Put a stone in my shoe,
walk a mile or two
and let the cold air brace me,
take me far from nothing
to something else entirely.
And the sun shines in uncovered eyes
my breath takes on it's own life
burning muscles tear against the ground
somehow I'm running and chasing the clouds.
Wind up bleeding, breathing hard
and the feet are in pain, there's a dagger in my heart
and somehow I'm suffering all over again
found through the pain, and grounded again.
Clinging on to life, precious blood and movement
even in routine there can be sanctification
somehow all roads lead to home
and the fire in the sky guides my walk by night
as I hold on to that which rends me and
lends me a perspective that I hope to understand.
When you're living still there is no loss that can take you
until the time comes to go over that final hill
and be acquainted with the maker.
Oh, the faith it takes to live that way,
and the trust that comes with answers
undeniable guideposts and bring purpose to pain
so we only suffer shortly.
We will only suffer shortly.
I mean, what's the difference really
between talent and skill?
How can anyone really tell how much work
gets put into the things that impress?
Could it be an eye, an ear,
a discerning mind that can locate truth?
Or a Masterful hand, and fingers, and words
that have walked the same roads, a thousand times before?
Can the voice at birth be heard as beauty?
Will a child know a head of time,
what they are destined for?
Those standing on a stage with thousands looking on
to marvel at the thing that one does best
and an envious worship comes over them,
and they pay good money for that feeling.
So what's the difference then?
Do we have a right to ask that question,
as we bask in awe and expect a perfectly manifested
outward expression of the inner workings of a
SAVOR this, your youth my child,
the BULB will bloom and become a flower
and AGAINST your better judgement
this experience will soon be OVER.
LAUGH freely, readily, openly,
your joy is the APPLE of my eye.
in LOVE, and in peace I beg you persist
lest the nature of this world HORRIFY
and set upon you disastrous expectations.
But still do not allow
INJURY AGAINST yourself,
or those you know you should protect,
remember the EAGLE in all her beauty,
still kills when it is necessary,
do not IGNORE the wicked things that people do
lest the SWORD of JUSTICE fall upon you, too.
Live cautiously, but do not be AFRAID,
and remember the deadliest POISON
often has a pleasant FLAVOR.
Be wary and keep yourself guarded.
A PUPPY will grow quickly and become an old hound
grapes not used for wine, dry up and become RASINs
and so in my state there is no wisdom I can give,
that will tip the SCALE in your favor,
or even mean anything to you.
Despite that I have faith you will be fine.
What can we bear on our own?
I'm in the parking lot of the hospital, staring up at the room where my Dad left his body behind. It's become a sort of ritual ever since that week spent sleeping in my car for that week two Aprils ago. From that time onward, I've been drawn to it, somewhat out of guilt I suppose, he was in the hospital for nearly a month, I couldn't visit, and I barely called him. During that time, while I was avoiding the reality of losing him, my uncle stayed out there every night for nearly a month, other members of my family joined, I was the last one to join. I know that my being there wouldn't have changed anything, but I feel this need now to be placed in remembrance, as though I haven't grieved enough. So I'm here, silently staring, standing in the snow and shivering, waiting for the moment when my guilt will let me get back in the car and warm up. The last conversation I had with him was a day or two before he was placed in an induced coma, he asked me why I hadn't been calling, I didn't have an answer. I deserve to be haunted by this, just the thought that he might have felt abandoned by his own son right up until the time of his death, his son who he gave everything for, who he loved unconditionally and with fierce intensity, his son who he taught about music and how to love people. His son never called.
That guilt will sit inside of me and rot until the day I die.
So now, being in the presence of this building, trying to serve a penance for my neglect and selfishness, my thoughts turn to God. I think of my creator, and the sacrifice that Jesus made for the salvation of mankind. How he bore my sin as well as the sins of everyone else who was, is, and will be. How do I deserve that? No amount of standing in the cold or beating myself up will ever bring me to salvation from the guilt of my sin. God did it for me. I think this, and I know it, I believe it and try my best to act accordingly, but in moments like this, when the snow is piling up around my feet, and my hands begin to numb against the cold, I can only see the overbearing darkness of my foolishness and I stand smack in the middle of the moment, feeling entirely deserving of whatever suffering I might endure for the next few minutes. Somehow I am not dead, the evidence is in my face, and the blood rushing to my hands to warm them.
Why do I do this? How can I accept forgiveness if I feel I don't deserve it? What kind of God could possibly feel love for me? And I start walking, down by the waterfront just across from the hospital, a park I used to play at as a child which at this particular moment seems almost purposefully void of familiar warmth. I know that I'm torturing myself, I know I have no right to judge my actions. What good does it do to walk down into these pits of darkness when I know that they go on forever? What good comes from exploring the intricacies of shame and guilt when they warp and wrap around like endless mazes? Who am I to suffer so greatly at the hands of my past, who am I to bear this minor burden with such misery and dismay, knowing full well that it is just a reality, and a part of who I am. It is just one of many examples of my inability to save myself from the nature of humanity, which is to fail at almost every opportunity for success, especially when alone.
I do not need to be poisoned by this any more, I have the ability and freedom to accept it and move on. I don't need to keep coming back here to worship my mistakes and live them out over and over again. I am not perfect, nor was I ever meant to be. But I am also not here to die to sin, to test the limits of what a person can bear on their own; that is not my responsibility.
I'll carry on, I'll be sad, I'll remember with a realistic understanding of the truth, but I won't be back here.
The youth is slowly slipping by
in a cascade of responsibility
that rises as a tide does upon the horizon
with an impending intention to destroy futility
and they never talk of the joy of discipline
until they've found success in doing so
so the vanity of being young is kept alive
for far too long, and we stay boys and maidens
past our date of expiration
and do not allow for the evolution
so through resistance we found some solution
to keep on being high and finding newer novelties
to distract and entertain from a rapidly approaching reality
that in itself is actually not at all terrifying
but does require change and an understanding of discomfort
and for some reason, though it is natural, we suppress that transition
and stay static in our minds while our bodies age around them
and eventually fall prey to diseases and decay
while we feel entitled still to enjoy each moment and passing day
without patience for delays in satisfaction or fulfillment
and are turned over then to the primordial depravity
of a lifelong childhood
Faith is so incredibly important,
but don't let yourself be deceived,
you still have to work for what you want in this world.
He's not going to do everything for you,
but through you.
how often disciples become false gods
In an attempt to entertain perhaps, or make the world be magical
we lie to children all the time, so they believe the strangest things
like santa claus, the tooth fairy, and the Easter bunny,
a pantheon of childhood gods that walk through the young one's dreams
and they believe on them, they have faith that things are so
proving to the world how malleable people are.
But more significant are those lies that parents tell
not to make the world seem magic, but to shelter their kids from hell
and in so doing make themselves out to be more than they are.
a parent is not the same thing as what the world sees as an "adult"
We teach our children to see us as a different set of beings,
who rule the earth with wisdom and wrath, and who have no arbitrary reasons
the children see adults create and destroy things at their will
again like gods to be worshiped and obeyed lest wrath be fulfilled.
and in a way this too is a lie, we as adults all walk in sorrow
mourning the lost innocence of the childhoods we borrowed
wishing for and recapturing the bliss of youthful joy
by ignoring the reality that through our actions we employ
an abundance of control within and above each generation
with the responsibility to see the children raised and make them
into what we are now, the stewards of the earth
boundless in intention and creators of value, not worth
Gods on earth to children being that which was created
to foster innocence and joy so they may do so also
and not be thrown about by whim or stray intense emotion
but be secure in teachings that will make it so.
There is a duty among men
to hold each other up
and edify the workings of their friends
it is sacred, and it makes us whole
and defines and manifests the eternal love
earthly practice, community building endeavor
designed to defy the ways of the world
through works of kindness, an act of rebellion
Total harmony from now until forever.
and amazing thing that time can do
heal all wounds and decay the flesh as well
what is responsible for endless marches
and chronic motion that seems to ail us
as we work to waste it distract from its passing
entertaining illusions to make it go down easy
and hair grows longer, gets cut, turns gray
but recordings of history miraculously stay
in tact though their message is polluted by change
and it moves and it moves and it moves us away
and toward some destiny that no one can see
some have grand ideas, yet no one can be
there except the creator, you see it's not linear
just a million wide spots in the road
chained together on a highway but really
we only see that because of memory
if we couldn't think of such things we'd be scrambling
from moment to moment without so much as a second thought
but we don't so we write keep tradition and tell stories
about the history of all that we've noticed
occurs in the world and the function of changes
the documentations of several differing patterns of decay
physical first, spiritual second, then moral societal
all depending on the perspective of the individual
but somehow nothing important gets lost,
or at least that which we lose turns out not to be
and we live on.
slipping through the void
Life becomes untethered
at the point in meditation
when the observance of the observer
dissolves into closed-eyed blackness
and the feeling of breath marks time
swelling the void with life.
The sensation of wholeness
and marked improvement of mood
by noticing nothing is happening
and it becomes numb comfort
to not have to be anything at all.
Then the eyes reopen, light floods them again
and the blackness of reality is quickly shocked away
bringing to mind the question, "what does it all mean"?
The difference between shape and sound and thought
are not to be examined so closely
and all meaning dies.
And so untethered, slipping into the void
past all comprehension
and the only thing to notice is the tingle
of some mental satisfaction
rest of some description
brought abruptly to an end
this temporary peace
practicing being dead
with nothing else beyond that
a being made of dirt
pretending to be dirt again.