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.”