Dreams

The blessed chrism flows away from me. This is not special. I look into my truth-sphere. O’ glass globe, reveal! It shows me the way. But I cannot see past my anxious curse. My thralldom. The draggling thing that leaves me in my fear awaiting the chain-breaker.

“There is no chain-breaker.”

“You are the chain-breaker.”

“No.”

And the dust shrugs at me before it catches an electric breeze aloft, and I am alone again in my sleep with my Mother and my Father arguing over my worm. But there is a seeping of the plasma that lives and I breath it in. I remember my way for a moment.

I go now.

Happy

Worry just foots a bill, it never pays it. When I fill my hat with it, my head still fits. Let’s you and I think on the good things. Like a coat in winter, there is always something to keep you warm, even if it’s just breathing’.

I like breathing. I have plenty of food. I don’t have Nazis or fascists. I have a home. Gratitude. Gratitude is the thick leather glove that keeps the sparks off when you stoke the fire.

I am grateful.

I’m grateful I can write. I’m grateful I can write total shit like these lines and still have my Nazi-less food and shelter. I’m grateful for my hat, ‘cuz it makes me look dapper.

I was reading my published work last night and I found typos. I’m grateful for a published work with my very own typos. I’m grateful for being able to laugh at the fact that I have probably read it 20 times and I still find them.

I’m grateful I can read.

Heart

Empty spaces thrum in my brain and knock against my skull; like stray birds dying on my window because they could not find simple south this winter. I know what they want. I want it to:

But to do justly,
to love mercy,
to walk humbly with my God.

These things alone, and always.

I, like the thoughts, like the birds, cannot always read what is written on my heart. I cannot always hear it hum the lullaby of my soul. Too entangled in the world-web am I. Too hard a-running from the wolf that lies, that is not, but sounds ferocious, howling, howling at the murder-moon at blood-tide!

Peace!

Peace.

these wolves and webs are dreams of a future I know nothing about.

Rest.

Lay down in the words of your heart:

Do justly.
Love Mercy.
Walk humbly with your God.

For T, T, and N.

I watch them.

They are the fiercest warriors I know. All blooded, but not at the Temple of Mars. These roses lost their way at the Temple of Dionysus. They went there to wonder. They were swept up with the grapes. They were crushed in the presses until they could no longer tell where the grape ended and their flesh began.

Now they tell me their stories. I am gobsmacked by each one. I am gobsmacked by their dreadful courage, bought by their tears. Each one speaks with new words now. They have not lost their thorns but their beauty has changed. Has changed like thistles. Like thistles they have a weedy aspect, more cautious about letting you traipse about them. But the bees confess their guarded sweetness to me.

“Enjoy them from here,” they direct. But an occasional rabbit can take a nibble and learn so much from the fierce new redemption. It tastes like joy, but there is the groan of a strained chain behind a dark door. Some of these warriors essay to tell the story of that beast.

I am lucky to hear it.

 

Murder

At the other end of the rainbow is a pot of gold. But at the near end, the dark end, what is over there.

All the decisions you made to get that pot of gold. All of them.

The secret ones.

The Dark ones.

When the Blood Crow cries out at dusk, and all bury there heads in the crook of their arms, praying.

When the eyes close against the horror, lying to themselves that what cannot be seen, cannot be.

When the lust of the eye and the lust of the flesh and the idolatry of self write a tragic trilogy on the heart.

That is when we prove to be Cain’s children…

Gears

The way it works when the gears get burrs ain’t so smooth, and that’s ok.

But there comes a point when someone needs to go in and file the bad habit down with honesty.

Hard, hard, honesty.

Sooner is better, the burrs only get worse, like to jam the whole thing, or even break a tooth. If that happens, you gotta replace a gear. If that happens you gotta see a professional. If that happens, the whole thing just got bigger than you.

So, we file away our burrs.  We are diligent about it.

But one day I hear, “don’t file that one,’ and another day, “oh, let’s wait on that one,” and before you know it, the only burrs being filed are my own.

Pretty sly.

So, here I am, grease up to my elbows, and filings in my eyes, cut and bruised knuckles, filing the burrs.

Alone.

But hey, I feel like it might not be fair to take all that credit.  Maybe somethings are getting done that I don’t see. Maybe I lie to myself about how well I am doing. Maybe my files aren’t so hard anymore. Maybe I’ve grown complacent.

But I don’t think so.