason into something terrifying and saturated and drunk from your breath

oh, the stories we find ourselves in
this one won't be fit for the silver screen,
but for the secret places and the unlined pages
full of loose ink and deep ash
that is where our story goes

new beginnings. the everlasting earth.
thomas wolfe and so so much learning.


soaking in reality, the fury of my soul. the fury of my passions that is realized in the quiet and the still moments of solitude.
travel, to watch and to realize the souls of people, what an incredible and beautiful manifestation of what the soul is.

i'm glad i got to experience it.
such limber comings and wandering desires, yet you know me. yet you use me.

we hardly understand the words that come from each other's mouths', yet we know each other. and though i do not know why you are here or what purpose you serve, you edify yeshua and you are the maker and lover of the bizarre and southern soul that i possess.

you are good, and your mercies endure forever.
yhwh, you are truth and that is what is dying for.


i speak nonsense, yet i testify to truth, what late nights are these and inept discoveries of the soul.
you are the everlasting earth and undying soul of my being that thirsts for more of you, that thirsts for truth, that longs for peace, that lives for genuity.
my God, you are such a receiver of the passions, of where i fail, of all that i have run from you and cast you aside. even you are with me always, even til the end of the age.



yeshua, you are my redeemer .
humbly i seek you
longingly i feed from you
always i trust you
for you are YHWH of our passions, commander of the depths of my heart.

In four days, I'll be here.



And soon after I'll make memories like I remember liking to. I won't be a failure and I won't be forgotten. I'm ready for sweet southern comfort, for the arms that have always held me, for the voices that speak in love. I need to melt into them. Aching, so much aching. Skint knees, swollen lip, rust smeared across the pictures we took.

And I tell you, things wrap around my legs and pull them out from me.
My you are a slippery one dear Hashem. You are a funny one, but I'm afraid your humor is going to have the same bite that mine does. For once I'm hoping against jokes.

My you are a strange one, my love.
He says he wants to take me out on a date, like a lady. I'm not sure if I'm a lady or if I remember what a date is,
but I suppose I'll see you Thursday.

That is the most absurd thing I've ever heard. If he shows up with flowers I'm packing up and moving to the bird house.

oh new lover!
oh this is going to be glorious
we're going to run til we're sleepy and dream until we can't stand to close our eyes
this is going to build build build into the greatest tree house you've climbed to
or made secret pacts signed with eyes closed blood pricked fingers

we'll hide in our secret places
and never let the world touch what you and i have
we'll cover our passion so that no one will steal you from me

no? but i want to be with you, in the deep waters
and find deep magic with you, and hold tightly to you, hide my face in you

but the pact wasn't secret, i saw the heavens ache when your blood spilled eyes open
our love can't be secret anymore
oh it can't.
we've got to be together, you and i.

fruit in the intimacy of you and i.
but i'm terrified to let you in me, see the bare nakedness of me.
it's going to be ugly and painful and i've never even seen what you will.
hakkadosh, how can i let you see me, hold my flesh smeared with marks from other lovers?
you're not going to run away? sneak away in the early morning before i wake?

you'll be there, still holding me when the sun comes?
i am.

are you going to be different, my love, than the promises that failed?
are you going to wander with me and not away?

i am.
oh yeshua,
we'll make breakfast then and make plans
for the rest of our lives
we're going to prepare for the feast,
but before that the winding race

you are.

deep magic

This is the garden I found that breathed life into this concrete city of mine. I was glad to find her. She reminded me of the old friend I left outside of the city. She reminded me of the garden we're going to find.


I'm ready for sweet smelling flowers, honey suckles to wrap myself in. Walker, my darling lean withered friend. Smooth back and twisted forelock. I will fall on your back and ride until our sweat runs together. We'll explore the red clay of Alabama again, find buck eyes shined and pocket them. Bring apples and peanut butter for the both of us. Play in the Saugahatchee creek, have oat bran and honey with Fred at his Feed n' Seed. Alabama air is running through my lungs already. Hashem's mystery is waking up. My fingertips remember their blackberry stains, my toes have not forgotten their rusty clay stained hue, and my curls are begging to hold onto soggy afternoon air.






I'll take you to Jerusalem one day, we'll canter past the wall and kneel before the hill. Eat manderins where they were first rooted and travel with your old brothers to the tents of the people who never forgot how majestic you are. The bedouins, bringing us in for goat milked chai and rest for your sand worn hooves. The old air, thick with Hashem's magic, will bring out your words and we'll talk for days on our crusade in the first earth. Find the waters that ran deep and gurgled through the dry desert for Moses. We'll be drunk on the Spirit of that water and remember our Names, remember what we were made for, and wander closer to kingdom, closer to deep magic, closer to the way things always were, and we'll find the garden.

Who are you to me, my heart has wandered too far looking for yours. I care, and I can taste the bitter remnant of the last time I cared when I swallow. I'm not sure that I want to go there again. I'm not sure that I have a choice. I could hold your heart and peel back every smear against it. I could pull out the crooked words that it believed and the false intentions it received. I could look at it all and not shudder, I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty.

I could help hold the bags you carry, and help you to drop them on the side of the road. So we could be two wanderers traveling light, not weighed down.

house, m.d.

Swaying.

Feet aren't steady, but your walk sharp.
Your laugh bright, shirt off.

Collar tight, voice soft.
Strings balanced and head cocked.

I'm out of breath just looking at you.
My hair curled, yours too.

Fingers clasped, arms stiff.
Music high, lights dim.

Mind wanders, hands touch.
Time moves, we don't.

I'm out of breath just looking at you.
Your eyes grinned, mine too.

Rhythm gone, pulse fast.
I'm out of breath just looking at you.









Can't write tonight. Can't think tonight. Can't move tonight for fear of forgetting.

Esperanto.

Sitting at Esperanto, on the back bar, where I go when I actually want to work and not mill around talking to Emmanuel or Alejandro, or any of the other regulars or baristas.

Had my working face on, brow furrowed, ankles wrapped around the stool legs. Gritting my teeth like the best of them, braced for words that wouldn't come. Lilith, Milton, Shelley, Blake. Following one trail to another, chasing Lilith's tail, wanting her to follow me home instead. Le Femme Fatale. From Gilgamesh to the Sistine Chapel we ran. I wonder if she and Eve got along in that cordial sort of way, inside wishing the other would fall. I suppose they both fell. Maybe they were more like sisters. Such stories. Is it wrong I like to believe in them?

I guess I forgot to erase the arrows that point at me, and the signs that inform all folk to speak to me. I guess I didn't look mean enough tonight, or smell enough, or look tired or mutter enough.

Beard sits down next to me. Youngish, twentyish, but those beards always make it tricky. I look down, we're wearing the same shoes, faded blue van classics. Two full sleeves, a whale, an 18, is that a dinosaur? Half inch baby blue guages. Patch on the pants, yes, he's a Brooklyn. He probably rode his fixed gear here, probably lives in Bushwick.

Oh here it comes. His mouth is fidgeting. He's going to say something. Here comes a voice dripping with a smart ass snarl. A one liner quip. Geezus I'm full of ice tonight.

But the voice is soft. And I balk. This is not expected. He's human, by God. And the softness unravelled into a croon, and a story, and very few words. Humorless, sincere, quiet, and weary. Drifter, writer, a wanderer on the scent of something, feigning to be content with only the search. The search, the damn search. Thanks Walker Percy.

We wander about the simple questions and land in the murky waters between stranger and, and. I need a word for those people that are no longer strangers, the interactions that swim under the radar so quickly but are not friend. Acquaintance sounds like someone your boss introduced you to. This is different. This is when stories are woven together and told at the same time, when the mask of a stranger's lie could impress, but there's no need for it. çôwdh. The secret intimate friendship. That will have to do.

Maybe we weren't wandering. Maybe we knew where we were going and took long steps to get there. Long steps and deep drags of turkish gold and cherry blossomed air toward streets without numbers. Steps until I stood at the foot of the Empire, and he kept on walking.

under water train

Somethings do not change.

More things do.

More often than not, I'm fairly certain I don't live in reality. The jackhammers are raging outside on 34th st. My bank account is overdrawn and I'm broke as a beggar. It's a glorious existence. Friends feed me and work shows up every time I'm sure I won't have a meal. Ideas thread through me and talks of purpose and meaning are at every turn. We're all growing up here.

I'm finally old enough to understand I'm not old. Thrust into decisions and responsibilities and cutting answers from double edged questions.

The rum has been poured one too many times, but usually it's friendship over wine. So many steps from who I thought I should be, but I'm not complaining.

At the cross roads time after time. Identity. It was easy to do the right thing when it was thrust upon me. Easy to say no and step kindly into my pretty role of innocence. But hearts don't exist that way. No identity waited for me at the foot of the Empire. Only what's in my heart. So I've pulled out a lot of ugliness to name it. Not so pretty anymore, no. Not so good at never have I ever anymore.

But more full of grace and life, fury for life. Knowing this everlasting earth can't hold me. Auburn, I'm not coming back. That's terrifying. Oh sure, I'll see you now and again, but you probably won't remember me. Home is some strange far away word that I know is really in the making. I'm ready for my heart to have a home, to crawl into the palms of a forever who has a strong voice and a light laugh.

I remember what love felt like, and I'm not afraid of it anymore. I'm not empty anymore. I'm not broken or halfway anymore. There's a whole heart beating and bleeding for the groans of the people. But it's a whole heart ready to make a home in the deep croon of your promises.

Winter has passed. I smell like cigarettes and for once that's no literary allusion. I don't have pretty edges anymore, but it makes me easier to hold onto. I don't remember one or two or three nights, when I made a brown bag full of hot gold my friend to keep the morning away, walking down the city skyline, Brooklyn Bridge stumbling before my feet.

And I don't remember my first kiss anymore, but I do remember the first time I rode a tandem bicycle. And I remember the morning I woke up, breathed out the shit and decided to live.

Yeshua has been with me, and his deep heart is steady. And the fuzzy truths and the gray lines and the sultry partial lies are being carried out with the tide in the Hudson. All that's remaining is salt that tastes of the Father's glory. All that remains is a burning longing for more. No more questions of if I'm in the right place at the right time. I'm with the writer of my story, and there's no going wrong at His feet. We're writing a novel more shattering than Steinbeck, more lucid than Tolkien, more truthful than Salinger, more alive than Percy.

We're writing this story, and one day He'll name it.

Givers and takers.
Opposites attract? But the givers give, and the takers take. Then the givers need taking, but the takers won't give. Then there is hurt hurt hurt. And ambiguity, and fuzzy edges, and quiet fury, and aching, and a longing to be held.

Death is conquered and so are the lies.
And so here breaths freedom.

Here comes life.

There are cold shoulders and the sound of doors being closed too hard.

I miss the blood that ran between us, because we were family. But now the blood in my veins must be poison. It's burning through me and bringing pain to places I did not know it could. I just want it out out out out of me. But without you, I won't survive.

Such cold hard places I must lay my head.

Today I am alive. And free.

Rollin and I met up at Central Park, he with a helmet for me and an adventure. The maiden voyage of the beauty, the great and rusty tandem queen. We looked at her, and each other and the traffic, and the air so clear and the sun so bright.

I read a guide on how to properly ride a tandem bicycle. Rollin was the captain. I was the stoker. We were supposed to find a certain balance and chemistry in order to have a smooth ride. Fortunately, we did. It was perfect. Around the Central Park loop twice. Smooth and full and fast, and ah. The air smelled good.

I forgot about yesterday. And about last week. And about tomorrow. And about three years ago. I just breathed out the shit, and decided to live.

And you more than whispered in my ear, remember how I promise life? Remember Reid, Remember? I do. How could I forget it.

And then I danced and forgot that I care about other people's eyes and how they look. And then the night turned to something strange and good. A farewell passionate kiss after holding and holding and holding, and why Chicago? And why now, and who are you, and why me, and why not. I had forgotten that kind of being alive. Forgotten the white hot, Forgotten the deep embraces that hold things together. Forgotten that people can call you beautiful and mean it, kiss you and mean it, hold you and mean it, say good bye and mean it.

I'm not even sad. It just was.
And friendship over wine.
And being called by name.
And moving til I drop.
And sweet bed full of warm sleep.
And no dreams, no dreams, just sweet oblivion please Just peace. Please. Just soft quiet closed lids, and the promise that someday someone will hold me through it.

Job

Job:
My father. Betrayed by his brothers, his friends, his lifelong heart and soul men. Who spat on his name, tore the clothes from his back. Sued him, accused him. Yet he sits in grace and says, I will comply.

Fight for it Dad. FIGHT FOR IT. God-Damnit, you have not deserved this. You have compared your life to Job's and I see that, so remember that Job fought the injustice. He cried out to YHWH, won't you?

I'm fighting for you. I'm screaming and kicking. It took everything not to spit in Herald's face when he spoke cunning smooth words to me. "How's your pop holding up, Honey?" "He's seen better days, eh?" And yet you greeted him with a clasp of hands, looked into his eyes, and asked, "How are you, Herald?"

I honor your humility and grace, but it pains me to watch your dear face wrinkle with sorrow, with grief, with the weight of injustice on your shoulders. When will your justice come? When will your mercy flow, your grace be sufficient? Give him Manna for today. Give him grace enough, strength enough, courage enough to stand tall. I love him so.

I am my daddy's daughter. Delight in his heart, grant him the desires you have planted in him. For earth and seed, for mountain air and sweet smelling corn. For clover full of cloven hoofed white tails, for Big Sky Montana. For freedom. I long to see his face smile in all your glory. My father is a handsome man, but he has aged twenty years in three.

Bring these men to truth. Let there tongues burn with every lie they speak. I want truth, I want justice for him. Curse them with truth laden hearts that will not rest until the truth has been thrust forth, heaved from their bellies.

HASHEM, you are good. I believe this. YHWH, you are sovereign I believe this. HAKKADOSH, you are HOLY. I know this. Cradle his heart, dear Abba. Rain him peace, JEHOVAH SHALOM. Hold him tight, do not let him go. Do not let him go. DO not let him go.

I don't think I'm ever going to remember how to sleep.
Today I feel like Molly Ringwald. With green hat and red hair flaming, I walked the streets in clownish glee today. And I really liked the rain, even though it was cold and the wet gave me blisters on my feet. Photoshoot today, for a Microsoft ad campaign. It was a call back and maybe they'll call back again. And maybe someone will see my face and decide they want it for themselves, for money that is. And maybe I'll be plastered on the streets, and the signs, and the minds of silly walking people in New York. They'd give me money and I'd laugh and take it gladly.

Thomas Wolfe has my heart. By that I do not mean he contains it, I mean we must share the same one. I have read sentence after sentence and page after page and thought, my God, I've written that before. The man loved alliteration. It's bloody brilliant.

Ahhh. An old love wrote a beautiful song. I listened to it and I wept today. It was perfect, because it was him through and through. The barely off key strong and solid croon of a young man who has the world before him. He was singing of a lady and her whisperings, and her sitting on the porch, and him coming home. And what a lovely home they have. With pretty green walls and a warm hearth. I wept because it was him. I wept because it moved me as a song should. I wept because it was not about me. I'll remember him. I'll remember you love.

Today, I feel like Cal Trask. Hat pulled low and coat pulled high around my ears, with eyes looking down down down to my feet to my toes to the ground. Never up.

I'm twenty.

tompkins

I want that familiar smell, the one that will drown me.
It brings terror up my spine and a sick twist in the very bottoms of me, but it's been so long since I remembered it.

Your sickly sweet musk, that hides and tangles itself in your room, in your car, in your clothes, in your hair, on your body, in strangers who have walked by too close.

It's been too long since I fell far into longing and love. Now I'm stuck with dreams and fixations that I have created. There is no real musk to smell and no real body to hold. Only a word I wonder what it means, and only a smile I wonder if it was for me.


How can I even think of love when my heart is only healing from death's stench and Satan's rotting breath. Because love aids that healing, wraps it up in its arms and cradles my heart. Fans away and airs out the dead blood and decaying breath of lies that was stagnant in my heart. Because now I wake up hungry, stomach stumbling curling and grumbling and yawning and waking for new blood, for new life. To devour. Musty earth and earthworms, the dirt that holds the wheat grass and the hands that smell of living. The sea salty air, bitter taste still upon my lips that I lick. The sun I poured down my throat and sweated out my pores.

Alive, alive, alive, alive.
I still miss that old smell.
But this hour smells well, it smells of something coming to eat.

Daria.

We sat down for a birthday dinner tonight. I'll be twenty Wednesday but I'm headed back to the city tomorrow morning. We broke every single rule of proper family time I think. I drank wine, scandalous. We talked politics. We talked religion. We talked about the bailouts and real estate. We even aired some old dirty laundry of the family. It all ended in silence and clanking forks and forcefully shoved in chairs.

Until Mom tried to gather us around the chocolate cake she had made me, with m&m's on top. We lit twenty candles, dripped wax everywhere and burned our fingers. They tried to sing Happy Birthday but my sister refused and two people singing was more awkward than the previous silence.

This is family. Thirty minutes later Mel shoved a wrapped parcel in my lap and said Happy Birthday. A journal, with a note that says, "Write your heart out and don't be afraid of truth."

This is family.
Headed to the airport at six am to try to catch the 10:20 flight standby. If all goes accordingly, I'll be back in NYC around 5. Something feels uneasy.

And the History channel thinks my YHWH is an alien.

The sun has seeped into me and somehow healing is taking place.
I've been lying in the sun for two days now. Soaking and seeking the warmth and the life it brings. I'm a beaming blush of sunburn, and my skin hurts when I move, but it's okay because I'm alive.

I sat in a boat for hours today with my Dad. My father that I haven't spoken to in months. My sister I haven't spoken to in more. And we got the old boat out and set her out into the bay. Fishing poles and a bucket of live shrimp and a few coronas between the three of us. I guess you never forget how to cast a steady line or set the hook. Dad's gruffness wore off and so did the weary look in his face. Mel softened into the sister and daughter I know she is. Red fish, sea trout, pinfish.

Chris drove over to the house here. Picked me up and we drove and drove and drove. And it's never been less cliche, to drive with the windows down and the music playing. And laying out on the sand with the blood moon rising. Him playing the eukelele and me singing The Mariners Revenge and listening to water lap. And Come thou Fount of Every Blessing, and our wandering hearts were bound to Him and I think I even grasped what fetters are.

I'm warm and weary and I saw stars and felt sand and wetted feet and smelled the sun and all the time it held. And dawn broke twenty centuries ago when death ripped in two. The curtain torn and nothing but life and victory was smelled. Despair no more. The grave has given up its dead.

sand and water
and salt sea spray.
here i come to you.

Beaches are cold during the winter.
It should be winter more often,
it's more, original.

People don't like it, but I do.
Only people who love it, go there.

Cold sand stings.. it's not a pleasant place to stay.
Winds chase and there's always the fact, that I don't have a jacket.

Dragging your feet, makes it harder to leave.
Maybe you drag your feet, because it is hard to leave.

I like sunsets. They still look the same when the sand is cold.
Sunrises have attitude.

Beginnings always have more life than ends.
Cold sand wouldn't seem like a very appealing thing, except that you can't feel your feet or where you're going.

There's always biting water that will nip at my ankles. Or snap. And seagulls squawk because I'm the intruder.
Maybe the sea gulls squawk because they're saying Hello. Maybe they're just as lonely as I am.

I found some pretty shells.
They were all broken.

Unusual things happen when the sand is cold.
The sea spray caught my face, and I know it was completely intentional.

And the remnant of a child's curiosity,
urged me to lick my lips.

I savored its taste in the same moment that I spat it out.
Sharp and Bitter and.. Salty
Salt tastes good, it's almost sweet.

Oceans feel cold, but only when the sand is.
The sand isn't cold enough to clear my mind,
maybe the water is.

It would take my breath away..
There's no lifeguards when the sand is cold.

I don't like sunsets, I like stars.
Stars only shine after the sunset has gone.



The beach is only pretty
when the sand is cold
before the day begins.


I hate the beach, but cold sand and sea spray makes me.. mmm

The reality is that all of this hurts.
And I very selfishly want people to drop everything and hold me.

And faith is something I don't really understand, because it is all of me and all I have. I can't define it and I can't walk away from it.

I brushed my teeth this morning in the shower, because my roommate dropped her necklace down the sink drain. And so I turned the heat down in the shower a bit, until the water was luke warm. And once it touched my teeth I squirmed in discomfort. And I spit it out of my mouth.

song of solomon

He didn't let me go.
When every human hand can no longer hold me, catch my fingers.
He did not let me go.

Here comes the morning Thomas Wolfe.
Here comes the sun on the street that never emptied out my window.

There's my heart beating, it wouldn't stop feeling, it wouldn't give up.
There go the lies I vomited up. They are no longer of me, in me. Damned are you death, God-Damned are you lies.

YHWH, he has held me. Hakkadosh, my name comes from his lips.
I could not run from you.
You fought back. You fought for me.
You conquer death, and I'm holding you to your covenant. Justice.

My breath is of smoke and bitter words thrown.

I am no friend of death, yet he follows me. Haunts my steps, whispers in my ear.. I will never leave you. And so many sweet words are whispered by him. It's all in the good Lord's plan. It's for a greater purpose. It'll make you stronger. His family will learn the good Lord's love from it. God's in control of everything, so this, let's make the best of this. It's ok to hurt, just let it out. Don't keep it bottled up.

Fuck that.

Doesn't anyone remember that Christ died to conquer death? That death is everything opposing God? Doesn't anyone remember that death is only here because we fell? Because WE fell? Doesn't anyone remember that the death of a soul is eternally lost, will never know his love, will never see his face? Doesn't anyone else think that death is not ok? I don't know what to feel or to think. I don't know what to say or to do.

Doesn't anyone understand that when I run away I want to be followed? You can't say anything dumb as long as you are holding on tight to me. Don't let me go. Don't walk away. Don't give me space. Don't turn me lose.

Smother me until I beat you off me and come back at me ready for the punches. I want to fight against you, tear, scream, kick, rip, and conquer nothing. To lose the strength of my body beating you back, and I want you to keep holding me strong.

I will not settle with death. I will never say it is ok. It hurts, I am angry. Can I say that? Angry, wheezing, coughing up blood from taking in so much shit. I have no angry words for you God, I clench my jaw and my fists. I have nothing to say to you. Satan is father of lies and I hate him. Death is his closest brother. Hate them both with me, won't you? You hate it, too, don't you? If you don't I don't know how to love you. If this isn't tearing you apart, if this doesn't make your gut sink, and skin crawl, and your breath hot, and your brow ache, then maybe I'm loving the wrong God. I have to believe you are hurting in this. Please tell me you are not sitting up there so smug and patting my head, saying, it's all ok.

It's not ok.
It's not all right.
It is not good.

Please tell me that, because if I can't believe that I will crumble. If I do not know that you are fighting this with me, then I am truly alone.

Where is your justice? Why do you feel so far from me?
I hate the lies. I hate the lies. I hate the lies. They deserve death. Not a man who breathed deep and reached high. Not the man who laughed, loved, wondered, and searched you out. Did he find you? Did you not run seeking after him? Did you not trap him and grab him toward you? How could you let him from your arms? Please tell me you didn't let him go.

If you let him go, how can I forgive you? If you let him go, then will you let me go as well?
I'm clinging to you, clawing your coat and pulling your great beard towards me. Do not let me go. Do not let me fall.
You snatched my life back from me before, two cold and cruel Aprils ago I had my life. And you would not let me end it. And death came at my door three times and you turned him away. So why me and not him? I did not deserve this life? Why didn't you conquer death for him? I do not deserve it.

Where is the redemption in this? Where is your love? Where is your mercy? Where do I come out breathing in this? Where do you come in, fighting back?

These are fighting words, YHWH. Fight back.