When people talk about beauty-- full lips and long hair and slender and big eyes... this is what I think of. When God talks about beauty, he notes that a 'gentle and quiet spirit' is worth much.
But my spirit is voracious and stubborn and curious and bursting and roaring for everything at once. It is upset and devastated, and loudly questions everything. In this case, trying to be beautiful in this way would be lying.

sometimes
they (we) them
ache.

for nameless stencils of the collapsed
and
a deliberate wandering from the cold eyes.
Here you are, and
I recognize what this could (should) be.
But somehow the alternate world and series of choices (lack of choosing)
has steered you towards tape and chalk and
a different way.
Sometimes, usually Wednesdays around four, when you are tired and your mind is not as guarded as it should (could) be,
You think of bones and muscle and tissue and spirit.
And the tracings ache over what they can’t offer.

I feel the way your mind wonders
what if and maybe, and should I let one love go for another?

adventure

somehow

after awhile,

I mistake for weariness

and

the staying

the building of life

the intertwining of witnesses

I mistake for complacency

Recognition

Do you ever have that feeling, where you recognize someone else's soul with them.
A slight, 'we have been together once' or 'we will be together soon.'
That the same dangerous thoughts crossed your minds, once or at the same time,
and the same yearnings for God to be as He promised, for the world to simply just be without destroying itself in war and the deep pains of bitter men.
The recognition of trying, straining so to not let the dark things overtake the joy.
To remember that the joy is not worthy of guilt,
that we should not be lonely because we are not alone.

sometimes the words are splintered and make more sense when they are said out loud-- trickle, hurricane, and a sweeping of the curtains

so this is difficult to admit, or say out loud, but it may be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,
the wire twists and here the wings form out of cast iron, how will they hold in the blistering air?

Tacks and nails, and the sharp edges of violets billow uncannily in the oceans.
so you say this is nonsense, but who are you to really know? there is sense,

look carefully,

maybe you will see it in the pauses

or lilts of this day

I too, always wanted the security of constructed sentences and phrases, but maybe there is something more.

faulting and stepping, the eyes flicker quickly in tune to the sounds of the grand experiment, nobody told you that you were a part of.

Have you met the other pieces of you, wandering the roads in the quiet glowings of the far off foreign lands that you should really be calling home?

Maybe you are nothing but the place everything seeks.

On surrender

When these words are promised into the night
whispered at a point of anguish or desperation
given freely as praise
are they fully recognized by the giver?
Does the giver know, exactly, the promise they make?

What, exactly, is being surrendered?

My life. Yes, this is easy.
My soul. Slightly more difficult, but achievable.
My mind. Attempting, daily.

But, my love, my individuality, my passion....?

Or harder yet, the lives of the other, the family, the dear ones, the ones I love that I do not even know. Am I willing to surrender them as well, without even a pause to breathe, to consider the implication?

I remember once,
the astounding sensation that my body was completely made to allow my soul joy.

Everything, designed, to make this self, whatever it is really (electricity? neurons? a painting somewhere in a museum? a slave? a color that hasn't been invented yet? a collection of memories? a history?) experience.

A machine, brilliantly engineered. So this God, has made this incredibly strong, complicated machine. That grows and moves and feels.

Strong enough to be broken, yet unknowingly fix itself. To be soft enough to experience pleasure, the lightness of touch. A mind which can make words on a page ideas and dreams and action.

Every sense, every thing that was made, designed to be breathed in and experienced.

Every sense, every flutter of heart or eyelash.

And when this soul feels so much, it literally produces a physical result. Hearts stopping at the end of the same 89 years, if they have been wound together by this whole life. Tears of joy or anger or sadness.

Please excuse me watching the slight side smile at the corner of your mouth, while you sip your tea. I find it wonderful, that this flavor is your favorite. That you can have a favorite.

That you have been given the simplest of choices, and find joy here. I can't help but wonder what you really look like.

(a painting somewhere? a color that hasn't been invented yet?)

make sure your eyes
don't succumb
to the dulling
over time,
the way that there was incessant light and aliveness

make sure the hard years and the happy years
don't take over your eyes
make sure you still have slight smiles,
and the let the corners edge upwards

make sure you let whatever is hopeful in you
continue beyond the harshness

find the passion in you and hang on to it
for it is dear and you are precious;

and this is constant

It comes down to this
of everything
all the lovers
and all the sweet smiles;
every doorway, every building
every window sill;
there are always
always
bars.

Each city-town
town-country
Country-world

Has the breezings of warmth
and the possibilities
of
the unending.

“You
could
be
loved
here.”

You fail to take
into account
bars are made
of more than iron
and steel.

It is about more than just (the me)
I am telling you this so you can understand

that (the me) is not the only factor, variable
in this
equation

(and who are you to speak of such things?)

So maybe you finally got this place, and you gave everything to be there.
Maybe now, you are alive and flushed and have chosen joy;
(yes chose, chosen, choose)

Maybe now, your body is your own, and you can let your eyes glaze over every inch
without the shameful things going through your mind; without shame.

Maybe now, when you speak you hold your head high, and when you listen you nod carefully and wait for the wisdom to sink further in.

Maybe now, your spirit is in high spirits, and says "Darling, I am so glad you have decided to let us be at peace", while nestling in the crevices of your body.

but, (the me), may not be the only factor.

So even if (the me) is healthy, even then I cannot ensure that (the us) is happy,

because there is always, always

(the you).

when I watch
the way you don't even realize;
exactly who you are and what it could mean.

there is beauty in this.

Oct 2

It is easier
to write someone off as having been
unkind
or hateful
the type of person whom
wouldn't grimace at the bruises
they inflict.

Instead,
I love you.

Despite the way
you knowingly let
my heart break.

As you throw another fist
I brace myself, holding my breath
waiting for the pain to explode again.
I know that the flesh is already tender
and I know that the small capillaries
may not be able to withstand this, any more.

I know. I should pack my bags.
I should, stuff my memories and photos
letters and pleas for love,
in a ragged cardboard box.

Instead,
I let the fist pummel me again. Expectantly,
because after-all, I can see it coming.

I could turn away, I could fight back.
But I am too tired, and too torn apart.

So I am here, writhing on the floor,
sobs racking my body, flinching in anticipation.

And if I could pretend that these memories meant nothing
to me,
than maybe I could gather the strength to stop whispering
'Ah, but you promised. Why would you do this to me? But ah, after all. I love you still'
and instead
whisper
'No one can see forever, joy will return but not this joy.'

And let the bruises heal.

Instead,
I let the pain continue because I cannot see how I do not deserve it. I must, in someway, to
be hurt this way.

It is amazing, how quickly we can move.

Oh I was there, once, and now all of a sudden I am here-- make it count, make it count.

Who thinks so much?
It is exhausting. Really. It can't
be normal.
Because if it were,
there would be a whole world
scribbling in forgotten languages or languages
the rest of us
are not smart enough (or wise? enough.) to
have learned.

All this pitter pattering in the back of the skull
the neurons must get tired sometime and sleep?
Or perhaps they live violently and brilliantly and just burst until they die
and that is why the thoughts never stop.

LIVEDIELIVEDIELIVEDIELIVEDIELIVEDIELIVEDIE

if you combine it (as neurons have a tendency to do, when they are bored, and need something to tame whatever madness it is that is called their purpose)

it merely becomes 'I LIVED' after awhile, given creative manipulation, perhaps some squinting.
At every deathbead this is the obvious conclusion, for however long.

And this, is quite remarkable, if you take the time to notice.

I think that,
when the music plays just right,
and the eyes catch at just that certain time,
and you sigh and I sigh with the same thought
or at least
the same breeze and glimpse of shadows bubbling over the lights
drinking fruity sangria,
and deciding which Havana poster we like best,

(we especially like the crumpled edges and the darkness seeping into the paper)

I think that,
when I notice your eyes sparkle sideways,
and you notice me noticing;

when you recognize a feeling, ebbing thru the sarcasm and the frustration,
when you see a desire to live a life that is intentional,
that is not for money or to fund the dying at the end, but is for the living now! Presently! not always
(always, always)
jumping into the future like the tails of us and the beginnings of us are on fire
enflamed in panic
and wanting so desperately to live that we forget

(the living now! Presently!)
is now.
is this.

I think that this,
makes all the tumbling and discomfort and
uprooting of roots, and other such comforts

at least intrigue.

Plot we say! And now,
and least,
there


is


beginnings to endings/(ENDINGS to beginnings?)!

mmm, whom gets to decide?

In the noise, the quiet of all the sound,

I notice the small things that happen quickly and with great force.

The thousands of choices, all witnessed now in this moment. The rhythm of the way your hands sway back and forth. The tan line that gently caresses your finger, a thick band of color missing. This is new.

You eating alone in a corner, glancing self-consciously around as you, pausing with your fork in your hand, stabbing at the pieces of your salad, reaching across the aisle to clean the glasses of a child. You take a bite, and pause wistfully. People look confused, everywhere. Lost, looking, searching for something. What could this be?

Purpose. It is one of those words that people throw out, without considering. What does it really mean to discover purpose?

Is it a way to get through each day, a reminder that cascades of pain and joy are more than just the random and rapid firing of neurons?

Choices, the sports that we play, the way we present ourselves to the world, the tone we choose to use to talk to that loved one, or one who isn’t loved anymore.

Above all, recognize that these are precious, worthy, of respect. It is easy to say, yes?

There are those that grasp for kindness, who have known nothing but the explosiveness of life, the bitter let-downs of what love was supposed to be. So now this crazy idea, are people put in your life for a reason? Do you have an obligation to love people? To at least put forth every good faith? To take the opportunities that seem like curses at the time? I never considered that it wasn’t you, but maybe it was her.

I don’t believe in coincidences.

I hope that this game, whatever it is, ends in victories for every party involved. I hope that this is something that you hope for, strive for, and in the end the winnings are split into things that you never expected to win.

Surprise.

Take the fireworks and split them into each individual ember, watch it thrive and live and flare into sparks. Taste the colors with your eyes, feel the warmth and be a part of the moment as it happens. Remember this as it is happening, click. Take a photograph.

The edges sharpen and then soften. The sound cracks in the air mili-seconds after you hear it. You have your hand, a little sweaty perhaps, safely cradled in your love’s hand. He strokes it gently, feeling the same thing at the same moment that you do. The sparkles and sizzle, the frothing billowing edges, the sticky air, the way the embers are dying in their beauty. The living and dying and the way that these things seem inextricably linked. And as you savor this moment, you don’t let this simple thing ruin you. You guard your soul and your soul’s happiness with vigor. “Baby, just breathe,” you whisper.

This now is yours, and no one can take it from you.

This war was fought in whispers.

She whispered something, conspiring to make her unlikely enemy fall.

One hand cupped, around the faceless face next to her, gently

like it might have been a kiss; under different circumstances.

And more than all the guns or knives

this whisperwar

destroyed more than could be rebuilt

bricks and mortar

would not salvage reputations or mend the trusts

the shadow of doubt cast

like a dove flitting across a white cloud--

was it really there?

A possibility is now permanent in all these minds.

Truth or truths or lies; the brilliant opponent has now made everyone

Lose/ The Lost.

I think I know a little bit about the way I am.

I was painfully shy, in middle school through high school. I would not let people take my photograph. Extreme perfectionist tendencies (every three weeks I wrote a 20 page book report, 10 point font, single spaced. Seventh grade.) Relatively smart, introspective. I was taught something, and I believed it to be truth. I looked for reasons to enforce it, and it made my perspective black and white.

Ah, see, then. I went to Uganda. I was pummeled by the sheer vastness of what it meant to be alive. I had a few of those moments where I felt like I was living and walking separate from my body.

I had my heart broken, became guarded.

I needed a way to explode, but wasn't sure how to while still living in this framework.

So I left at midnight in the middle of the week with a group of people volunteering at Katrina.

This was followed by working at Beloit, where I became angry and so hurt at what was allowed to happen in our world. The abuse, the destruction of innocence.

Particularly this one child's story simmered in me. He had a brother, he was smart, artistic, wildly funny. He and his brother had been locked in a basement and were thrown food every once in awhile. This happened for months.

He and I, we understood each other. He set fires when he could, climbed the roof, ran away. But I respected him, and he knew it.

One time he climbed the roof and I climbed up after him. I was clearly afraid he would push the ladder down, and he was carrying a large piece of board. He leaned over as I was climbing up the ladder. "Don't let her fall," he said.

When I got to the top I asked him to give me the board.

He looked at me quizzically. "Are you going to hit me with it?"

"No," I said. "No. I'm not going to hit you with it. Why don't you show me why you like it up here?"

And he did. He liked the curving of glass where you could see down. He liked the openness.

He set a room on fire two weeks later and was taken away and medicated. Hospitalized.



Then Chile, the disappeared. Then India, the burned women.

It's not that I don't love God, or don't want to. It is just that I can't trust him anymore, and it breaks my heart.

What things do you give up?

Dreams or the things that could really be?

The things you do for yourself, and

the things you do for us;

do you let, the shiny hopes settle down in the back

of the jewelry box,

sighing, quite softly;

You either know, or you don't.

I know. Should I wait on this? What could be lost(time).

what things bring you to life?

why do we always have the knowing and the naming,

but when it comes to forever,

we are so quick to gives these up; even if we know what we lose

each time

we compromise

the things

that make us alight with

the glow of knowing/ being known.

when you go,

I have not been as prepared

as I should have been.

and all along

I thought the walls

were carefully

(oh so carefully)

put in place.

So now I delicately select

the eye color

that I think this moment should have.

I shape the face on the mannequin.

I push and pull the clay, my hands covered

in

the making.

I wield the tools to gouge the smile, sad and slightly

bent,

maybe upside down.

and now that I have made and created and breathed life into this.

I order the walls to come up and fill the spaces where the clay insisted on

such things as breathing.

and all along, I wanted walls to weigh down

and protect against the things that fly.

and all along all I have ever loved is the idea of wings.

sway,

conflict.

who wins in this petty war,

there are stars, and hearts.

who will win the great wars,

if these modest bickerings end in such great endings.

what will be left of

whatever worlds

we decide are worth

keeping whole.

but perhaps it is in the

grenades and incinerations

that we shape a new

destructed place.

perhaps this destruction is what is needed to

be

renewed.

So the years pass,

so slowly but with the small molasses movement

deceptive

and you don't even realize

that you are wanted.

With (out) in

So is what you do counted,

when your mind is rebelling.

Let me feel. Let me feel. Your body screams, twisting in the pain of withdrawal.

Let me be.

but you take it, this weak weak heart,

and

make it beat in an unfamiliar way, unnaturally. Be this, you say, shaking it angrily, surprised and betrayed when it,

shakily,

refuses,

weakly trying to return to its joy.

If I had to guess I would say that it is fighting in its way.

You are angry that it has decided to

not pay attention to your worrisome

whisps of control.

Of the sea.

I live in a landlocked state. With houses that look the same, and roads that are laid out perfectly in a grid

by someone who hoped we would not get lost.

The shopping malls, with stores selling pretty things, conveniently at every corner.

The gas stations, selling candy and soda-pop and things to help the journey in the cars go well, to go faster.

So faster we drive, on the perfect roads.

Our lives, quite eloquently and effectively sanitized of the miraculous.

What of these dreamworlds, at night? They show us in pictures, and perhaps on the news, of the sea.

But we are landlocked, you see. How do we know such things are real?

The strength of waves, crushing down, over and over, onto a sand-filled beach. Creatures we really do not believe exist, shimmering in the waves. The sun sparkling on the shore, tiny tide-pools a whole world to be explored.

And here, we can see the sky. We look up casually, at the changing ceiling of our lives. But how could it possibly go on past this? We know, they tell us, of far off planets and galaxies, with swirlings and hopings and no endings, colors beyond what anyone could ever put on a canvas.

But we are landlocked you see. To these bodies. Trapped, in a world sanitized of the miraculous, while it

is, to our great surprise,

already.

This is my season. If you can own a season.

Red wagons with smiling children, vegetable gardens full of things I cannot exactly pronounce. The slight mist that settles in the hair, and makes your hair dewey with expectations and when you look around, the world sparkles slightly, holding its breath.

Music and art in the streets that make you take that breath in once more, and gasp at the beauty there. Water flowing over songs, and portraits of people you have never met but that you inexplicably love more than anything you have ever owned. Will ever own.

The exhaustion of this, the bubbling inside of you that threatens to become more important than any plan, the excitement of recognizing the living; the vitality of every place you look.

The power in your words and expressions, the way you can take someone who is fragile and make them whole with a single action. The winter struggling to become something more beautiful.

And all the words, all the feelings, all the prayer, all the insecurities and hope emanating, at the same time, from all the hundreds of thousands of souls. The quick smiles and quick laughs and the individual struggles of what it means to be human, the tracks of life struggling to become something

more beautiful.

This is where the winter and cold surrender the pain of change, and this is me now.

Surrendering the confidants, the carefully laid out plans, and learning to savor this moment now, to take it all in because this is fleeting and worthy of my hope.

So this is it,

the first part,

The part that is exciting.

When there is a new soul to see,

to meet, to inspect with sparkling Curiosity.

Well, hello there. Where have you been, I have missed you,

I think.

I have been sitting here, sipping away at all the pleasures this life

incites, waiting for you to join me.

So here you are. You laugh at my jokes, and you have deep secrets,

and there is nothing more I could ask for than this.

Welcome to the table, we have been waiting for you. There are feasts to be had and countries to explore, colors to create and games to be played.

And we have already won.

I am bound to the hopes of this generation
we want change
am I wasting your time, the way hair bursts into colors,
and you think about
the chains that silently prevent you from moving [your world?].
the warm liquid underneath your tongue and surrounding your soul,
tries desperately to keep you sated with comfort
with the small joys [bribes?] that await you if you succumb to contentedness
if you let the lullabies of the modern sirens lull you into believing
that there is nothing wrong with embracing
the privilege [earned?] your birth extends to you
place and time and color and language
are you really willing to let this be what
will be the separateness?

Haiti

If you have been paying attention at all, you will see that Haiti has been devastated by an earth-quake. It probably sounds selfish to mention the state of my heart at this moment, an overly-privileged luxury. Yet I must tell you, I have seemed to lock this away in some bottom part of me.

You see, the implications are too grand. Every piece of good that has been done/ will ever be done in my professional life is erased so many times over by this one world event. The magnitude of the death and destruction is so overwhelming because it is simply too big to be healed. 100,000 deaths have been estimated.

I find myself changing the channel. 'What Not to Wear' or 'Scrubs.' I cannot watch this, because there is absolutely NOTHING that I can do. Awareness? Yes, I am a proponent. Stop Genocide in Africa. Feed The Starving. AIDS Awareness. Yet, quite hypocritically and shamefully, I whine about four ankle surgeries in six months. "How could this happen to me?" I angrily muse, while sitting at home completely cared for.

In an even darker place, there is a little voice doubting being cared for by a God who lets schools collapse on top of children in a country barely recovering from past natural disasters. Will He really care for me if not even these are cared for?

100,000 people. There is nothing, nothing I can do or will ever do that could begin to salvage this kind of wound in a people, a gouging in the flesh of our world.

So I change the channel. I put down my newspaper. I find myself deliberately locking away that portion of my heart, like amputating dead flesh that would kill the body if allowed to continue in the raw. Because with something so devastating raw and exposed, how can anything else matter, ever, compared to this one event?

I have never been good at compartmentalizing, how can I give myself permission to enjoy the aroma of coffee or the thought of Arizona-- when the people are suffering now? Nothing could be significant again, and I do not believe this is right.

100,000 people. Every person you have every known, your entire town, everyone you have ever met and loved and everyone each of them has known and loved. All of their potential, their children, their grandchildren. The meals they would make at holidays, the words and symphonies they could have created, their choices and learning and potential to cure disease, the poetry and art we have lost. The kind words of 100,000 people that would have been spoken. The future of an entire people, and the carving and missing in the lives of the survivors of their dear ones.

We should mourn for the loss of these.