we sigh. we sigh. together our eyes sigh. you twisted in the cables of sea weed, or burnt twine. the smell of the smoke burns our eyes. my legs are folded like an orgami swan.
This Monday was marked on our linen calendar.
im awkward when the windows are open and the sea waters rush in. not awkward with you,ofcourse. for you and awkwardness could not co-exist. would not, even if their hands were tied together.siamese twins? Or something, or not. . Impossible.
you tip your hat, which I so despise, and tell me,"dearest, im comfortable all wrapped up, even if the froth sits at my feet And the salt ruins these penny loafers."
i wonder if the moss will dye the carpet green.
And decide I’ve never hated the color of the trees, if so disturbed as it may be.
My legs fall asleep while you drift away in sea-dreams.
hands on forehead, yours on mine, you protect my small forehead from the Yesterdays.
The chasers.
The hunters.
The lies.
We don’t pray that our house will resurrect,because we know that smells silly. The waves have legs and wear black bandanas,and creep like little thieves. We were told they’d come for it,(but not us, never ever)
“He’s our keeper" is still etched into the wooden walls,as the paint cries it’s wet chippings. I took the kitchenknife when I kept forgetting what train I’d hopped on,or which train had haunted me til it ran me over with love. Lovetrain. Train of love.
“smells like lilies" I whisper to resting eyes. and it’s all a prophetic utterance,which I think he hadn’t heard.but how I was wrong.always. “how much more"
water reflections have xray vision and show me what lies behind my soaked overcoat,and pickeled skin.
Tall shrubbery like a labrynth, Roses made of butterflies, and trees that drip with perfume. A fountain of liquid glass, and beams of fire.
The floods sweep our houses and trucks and cars and laptop computers, everlasting coolness, and awesome degrees,and lofty novels,underground.playlists, and long legs and puppy eyessssssss.
But these gardens are locked,and we’ll live forever.
I lay at his wrapped up feet,a ruth to a boaz. Waters like Sunday morning hats. But we still breathe with our lunged gills. Asleep. Underneath.
It’s only the beginning, for I hear Him in the wind.
like a small child on the lap of her father she rereads the book for the 133rd time traces her delicate hands over the ragged page humming the sound she feels would come from the sky swaying to the beat of the rhyming words
this is her comfort.
growing in an age of the drunken old man asleep on his pillow of gold. the earth is his overcoat, and the spirit of the age is his sleeping pill - drifting him away.
cracked skin and rubbed down knuckles, he snores to the sound of "comfort, and safety, and pleasure" and his droning is the fire behind every word being brought forth. "drink and be merry - for we rule the world"
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
at night, when the wind rattles the window, we hide in the closets and talk to Jesus. the earth rumbles, and when the TV's finally turned down, and the silence is visited, we know something is about to happen.
and even so,
she didn't choose to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
rocks cradled in the arms of the earth, dirt covered and telling stories, sing His praises.
deep in the oceans, where men know not of, they groan for His return, because even they - lacking spirit and soul - know something is terribly wrong.
like a little girl, dancing to acoustic strumming and piano banging, asking to know the God who created her...
believing there's a world to explore in the recesses of her being. laying down she sees inside, doors upon doors upon doors where light creeps from gap between floor and frame.
it's the rooms of the stories of the prophets. it's the halls of the tears of the martyrs. it's the longing of all those who have came before her.
an ushering.
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
it's the culmination of the ages. and the bowls of the cries of the chosen ones burns forth, and there is such thing as the wrath of the Lamb.
but amidst a scarlet woman on a scarlet beast. the room where she reads, the walls to which she sings, and even the father who raised her up, flee away.
and she hears.
the pages come to life, and the musics volumes shake the floorboards. she whispers, "HE IS REAL."
this is the swimming in the dwelling place of God. He who is a Priest and a Lamb. He who is slain and rose again. He who is a servant and a King.
the desire of the nations.
the man of war, drenched in the blood of the wicked.
the Lion of the Tribe of Judah is roaring.
and the noise rattles her frame, and she falls to her face - a picture and a sign. the Bride, so unaware. the Bride, being called forth.
Oh so distant are the wildernesses in which prophets are born. Oh so terrible is the sun. Oh so troubling is the loneliness. Oh so terrifying is the hour. Oh so great is our God.
all the aching of all the hearts is found in the Fountain. all the aching of all the hearts is found in the Light.
and she is found drinking deeply, and she is found swimming in the heat of the glory.
as she bellows "I want to be with You where you are" and as soon as the song is sung, the tenor overtakes from the depths of His being, the same song, "I want to be with You where you are."
she didn't ask to be born in this hour.
and she barely understands.
but He is asking for friends. for His rod of iron shall dash them, and His wife will be clean. His glory shall arise in Zion, and the darkened skies will break, and nothing will ever be the same.
and so the chorus arises, for those who love His appearing, "Even so, Come Lord Jesus."
Prone to wander Lord I feel it Prone to leave the God I love Here's my heart Lord, take and seal Seal it for thy court's above.
today i sat down at a table on a balcony looking down down down drinking from a straw and feeling a calling. [that haunting] the kingdom within me is letting down its ancient bridge over that lime-green moat filled with alligators and sea serpents and magical seaweed, and, REALLY, i feel the cranking of the large metal handle.
see the trees ahead. they are waving.
clickkkk, click, click.
i'm remembering what it's like to feel free. delightful. mystical. lovely. and the liberated soul within this castle, this kingdom, this city i find myself in - it's terrifying. really.
to come alive. to breathe air that crystallizes the lungs and makes you fly. to stop being so afraid.
to dance to music. to sing to the wind. to balance your heels on the brick ledge. to love without expectation, without requirement. to be. to become. to stop seeing at grey-scale, and let the colors dress up the mind.
who am i [question mark]
for all these pieces aren't fitting together in this place, with these circumstances. and change is inevitable.
Your love is strong.
and its gotta keep me. its gotta keep me. you gotta have mercy on this little girl who giggles at every shiny thing that comes her way.
i'm easily fascinated. i quickly drown in my imagination.
i don't know how to be.
so great teacher, school master up there smiling at the chalk board - here i sit on the ground like an earthquake is coming and my hands are on my neck and i'm shaking. i'm shaking.
i don't know how to let love flow from this one.
i don't know how to love.
teach me to live even as the record shifts. teach me to resonate that which you are speaking.
teach me to let this spine stand up straight and rejoice in today, rejoice in tomorrow - be blown by the spirit. stop feeling so guilty and charged heavy with iniquity.
i gotta read Your story and find myself in its pages.
the skyline is pretty tonight the wine is heavy the beat of the song makes the birds twirl upon their branches. i can hear you in the smog over the city and the silence of my beating heart.
the draw bridge has almost met its match and you're asking me to walk with you on the water. to go set the people free. to get past the intro - and BEGIN.
it's time to explore.
the wilderness has become my comfort. my barrenness my badge.
to smile because the dress was 1.95 feels so foreign.
yet you love me.
and this is the route to burning...
and i don't like when you wash my feet.
morning glories.
67 degree evenings.
heart shaped cookies.
sand dunes.
i'm beginning. i'm beginning. i'm beginning.
forgive me. i don't know how to love.
you promised. i'm waiting. i'm waiting. i'm waiting. i'm waiting.
i tiptoe onto the bridge and the sun is singing harmony to the tune always playing in my head
you're smiling. you love to watch this.
your banner over me is love. heavenly father i'm willing.
they compare beauty to emerald lipstick and all those gaudy ruby rings you find in the plastic, vintage candy machines.
i'm looking for a 747 to be my carriage, and swing me to some ethereal tree-houses or boathouses made out of crystal floating in the middle of the sea.
dear adventure, i am waiting for you to return my letter post-marked four hundred and thirty seven hours ago. you promised to be quick in response, but i'm still waiting here with my neon yellow carrying case and six hundred summer dresses. my right leg is falling asleep from crossing them for fourteen plus days. and my hair smells like summertime, and this glass jar of fireflies' sign no longer reads vacancy. when will our carousel arrive? love, longing.
i'm shedding skin like a snake on the inside. and things are changing like those plastic toys kids place on their eyes to watch mini slideshows. dinosaurs change to butterflies change to firehouses change to the big question mark painted with pastels.
click, click, click.
when you squint you can see what its asking,
"is this change where He wants me to be?" "did i catch the right train?" "what am i doing wrong?"
and i don't know really, for the smell of chlorine makes me cry and my dreams are filled with mountains and fairies and romantic, ethereal, elegant & dainty sort of movie-esque, momentary after-dinner conversations.
or something like that.
and if you peer through the crack in the golden wall, you see him eating His dinner alone, with these spoons and forks that seem too elaborate to be practical. ya, he knows you are watching him, and he's inviting you in.
but i'm just sitting here at the side of the road, with my journal and pen, waiting for something that might never come.
but when i close my eyes, i see.
and i feel the sun licking my skin, it's spit the freckles that merge together into a cluster of islands on the sea.
but when i close my eyes, i see.
he's drinking that red wine that smells sorta fragrant, and i can taste it in the air. he's on a mountain of buttons that will close up all that's gaping wide and exposing my shame. his table is turquoise. his chair is on fire. and i think he knows i'm watching.
and slowly he raises the cup, and starts to speaking. but he's moving his mouth, and now he's weeping. but i can't hear a sound. i can't hear a sound.
my eyes suddenly open, like the draw back of the shade rolling up all violently, and i hear the cars go by. they're drowning out the sound. cats are crying, and men are yelling, and the clouds seem to be playing music that fills up my mind. it's the cake in the creases.
so much traffic. so much ebb and flow of this symphony. martha put on mary's sweater and hear your master luring.
i just want to swim in his wine, and ask him why he's crying.
i scream something under my breath and kick my suitcase in front of the coming cadillac. i lay down and breath into the sky to push the clouds out of the way, and start eating the rays of sun.
i take the key and lock my eyes into the chambers of darkness.
he's weeping. he's calling. he's beckoning. and he knows i'm watching. and all the letters on the buttons on the remote have been rubbed out, because time's been wearing them down, and i can't find the unmute button. and there he sits, like a king in his castle, and a peasant in his shack. he's got the wine. he's got the wine. and he's roaring in silence.
something is wrong here.
and i want to pull out my eyes and make them cry. i want to find the strings of my heart and play them into feeling. feeling. feeling, whatever the silent man is weeping. and i know his tears mixed with the red, red drink of choice will heal my soul, and sit me at that table and make me whole.
but i can't interpret what he's saying. and my spirit's not glowing.
your tears are flowing beneath my feet, and the waters cold. you are shivering.
the words weave up the cemented door that invite me into peace of mind. "this is who you are, this is where you are going." or something like that in poetic nature yet to enter english language. the words are dancing. the words are breathing. the words are wrapping around my limbs and pulling me near.
it's the vines of the lamb. it's the vines of his name. it's the vines that keep growing - paused in time. i will be your grape, and i will be your vineyard. make me into wine.
take me where it's you and i. man of silence shrouded by my busy mind. your my lover. i'm your chime.
when i hear you, my bells begin to sing.
you love me and i do not understand. the cement in the doorway tastes like candy-cane. the vines are growing in slow motion.
i want to be with you where you are. you promised. i'm a failure.
