prayers still make good campfire stories

tonight we begin to learn the science of God

10 commandments as translated by Sir Isaac Newton

the two huddled across a fire and finishing each other’s sentences like

“faith of the matter is…” and “matters of love require facts”

elemental passion and burning selflessness

like two kids huddled over a chemistry set

Law 1: “for every action

there is an equal and opposite reaction”

so stop being catalysts

laying amidst turmoil

coming out unchanged

learn to burn self

come on in

get warm

grab a seat by the fire

maybe it will catch

Isaac’s still kinda hazy on the plan

“i’m nervous. past tense

thinkin’ about where we’re headed

agape doesn’t pull like gravity.

not quite like it used to”

Almighty answers

“I still do” and proceeds to pray

“My children who art on Earth…”

recall,

I fashioned up mountains in a gesture

burgeoned trees in a breath

and cultivated land in a moment’s nictate

all to have it swallowed by faultlines

burned to ashes and blown away by the wind

yet I move before you in whispers

I urge you listen.

I move through forces of nature

without forcing my nature

by the looks of things

you’ve taken that cross upon yourself

slow to listen, quick to speak

toxic sustenance, and spin that I AM into

My name in vain insertion

not slowly dripping with disdain

force-fed with pain

full squeezes of scripture

from tongues of the righteous

all done in My name.

all three of Me.

amen.

a man

left to spill over what was

right fully His seated like glory

a love overturning for this

world turning

that HEma

globin spinnin

and spurted out in the outline of the Philippines

rollin down these arms, catch, drip

and pooled into the shape of Africa

we have continents at our fingertips

Pangaea parlance broken down into 2,287 languages

yet still haven’t learned to poorly piece them back together in

vernacular of spiritually illiterate

“My children who art on Earth…”

I’ve become sick with our standard of living

vomiting projectile Pollocks of dreams of

my best intentions

dry heave these contractions of castles in air

of heirs of a greater tomorrow

seize up until there’s nothing left

but residue on my lips and all I can do is

spit the truth

I stopped going to church because I’m cynical of the synagogue

tired of watching women and children be beat

so I drop a new one

I over turntables

and I overturn tables

spilling coin phrases of

reverence for business

like building New Edens

for only half of you

lynching another’s lineage

from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil

left Holliday singin about Strange Fruit

like gambling souls,

selling shit for truth, and

catching diseases of identity crisis

this is not what I made you for.

have you forgotten who you are?

I wrote it down for you.

read up

into my eyes

‘cause I see clearly

I know who I AM

I AM

Jehovah Shammah

Jehovah Shalom

Jehovah Rophe

Jireh

Mekeddeshem

Rohi

Nissi

Sabaoth

Tsidkenu

I burn for you. like a monk

silent, on fire

I ignite to protest. profess

love. I AM.

I AM Present. bring you Peace. Heal with words. Provide, especially through Sanctity. Shepherd you

I warn you of sheep who act as wolves

dressed in black ties and

equipped with 66 leather bound books

they use as baseball bats

and home plate pulpits

if they’re not swingin

they’re carrying around measuring tape

comparing you with their “me”

sizing up

measuring your in seam

to see if you’re tailored

to shoulder unwanted burdens

don’t you dare follow

suit

“My children who art on Earth…”

minds created as time machines

gliding over the

past searching the present

into futures of

local horizons lined with elegant promissory notes

written In a dialect of prayer and surrender

empty pews exhausted to

fill street corners to

build corner stones

laid for altars or beds

whatever helps you sleep at night

this is how we build the new church

break hearts like bread

Last Supper toast to gravity

let’s fall for each other again.

until then, I still Am.

amen.

tossing leaves

brown parcels rattling

like silverware drawers of

forks and spoons used to feed the

dreams and aspirations of nations

and kings yet developed

packaged and stamped and

bouncing around in the back of The Spirit’s chariot

Elijah’s ridin’ shotgun

little Shelby opens to the Knox

of the door

Spirit hands her a box marked

“Fragile”

smiles, signs her life on the dotted line

courier ghost winks

elijah waves from the passenger seat of the chariot

and ascended off to … wherever?

present opened a bit too hastily like

December 22^nd mornings

found tags wrapped round a hammer and box of

nails labeled “trust”

with instructions that read:

“Dear Shelby,
Thought you might like these. They’ve only been used once and that’s why they’re here for you. They’re what held us together, they make us one. One day you’ll use them to build a manor. You’ll throw parties with many dinner guests. You’ll meet the love of your life. Use these to build a lattice for your love. Use them wisely. Enjoy.

-Abba”

tentatively she hammers out prayers of iron and galvanized

security

driving her points into people that really matter most

pouring concrete morals for restitution of unfounded ideals

laid out by her peers

and peers into the existence she plans will soon lie beyond

the reaches of a builders swing

and hammers her wings, riding air currents

carrying her up over futile towers of Babel

she can’t quite see heaven yet.

she’s content with her manor.

sturdy walls rise up built of matriarchal generations willing to

give up their last name

like we all give up our last breath

it’s tradition.

she calls it trust.

books of a canopy spanning the expanse of

all she’d hope to see

so she can look up at night and read

the possibilities that might come with tomorrow.

her manor complete.

minus one nail.

in due course she drops it at the corner pawn shop parish

for a ring marked “My Mind’s Stayin’ Open”.

broker Yahweh manages a nervous sigh.

7 parties into prophecy she finds Love

to give her a new last name

she says she can finally be proud of

swaps “Open-Mindedness” with Love while

dinner guests rattle out hollow prayers

like silverware or unused boxes of rusting “I Just Can’t Yet”.

this here’s a celebration.

7 years into prophecy she finds “The Hollow”

bent out of shape

placed in her hand by Love

whose “Heart was left open”

blinding-hot, burning outlines like

guidelines for inserting trust into her hand.

this here’s reeducation.

erudition in surrender

what we all call tradition

she falls from braches with the rest of the autumn leaves

and the Savior tries to re-attach them

scrambles to catch her as she falls

but slips through the holes made by trusting

and autumn leaves winter to leave branches trembling

bronchiole pain branches out in dizzying colors

that remind her of childhood carousels

like we all used to exhale laughs

she exhales silent words she never realized

she still had them

and let’s them hang in the air

dangling high above surrender’s reach

as she lands gently atop a pile of dried peers

each with a blank-page canopy

rebirth like little boys excitement

and tossed into heaven

over towers of Babel and

towers before the Trinity

faced with apologies she uses surrender as a step-ladder

reaches for her words she hung in thin air

and turning her palms outward

tears caressing a quivering smile

like a Savior she says, “I have learned to trust too.”

atomic fireballs

the future looks brilliant

so long

as we’re writing it.

happy to squint or

wear those sun shades proudly

and let them slip down over my eyeful

tower of thoughts and rest

on my noscapine intake bridge

danglin over the edge

to waters and affluent waves of argot.

but so often we don’t.

wind up fallin asleep behind the shades.

make excuses about not having sharpened time pencils

ennui of tappin’ away at the

keys to havin’ a good life

content with being stuck in the cracks of the present

inside the lines

becoming stencils of who we were.

face in hands

squatting on the corner

of our writers block

cause the hands can’t seem to face

the problem.

if we just listened to the hushed advice

of our imminent selves

we would look to our childhood.

they tell us

just right.

back when we didn’t have to worry about writers

block

cause we played with that shit like legos.

they tell us "just write".

whether indigo soot acrobatics

or keypad tap

dancers scribe,

makes no difference

native or foreign prints

and projector screens still move like Elijah’s scrolls.

mount carmel apples on a stick

and regress me

back

to shopping cart

backs

and riding baskets

down the aisles, arms spread

grabbing fruit roll-ups, snatchin’ bread on a

skid.

just us kids.

back when my laugh sang

a song of its own.

a song called home

home.

i knew it then.

knew it when

the neighbors patio patois played

radio hits of hearsay and pipe tobacco

smoke so loud the earth had no choice

but to sigh and harmonize

(she’s got quite a set of pipes, by the way).

sinfonietta strings of cricket legs

and cicada wings

made Tchaikovsky color with green crayons

so people wouldn’t notice

the color of his heart.

knew it when the back

screen door would fling

open wide and snap

shut

like a fly swatter on my dreams

and you would be there

to mop up the guts

holding a new set of wings that

said “let’s go for a truck ride”.

nose high to the dashboard and dash

for the fireballs in my pocket.

nose high.

(back from the candyman)

555-year-olds drug fix.

no seatbelt, so I’m wild like

Indiana Jones wind whipping

through my hair.

cause the windows are down,

and so are mine.

i keep them folded

this street of ticking gold

watches the winos pass

out like a light under

hazy lights breathing down

on a bed of asphalt and red confetti

for bed sheets.

said “it isn’t your fault

the celebration passes quickly.”

said “just be thankful for what’s left.”

 

this is all that’s left:

broken neck-

ties of jubilance,

a smirk, second

glance at the door I came in.

it’s cold out.

 

it’s cold out

there you know, and

though I’d rather not freeze,

if turning up the heat in here is going to cost

my heart

again,

I’d just as soon watch my breath

embrace me

like you used to.

 

fractal ice flakes spill down

as drips from an overturned bucket of

paint. colors of remarkable beauty.

and see, they never grow faint,

but see,

they never grow.

liberated, dissipated, and not

one

ever wasted.

each the only one of its kind.

they speak of your beauty,

but I see the “you” in me.

and as we are mutual beings,

we know, therefore

we see through.

we see.

see the truth…

…lonely.

 

I’ve lost the words to speak,

so I’m forced to resonate in refrains of silence.

ya see, I’m not mute.

just burned my tongue

on a tall cup of molten limestone and carbon

fuel

and poured it out

to fuel the smelting of the

INNER ME

from the

I AM,

and I AM no longer

ME.

gave my heart and voice up for some wings.

and hot second servings only cost a helping hand,

not a heart.

still, I think

I’ll pass.

if anyone needs a hand

now, it’s me.

can’t seem to get this moth-man mentality

out of my head,

and seeing around that

light is no easy task.

am I that oblivious to my dilemma magnetism,

or is this thing stalking me?

hope I figure it out soon,

because I have a splitting headache,

and my nose is pretty damn flat.

singed

wings or not, I can’t hold up

flying in these conditions for long.

too bad insight doesn’t come

too quickly

to us insects; we might have a thing

or two

to show the world.

seems that I held a

two-card hand there:

“metamorphosis”

and “shit-out-of-luck”.

doing my best to ignore these

flashing green and red

dots in my eyelids, I think

back to that vexed day. 

there

I chose my revolution.

and yes, it did revolve.

spinning

like a little boy slingin’ his yo-yo-YOU

until the string snaps.

and no, no you can’t just wind it back up.

wind back up the silken string to

my karma

cocoon. and couldn’t move,

until now.

and now I reunite with what I lost,

grabbin’ his hand so he won’t be lost.

“look here, kid.

these wings are splendors

hidden pitfall.

We (you) were orphaned

there.

here’s some string…just,

please,

use it for your yo-yo.”

 

I’m pretty tired,

sitting here with you

all, my friends.

yes, sitting near, but

just sitting.

wish I could say nothing

warmed my heart more,

but I’m torn.

I could be flyin’, but the sky isn’t my home.

sure as the sun,

my blood still pumps love

for you…

...just not as well as it used to.

had a stroke (of bad luck),

and could use a (time) bypass,

cause my heart is in the past.

and your look says this isn’t my home either.

 

driving home doesn’t

fare well

though, cause my windows are fogged,

and I can’t see for anything.

swerved to miss our car wreck, and almost did.

and here I go again with the revolution.

spinning slow, out of control.

criminal, cause I break the laws,

even gravity.

not proud of these wings, so

I keep them folded.

screamed our names but choked on silence.

so twisted metal speaks for me.

 

this street of ticking gold

watches life shift like a street

light in the wind,

winds that used to carry me to wherever I chose,

but I’m lost again.

in a maze of warped wheels and headlights

breathing down on a bed of asphalt and red

confetti.

if I could speak,

I would only implore you grab the paddles

and revive the worm

I was…this flying gig is

old now,

and I miss you (I miss us) dearly.

plus, I think there’s a time limit,

so wasting it here in silence

seems a bit too sick

a joke, even for me.

let’s go back.

no more feelings of

left-out

or

lonely.

I’ll show you how I fall

like fractal ice flakes 

as drips from 

my (spilled bucket of paint) heart.

and it’s all for you.

let’s go back.