Thoughts: Cardboard Box Spaceships and Bob Dylan’s Hair

I wanna see the veins in the poplar’s leaves, four points pointing at me, stoic trees singing in the spring. UV dancing through the green tint, lost in all of it, like Calvin and Hobbes I need some stripes, a tail, and a cardboard box to travel this world, even if I have to make them up to make it all worth more.

Feet planted in the Rockies, “Laugh with me, buddy. Jest with me, buddy.” Just playing through my head. Thousands of feet above the sea, up in the air, through the pines, my God why can’t it always be like this!?

I forget about these moments, losing my imagination, wandering through my trials like I’m caught in some sort of trench. “Your pipes are frozen, by the way. A squirrel’s made his home in your ceiling, no sleep when there’s scuttling above your head. You needed to pay your rent last week, but all your bills come at the same time. But time’s not a thing you really have, work harder, damn it! Work that job you don’t feel competent at, slaving away as no one notices that you’re a drunk, drowning in the things you never wanted to become. YOU’RE NEVER ENOUGH!”

So I find myself singing Dustin Kensrue to get by, “It’s Not Enough” and it never will be. Yahweh won’t you find me and hold my hand for a bit? I’m tired of being plagued with these diseases that leave me drained and wondering if the air I’m breathing should be for someone else. Can we just have five minutes to sit and give it up? I know I don’t have the time, but maybe we can make it? I’ve got it all with me, it’s always in my head. Maybe you can take it for a summer, just one summer, that’d be grand. I could spend it in the Tetons or maybe Pugit Sound! I could take in everything with a new lens, see colors again, anything but gray.

I’m just a bit scared, you see, a friend of mine got choked out by your zealots and now you’re not real. But I can’t help but see your outline more clearly. Why is it that he can put his faith away and mine can’t be hidden?  I’m just a bit nervous, not that you’ll leave, but that you’ve become too real. I keep praying for joy and I’m afraid you’ll give it to me, like it’s Valentine’s Day and it’s a gift I knew I was getting but was surprised to receive wrapped in a heart shaped box.

I remember in the 4th grade I got an award for being optimistic, and to this day that’s the award I’m most proud of. I just want that to be real again. Jesus, can’t we be 10 once more, I know I left my joy there. I don’t want to be cynical anymore. I don’t want to have to worry about getting hurt, about waking up at 2am to anxiety attacks. Let me see this Great Cloud of Witnesses I’m surrounded by, I want to lay down this sin that clings so closely, it’s so heavy God!

I don’t have any endurance to run anymore.

So now I’m left with this heart-shaped box. I know what’s in there: joy and a deeper understanding of my faith. I’m afraid to open it because I’ve never known what that is. Every time I think I’m getting close to it, it’s taken back before I open it, or it’s one of those cans that explode into snakes, or there’s just nothing inside.

So could you help me open it, and could you stay for a while? Can we go on adventures and find out more about the things you’ve created? I really like this ribbon you’ve chosen, what’s this knot you’ve tied? I’m just trying to distract you from the fear I have for what’s inside. Can we write some songs about barn owls or about Bob Dylan’s hair? Maybe we can joke about the future, or about how bad horror movies are now. I’ll just shake the box a bit to feel the weight of what’s about to happen. I’m caught in this giddy state of brainstorming all the things that could make me happy, the longest Christmas Eve.

Maybe tomorrow will be Christmas, maybe it will be next week. All I know is I have the gift, I’ve already had a peek.

For the first time in a long time I’m excited about my life. I feel as if I am capable of being happy. It’s scary, and uncomfortable, but I’ve been waiting for so long. I hope this lasts for a while and I swear I’ll do what I can to get used to smiling. 

Seeing Self Regain “I”

Maybe it’s in a thicket of conifers, maybe an isle in the gulf, maybe in a bay window, sun-soaked yellowing pages provoked by thumb and index. Smudged hearts and streaks left from the Windex.

It’s so difficult to find joy. Under a rock,  perhaps hidden in some tea leaves; Earl Grey. 

Grey, grey, grey.

It’s the filter over your eyes, scales and veils, caught in Kansas with no Oz in sight. Left dreary and dreadful, with only cynical realism because these synapses hold Seratonin ransom like a POW in the Land of the Rising Sun.

But the sun never comes up. Caught in perpetual dawn, your whole earth groaning for the sunlight. Blades of grass and limbs of leaves stretching just to get a peek.

Even from the peaks, no light, no dark, just tepid glow. Knowing there’s good, so out of focus because of the bad. No lenses to change, shutter speed slowed to seizure.

Paralyzed.

Caught in a waltz of “I need to be heard” and “I won’t say a word” like a nun and a mime on a ballroom floor. It’s not gracing your ears like a dandelion in the wind, more like the incessant tapping of a pencil on a desk, an anxiety-ridden insomniac leads the cadence. It’s not so bad at first, but it sinks in to the bone, sucking you dry of happiness, no Patronus charm could fend off the horde.

I want to believe it will stop, I want to see the Reds and yellows, be a jolly fellow, greet each day with a warm ‘Hello’, a little Beethoven in the background on the cello. Like every moment a miracle given from Yahweh, so precious, so Crimson, so whole. The summer nights holding hands while the fireflies lit the fields, you tell me you love me and I believe that it’s true. Or those days by the beach when I made you that castle, I want to build you a kingdom, a Queen of the sea, shells in your hair and sand in your toes.

It’s not a matter of choosing light over dark. There isn’t choice with a grayscale voice. I wish it weren’t so, stuck here with my woe, when my woe won’t leave me be.

So Christ will the sun rise only in Japan, or can it rise for me? Where Joy can be a reality, and the woe plays a lesser role? Find time to find time in a busy heart? Your Lazarus witnessed the wrath and decay, but breathed fresh air with dead lungs. Your woman of Serene drew living water from a man with no shame. Your Judas let loose that silver and your Peter walked tall on your waves. 

Can I have a simple mind? It’d be just as much a miracle to me.

I know I frequent your ears with my breath stained of needs and wants. Crude and honest because I’m exasperated. Crude and honest because I hate who I am. Crude and honest because I know you don’t. Maybe some day I’ll see your hand guiding me. Maybe someday we’ll have more to talk about than my self-created, obsessive woes. Maybe someday you’ll convince me I am wanted.

Poetry: Romanticism in the Ordinary

Don’t treat me like the shores today. Can I be something more stable?  Not in pieces, thrown about by tides, crowned in seafoam.

Yeah, I’m always so beautiful when the sun sets on me. Yeah, I’m always so comfortable beneath your feet. But in the end you’ll turn again to your landlocked abode away from me.

I try to cling to any crevice I can fit. I just want to be so close to you, be with you wherever you sit. But I’m just too agitating to your pale skin, you’ll wash me away, down this drain of despair whilst you’re reading in your den.

Can I be your breath, or could I be the light? Something you can’t live without, allowing you to see the beauty in every day and night. Quite alright, the thought of being in your lungs, where I’ll hang on your every word from the tip of your tongue.

Maybe just a blanket and a bed. Providing you with comfort, shelter, safety, a place to lay your head. So precious with it’s dreams and visions, caught between REM and bliss we could kiss and laugh our day away.

I could be your foothold and get your through this climb of memories and hours we call life. We’re always expecting so much more, some adventure, some caper to whisk us away so reality isn’t as real. But love isn’t found in coves on the Gallapagos, on beaches by the coast.

Find it in someone’s eyes and find it in their hands. Find it in the way they laugh or the way they make demands. It’s in the crinkling of a nose, a freckle on the cheek, I promise you, I’ll prove it to you when we meet.

I just need a love that wants to hold hands in the sun, walk creek beds in the summer, drink a beer, take a run. I don’t want to find you in the extraordinary, that’s not where you are, it’s who you are.

So when we meet just know one thing, I will do everything in my power to let you know you’re lovely, to let you know you’re gorgeous, to let you know I’m whole.

Thoughts: Yahweh; The Night We Made You Lowercase

A letter with sincerest intent,

Man of Sorrows whose sorrows I have created, free me from this addiction that cannot be sated. A thirst so great with no well deep enough, let alone something to draw with.

I never knew something that was forced upon me would create such disdain, such a stain, like Merlot spilt on the white shirt of my brain.

“Could you pass the club soda? What’s the use, it’s already soiled.”

So I’m left to cope.

Sometimes I search you with bitterness, and sometimes with doubt, sometimes shrinking back at your clout, others ending with a shout, “Why can’t I find joy in you? Why can’t I be whole? Won’t you save me from your daughters? Won’t you save me from the things that I have made of them?”

Lilith, you spoke the stain upon Eve, conceiving the grieving of my Father’s spirit. Hear it and wail like my heart when something as small as a 4 inch screen can be my downfall.

mon cœur ravagé par le péché.

mes mains tachées de désirs trouvés entre les draps.

How do you cut out a sin so deep? How do you stop what’s natural? I’ve heard the clichés. That’s all there ever is.

How do I find wholeness in you when no one wants to be real? Their every answer primed with church pew lacquer. Understanding as thin as the pages they base their life on.

Sometimes I am ashamed to call them brother and sister. Sometimes I’m ashamed of me. Sometimes I’m ashamed of you.

Lord whose name do I bear and wear it? Can it be yours? It’s not like this one they speak of here. That one is faint, passed through tongue and cheek like a whore. I just want your name to mean what it really means. Can it be more solid in my life? I see you in books, praised over laté meetings through coffee stained ivory, sung over generic keys of C and E, on bumper stickers, tee shirts, and decorative wall lettering.

Lord, when did you become a statuette? When did you become an ideal? I’m tired of holding my questions behind my teeth. I’m tired of keeping things just beneath.

How do I make you real again, in a world of handshakes and how-do-you-dos? Where the church gets to create a mold of your image, selling it in bulk.

YOU’RE NOT JUST ONE THING!

I can’t see the Grace in your wife anymore. Isaiah, when Christ touched that coal to your lips did you know you would utter my destruction? Did you know the Creation would groan in this way? Where Yahweh’s temple would become a place to find a mate and nothing more.

Yes Lord, I’m bitter.

It’s because I’ve kept quiet for so long, allowing my heart to rot along with your body. I am vulgar at times, I am prideful.

I am broken.

“My heartache is as yours. Why do you believe I stand apart from this pain? You cause me grief as much as the next, do I love you any less?”

I have this groaning in my being, I don’t want to settle for what this world is presenting. I’m uncomfortable, itching in my own skin. When you calmed the seas and sighed,”Oh you of little faith.” Did you know you were speaking to me?

I don’t understand but I wish to. Please help me understand this burning and why the pain is necessary. Manifest in me your manifest destiny.

Poetry: The Night I Sang My Prayer

In the kitchen one day, swooning over my past.
The reminiscence of regrets regurgitated from my heart.
Between thumps the bumps in my road I can’t avoid.
It’s all gravel now.
Broken to pieces, dust in the air.
It’s a gavel now.
Self-conscious, I’m not fair with the way I view myself.

So a thought it crept and a song it leapt from my heart into my tongue
From across the room my hearts impending doom is what I had sung.

Bereft of embarrassment of humility at the throne bending low every aching bone for solace from every sigh and moan my lungs had blown of feeling alone, bleeding for the grace you’ve shown.

“I thought I wanted you, but it was only redemption I sought. The fear of being myself, being left with naught. Of feeling sorrow for never doing what I ought. Spitting on every soul you ever bought.

You were supposed to fix me…

I didn’t want a love affair

You were supposed to heal me….”

Thus from my lips it did depart, that I wanted my God for His power and promises. Singing “fix me”, “I need you”, “take it away” in the Key of C, such abysmal pleas in the happiest Key there could ever be.

Sitting in a silence after my melody, realizing my fault in my tepid honesty, that God was only God, some far off concept all stars and nebulas.

Well Yahweh, why’d you let me do this to you, shrink you down, dull you to a more tolerable hue, watered you down so you were easier to chew.

Why’d you let me take that first bite?
Take my fork! Take my spoon!
Take my teeth if it were needed!

“You’re bull-headed, my son, and I needed you to see that there is only room for you and none for me. I know this life’s been painful and I know the breaks aren’t clean, but without them you never would have seen that you only needed me to preen your image and not your soul. See that I am existing, see that I am whole.”

I forgot you were real once because I remembered me, glad you still love me with my fleeting memory.

Poetry: Midwest Reflections In a Seaside Mind

I had a thought today, and it wasn’t new. They’re always there and never few.

My margins have been shrinking from closets to cabinets to crevices too small to breathe in.  There aren’t enough folds to be made in these paper lungs to fit.  No space to expand, just close walls and stale air.

That’s where I find myself when on these drives.  The brisk gusts lose their bite, the drone of the rubber on road becomes a dirge. “Oh grave where is thy victory?”

In my heart.

These mid-west highways haven’t been home for ages.  Hills like headstones, trees a bouquet from a past lover.  The rocks cry out, “Here lies your future, you gave up on it long ago.”

But I tried to keep it alive, I tried to feed it daily, but three square meals gets lofty when you can’t make ends-meat.