I'd be in stitches if this wasn't so serious. If both of us weren't bursting at the seams. I'm glad your Grandmother taught you how to sew so we can stitch ourselves back right and good and whole.
Tonight we sing.
Our God is love so tonight we sing
to the King of every king
who brings dead things back to life
speaking inextinguishable light into darkness.
He claims victory over sin and death and fear.
Fear is afraid in His presence
but we can draw near and sing!
We, the redeemed,
bringing our thanks to the Father
who sent The Son of God to become
The Son of Man so that
the sons of men could become
sons of God through Him who sits at the right hand of all
honor and power and might.
Tonight we sing because we can't stay quiet
about what we have seen and what He has done,
how He reigns and how He has won.
Tonight we sing to bless The Lord and His due renown,
resounding praise from the tops of buildings
and the tops of lungs,
joining choruses ever-sung by all creation to the glorious One.
God victorious is our strength and song,
and so tonight we sing strong
for His glory,
and His fame,
for His kingdom,
and His holy name.
All hail the never-failing God of Victory,
forever veiling the sins of those who prevail in Him.
A Conversation I Can't Seem to Wrap My Head Around
Started September 8th, 2005 - Finished (appropriately enough) March 29th, 2008
In the beginning was the Word
and the Word was with God
and the Word was God.
So what's the word, God?
I'm all ears, all eyes are on You.
I want wishful words to will worlds into being
but for the time being I'm not seeing You.
So say something or give me some thing to say.
You know They?
Well, They say 60 to 70% of conversations
are non-verbal, but I wonder if they need to;
It's not like words are this non-hurdle that we don't need to talk through.
I need words to walk with You.
Words like "In The Beginning"
when the genesis of things was they were never ending.
Now I'm pretending not to mind
not knowing the mind of God
knowing God minds this business of knowing me.
But God doesn't mind His business
because His business is every thing.
So everything minds God in time
reminding me I want such better words, but mine just run in place.
Maybe if I could just see God's face I could learn to read His lips
and turn a whole generation onto a new kind of hermeneutics
where we interpret words from on high by parsing phrasing from the sky.
But I don't need new words, I need to go back to the beginning
when the word was
and the word was with and if
this is true then how am I going to talk to You?
I need a brand new alphabet.
A hand-hewn Alpha through Omega yet
my letters can't see the beginning or the end.
Climbing ladders to the ceiling of the world
to watch comets bend around Your will
still doesn't let me see the first or the last.
Maybe You could let me be
the first of Yours to cast each phrase
into the black in praise
because they can't sum You up
and so I'll simply give them up
if You'll teach me how to talk to You.
I don't know how to pray, do You?
I don't know how to say, "I'm too weak to talk this true"
except to say I'm all out of empty words.
I beg God to let me take part in His conversational story
and He tells me to take heart in His incarnational glory
because in the end is the Word
and the Word is with God
and the Word is God.
So God wills the Word into the empty world
and the when the Word comes back for me,
God speaks back to me.
My Father works with his hands and it shows.
He knows how to grow whole buildings from the ground.
Structurally sound memories for the masses
pass less for wood and metal and more for
what's in-store.
When I was old enough to swing a hammer
he taught my how to drive
nails into boards
into walls that lined halls
that made houses
and so I learned that worthwhile things
are often built by the hands of honorable men.
He sweated work ethic
and so every time he hugged me
he got a little on me
so eventually it soaked through me
and now I feel bad if I sleep past 10
knowing the old man's already kicking my butt
before my feet touch the floor.
Who have I become?
I am my father's son
and I've got to tell you
I'm damn proud of that one.
I'll put it on business cards
three yards wide
just so people at parties
will remember me for something worthwhile
(even if they have trouble fitting in their cab
wielding a 9' business card
and the best party anecdote of the season.)
I'm killing time. I took a knife and murdered it
in bite-sized pieces too small to see
(or miss
once they're gone.)
I'd read the eulogy but I admit
I didn't know her all that well.
We were passing by in the night
like strangers waiting on delayed flights
browsing airport knickknacks and magazine racks.
While time flies by.
I show up early for departure but miss my flight.
I miss time.
I remember when we stayed up late
and she painted my feet with wheat paste and yeast
so every step I took left a trail of breadcrumbs
when I would rise and walk,
following that trail home to the sounds
of minute hands striking up
minute bands
who play psalms in reverse,
counting down to the beginning.
When I wasn't killing time
I was loving her.
And we had dreams.
We wanted to imagine ourselves as fearless warriors
but we turned out to be peerless worriers.
Reluctantly I put my money where my mouth is
and start talking green,
sprouting seeds. Tulip bulbs
light up my speech
teaching children to stop and
smell the flowers
because timely words are sunlight hours
bringing this garden back to life.
Words decorated with leaves, trees
bearing fruit in season - and out.
There are no seasons now, only daylight
and greenery.
Speaking flora, more a chance to live
this flowery language growing up in me.
and I am restless but barely awake
wondering which drugs I should take to
fall asleep or fall awake
make me eat breakfast in bed
and I'll consume the sun
so it burns me into something
like I'm living.
Rays of natural light my room and
suburban Texan streets
are rivers of unending tactile warmth
glowing hot
not burning bright
quite yet
cinders spitting embers
into a 100 degree night
for the air to gorge itself and grow fat and heavy on
the spies of flames that cannot last.
So dies the names of fires past.
This last supper fast approaching
a tragic end
and
a blinding rebirth.
After all,
graves are only doors to another room
and we're all after a change of scenery.
I'll let you in on a secret...
mountains step aside for you
if
you look like you know where you're going.
Look at how they're all un-growing
shrinking down, they're all plateauing
sinking low to easy going footing for us now.
I'd be in stitches if this wasn't so serious.
If both of us weren't bursting at the seams.
I'm glad your Grandmother taught you how to sew
so we can stitch ourselves back right
and good and whole.
New wine skins to hold new
everything.
But I need a gateway to start this journey.
One with seas on either side
giving new meaning to rising tide
infinitely up like shimmering skyscrapers
wetting the feet of angels
while The Way spills out in front of me.
Dry ground gives way to high ground
and the view from here is worth the wait.
I am restless but barely awake, ever awaiting
a blinding rebirth
You married your dreams in a shotgun wedding consummated before its time;
the bride pregnant with possibilities that never came to be.
You wonder why she stays out all hours of the night
summoning her powers of flight
dodging midnight showers that might
dampen her wings,
but not her resolve.
You think she's leaving you.
You're sweating through your clothes.
You went flashlight searching but lost her in the shallows.
You're only soaked to your ankles but you feel like you're drowning.
Your dreams are somewhere else giving birth,
the baby's head is crowning
a new king
enthroned in red clay and tobacco leaves,
lemonade and hurricane breeze
smelling like honeysuckle and the first days of spring.
Smelling like rain.
A new kingdom and country for this reign to bring
peace to someone,
but that someone's not you.
It's not too late to woo that love who's flown from you.
She hasn't given up on you.
Dreams are eternal,
they are ancient,
scrawled on pyramid walls and monastery basements
untouched by greed and monetary debasement.
Permanent placement in you
to dare to dream to be
more
than everything that you have seen.
Give me a bull horn
and I'll shout the truth
and gorge the matador.
That devil's held the cape over our eyes for too long
so all we see is red.
We are shells of what once was could be.
Vicious cycles are pouring over me.
Lies we believe are roaring over me,
drowning out my speech
like sorcerers who know the universe was built with words
and if you control words
you can make the universe whatever you wish it to be.
So they cast spells to make us misbelieve.
But they're not fooling me.
I'll just talk louder.
My voice hoarse,
galloping across the plains
delivering letters signed with the blood of martyrs
and the faith of fathers.
You're standing on their dreams.
They hold you up.
They are greater than words because they have audience at the throne.
Pick up the phone and whisper in my ear
a new language,
new words,
new pages,
new letters for new sages,
new prophets for dark ages
and speak. Give voice to dreams in deep inside of you
until someone breaks the code and we have to learn how to speak
anew
again, and again, and again.
New language,
new words,
new pages,
new letters for new sages,
playwrights furiously scribbling new plays for new stages.
Giving us the keys to unlock rib cages
and set hearts free
to dare
to dream
to be more.
The radio waves me down and
I hear someone singing
"Things aren't how they're supposed to be."
This is no big mystery,
I was born with that sort of revelation in me.
Lips still wet with a taste of fruit
never meant to touch them.
Now life and death
breathe first and last breath,
please take what little life is left
in my eyes
back.
They see too real.
I am longing for something simple.
Innocent, in a sense.
I am echoing repentance You've heard (it all) before,
fraudulent nectar breath
hushed lips
fearful
that someone will find me out.
We used to build cathedrals to reach God,
now we build buildings to be god;
but that's not your throne to rule from,
this isn't some fight He's flown from.
Are we so quick to forget where we come from?
Fruit just out of reach tastes twice as sweet,
making us elite, knowing good and evil.
How the one makes its home in me,
but it's not the one I want to be.
Can we stop and rewind this eternity?
Put the fruit back on the empty tree?
Seedlings sprouting forests on
new fertile plains
where we can lulluby the
cradle of civilization back to sleep,
away from the noise and the city
and the lonely and the crowd
and the whatever built walls separating You and I.
No matter how fast I run, I can't get past
our past.
It colors my present, prophesying
a kaleidoscope of futures
casting every color across the horizon
in beautiful broken hues
and I'm still running.
Taking cues from the sky, I stretch wide, shine bright,
and pour myself at the feet of God
in some new way that causes passersby to stop in their tracks,
mouths open in packs,
masses broken at last
because You walk through walls separating You and I.
And You talk after all,
despite how Your critics lie.
These radio waves speak truth when they sing
"Things aren't how they're supposed to be."
But don't look to me to fix them,
this is not my throne to rule from.
I'm not prone to trust anyone
except God,
who all things receive from.
And if you want words from the sky
you might just get some,
but I wonder if you'll like what you hear?
I fear i'm too easily pleased with the way
that first fruit eased into my hand,
across my lips.
down my throat,
and consumed me.
Things aren't what they're supposed to be
but it's not You, it's me.
So change me.
Oh my God, oh my heart.
I need posture so I can stand to
start to walk this narrow
I'm wishing was ever-wide.
Marrow-deep i'm soaked with a starlet's pride,
sly vanity
parading around
waiting for congratulations.
I've fallen down enough to think that
this is how i'm meant to be.
Only,
You own me and I thought that made me free?
Maybe i'm living the in-between in reverse.
Giving into the machine and now i'm cursed
and so obscene that i'm well rehearsed
for the part i'm playing now.
I'm drinking deep of the things that swallow me.
I miss you,
oh my God, oh my heart;
I miss you.
I'm tired of my blacktop heart
feeling chop-shop, spare part
love.
I need posture so I can stand to
start to live this art painting me
with heat marks
from the One who invented light
being inside wanting
to be outside crashing
into you and I.
Just so there's no confusion,
i'm not mad.
And i'm not black.
And i'm not a woman.
And I didn't grow up on the streets.
All that being said,
i'm not even sure if I can actually BE a poet.
All the hip poets these days seem to be mad.
Or black.
Or women.
Or they grew up on the streets.
Or they're mad, black, women who grew up on the streets
and HOW CAN I COMPETE WITH THAT?
It's fairly apparent that
the only streets I live on
have immaculately manicured lawns
and perfectly repetitive mailboxes lined up like pawns
in some sick, suburban chess match
where the King and Queen don't so much
move around the board
as they simply catch you off guard
knocking on the door with
"Welcome to the neighborhood!"
and
"We baked you cookies!"
(NOT that i'm complaining)
But i'm guessing all the
mad, black, women poets who grew up on the streets
just shake their collective heads at me
because i'm a minivan and a family away from being a
soccer dad
and i'm pretty sure that
no one
with one of those stupid, soccer ball shaped magnets
adorning their main mode of transportation
can actually be a poet.
What I need
is some drama.
Dramatically unfolding events i'm told
inspire line after line of poetic discourse
forcing fists to raise unconsciously
and strike nerves
and resonate in the hearts of all the
mad, black, women poets who grew up on the streets
not understanding me
not understanding them
because I didn't grow up on the streets
and i'm not a woman
and i'm not black
and i'm not mad
(just so there's no confusion)
Bend an ear to listen to the refrain.
The chemical chain reaction
blending sounds to fever pitch.
I don't know about you,
but I get rich quick every time
I hear a slick tune.
Hysterical, lyrical, magical notes
spoon feed me swoon
weaving tension in the air
like humidity
and i'm unaware of another drug.
That goes to my head so
quickly
i'm lovesick me.
For this rhythm to kiss my lips
hips shake in real time.
And I lose the ability to
keep my neck from robbing my body of my head
bobbing clean off into the atmosphere
where I hear heavenly sounds
that ruffle the feathers of angels
angling their ears down
to hear the song i'm so sold on.
Such sweet sounds of living,
giving riveted crowds the night
after night
after night
of their life.
The wife of a lover endlessly inspired by
the muse
of the wire connecting strings and keys
and you and me
and drums and chords and i'm struck dumb
by the melody of the metaphor.
Music moves me.
Grooves me.
Each note singing down my throat
keeps me warm.
The swarm of fuzz buzzing
from the faces of 1,000 vintage amps
10,000 watts of electric ladyland lamps
light the way
for epic solos wailing their way into rock n' roll history.
Music is the mystery
of what a woman singing does to me.
Sister sun shining light like
diamonds
wedding me to every word and phrase
and time she praises life
just by singing it.
With vocal chords lifelining me
I broadcast shadows on the sun
when I dream so bright.
Music is the fight of hammers on strings
bringing piano keys to back life.
Life pumping blood and oxygen and stereo speakers like music.
The crash of cymbals so sexy
symbolizing
the clash of everyone into everyone.
Bring that beat back with a
hi-hat snare
kick kick kick drum
sick fill from
tom tom tommy gun
and the best rimshot
the world has ever heard
and you'll hear applause so loud it wakes up Adam and keeps time with his rib.
From heavy metal feedback
to smooth jazz weather channel muzak
it's the sage advice of elder age
and
the roll of the dice of
pure punk rebellion.
From the womb to the tomb
you've memorized a soundtrack
to live your life crowned that
king or queen renowned back when
music was a backbeat strong like memory;
like smell.
Telling tall tale set lists
of the sound of your very first kiss.
Late night revelations
with the best friends you never had.
A beat so bad
it changes the way you walk for a week.
Melody so contagious the rhythm of how you talk ages
to take the shape of the soundscape of multiple major scales.
Music never fails to
make me make faces
so ugly
you know it must be good.
We wave lighters to pied pipers,
snake charmers,
barn burners.
Turn that beat around
and you've got me locked in tight
with drums dripping groove so thick
my biological clock just might skip
and hour or
2/4, 3/4, encore.
I could live in the spaces between
music on stages.
Those pauses like pages from a novel unfolding
the bestseller killer ending where
quarter notes cut the beat in half
and get away with murder.
Not getting caught in that snare,
snare, hi-hat, kick my ass
tripping down the stairs of a
backwards beat to meet
music
all over again
and find myself back
on the one.
We were born in a time beyond time.
We were born in the mind of God, so
we were born in a time before time.
Previous to the dust of stars
we were made before Mars was a twinkle in God's eye;
before million-mile rings went twirling by
only to be caught in the arms of Jupiter.
We will outlast those two
and the rest of the brothers nine
to watch the chest of the sun collapse upon itself
and take with it time
and day and night
and every measuring tool we used
to quantify...
What did we call it again?
Back when there was a word for the space
between one point and another?
Before we watched each solar system's stars
fall in on one another?
Now there's no more dividing rods,
everywhere is God,
everywhere is God,
and everything is now.
Now is all there is
in the mind of God because
now is eternity
and then is eternity. And
when is eternity?
Eternity is now.
We were not born to burn out bright.
We were reborn through the firstborn of the wedding night
of God and God and God.
Everywhere is God,
everywhere is God,
and every when is now.
When I write
I am drawing from the past,
thawing out the now,
and clawing towards the future;
sawing through these sutures that they tell me
were sewn in place
for my own protection from my own passion
from some real connection with who i'm supposed to be.
When I write
the groundspeed of this journey
Is picking up seeds and sprouting out creeds.
With every word tonight,
with every rhymed sound byte
where it's black and white versus real life
and they knife fight in-flight
from my heart to my head to my hand to my pen
and it feels so alive to write tension again.
When I write
I know I spent the last 3 years
fast rattling computer keys
that won't unlock the doors
that unleash the seas
of stars and suns and moons in 1,000 galaxies
like ours undone by tunes
that bring down fallacies.
When I write
I am drawing from the past:
sketch books and plaster casts,
etched hooks to catch the last
of the passionate parts of me.
When I write
I am thawing out the now:
mapping out new vows,
and thinning out the crowds
until it's just you and me.
When I write
I am clawing towards the future:
my not-yet-daughter and what I will teach her...
my not-yet-son and which ones of my features
I will hand him the day he greets the world.
When I write
I am the boy pining for the girl.
When I write
I am the sum of every song,
every right and every wrong,
every brush stroke painted on,
every strong oak and every poem.
I am the sum of every scene i've ever seen.
When I write
I am more than what you see.
I am soul that does not cease.
I am immortality.
And that soul cannot be seized.
And that soul cannot be seiged.
I am old in how I see,
rooted deep like Joshua Trees
with outstretched arms and sword-shaped leaves,
I am Adam Longing for Eve.
When I write
I am drawing from the past,
thawing out the now,
and clawing towards the future.
And what I write
is like fire shut up in my bones so
when I write I know
I'm not my own.
I smiled and read the menu
even though I know exactly what i'll order
because men like me never change.
But men like him change
from college kids clutching fraternity bids
into suits and ties
revolving their world around what they buy;
thinking they'll be the one guy to paraphrase
the mystery of the billions of emotions
exploding feminine history.
So I let him talk,
and I smile and nod,
and he goes on and on
and on
while I scribble haiku about
the mystery of you
on lonely paper napkins.
No one cares about words these days.
Words are out of work.
Out of luck.
Out on the streets begging for spare change
Or something to eat,
Panhandling in motel alleys,
Vigil-candling in protest rallies,
And generally marching in circles
To their own funeral beat.
But at least they're doing something while meaning sleeps.
Hushed and hibernating in boxes,
For 40 years in deserts concocted,
By oily gears turned
To them locked in
Like a remnant of dissonant dregs.
It begs the question,
"Do my words have legs?"
Can they up and saunter and sway
Or are they D.O.A.?
Their DNA just
Falling prey to another day
Where no one says what they mean
And no one means what they say
And nothing rings quite true like it used to it seems.
I want to speak, but i'm scared
That I don't have anything to say.
I forget the exact latitude and longitude of where we lost them...
Where meanings were stolen from words
For the ransom of forgetting where they came from.
And then those words were placed in lines
To be assigned new meanings more in step with these plural times.
You see? That's the problem with symbols...
We create them, and then we forget what they mean.
And so we leave ourselves to run this machine
And make meaning
In our own image
And duality.
I want to speak, but i'm scared
That I don't have anything to say.
I've got a chip on my shoulder but I pray
It's just another chunk of my walls giving way,
Making way for words to say
Something serious,
Architecting interconnecting conversations between the two of us.
And maybe we can take these reins
And drive this atmosphere
To find the true north of language
We're dying to hear?
Articulating rhymes that tickle the ears
Of everyone who thought Truth meant well,
But just couldn't hack it
In a sales career.
And if that's you,
Then i'd check under your skin
Because words slip past your cortex
And your heart lets them in.
And while you're wrapping your arteries
Around every single line
They bypass your reason and climb up inside.
So it's time to confess
That your last line of defense
Is defenseless
Against this.
Because words do not belong
To the ones who are speaking them;
Words were world's foundations
Under streams that are seeping them.
And life and death rest
On the tongues of men
Who speak and change history
In this mystery we're walking in.
So talking men do not want
For words that are not their own;
They know words were the stitching with which they were sewn.
And my bones move so swift
To jump in this fray
That i'll hone these two fists to fight
In subversive ways.
To write in half-cursive praise.
To pour out my heart
In stacks on stack on stacks of essays.
To wear ruts in my floor
Searching for that perfect phrase.
To see empires razed.
To see empires raised.
To write poems that play out like plays
Where the actors are hearts
And those hearts are ablaze.
Because the truth is...
The Truth is.
And I don't want to speak
Because I invented the notion,
I want to speak because words put Eden in motion.
And it is written into the very depths
Of every part of me,
It was penned by the artist who was
The start of me.
And where He is, Truth is,
And where Truth is, Meaning is,
And where Meaning is,
Is where I want to be.
Writing the most beautiful poetry
Where when I want to speak
The words flow out so eloquently,
Where I open my lips
To have whole townships rebelling with me.
Ringing church bells like death knells
For what passes for reason in this season of hell.
Because words were from the beginning
When God in thirds set this world spinning
And breathed out life to start everything living
And shouting and singing
And loving ad libbing.
I want to speak
So I can sneak inside your heart
To find every lie you believe and rip each one apart
Until we all see the line between
The light and the dark
And we finally have something to say.