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"Cancer"
Time passes through, from
me to you
Another clove crushed on
the sidewalk
More smoke to coat my lung
I try to hang on every
talk we’ve ever had
End up crushing out that
heartfelt
And blacking out every
moment we’ve ever had
I step aside from me to
you, from her to him
I swerve this way, away
from your trance
You see my dance and laugh
from your soul
Do you see yourself as
part of creation?
Why do you dance with eyes
of hesitation?
So I will walk beneath
the trees tonight
And in this dark I will
pass emo’s
Who pretend to know my
pain
But I will think back to
time with you
And smile a Mona Lisa for
what they don’t know
They could never have known,
Unless they just lost a
love to you
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The Winter, Part II
9a.m.
The old house leaks in cold, even when we have the heater on and the
smell of burnt dust combines with the sewer smell from the standing
water in our dishwasher creating a smell that I only notice when I have
company. Otherwise, it smells like hostels to me, and I am maybe a bit
too "at home" in this mess. I have tacked a Jersey-fabric bed sheet up
around my windows to keep the cold air from seeping in through the
cracks in my window, and that with the combined cloud cover allows no
daylight to shine into my room, where I am warm and safe from having to
make decisions about my life. I lay there still, knowing that the 9am
light looks no different then the 5am light. Saturday mornings were
made for sleeping in. I stretch, and turn myself back over, and fall
back into dreams of angels.
11a.m.
Saturday mornings were also made for French toast, and I am up and
moving and cleaning some of the house, including cleaning out the
dishwasher stench which has grown too dominating over the night. I am
now warm, have worked up a slight sweat scrubbing pots and pans and
sinks and trash cans, and the French doors are open. The organic milk
and organic eggs are mixed with the organic wheat/berry bread, and it
is a lazy morning. The History Channel is on, showing images of the
U.S. Marine Corps' battle for Tawara in November 1943. Next to the
television is our fake, 7-foot tall bare Christmas tree, which John
assembled two nights ago, at 2 in the morning.
1p.m.
The day has warmed up, nearly to 75. I jump into the deep end of the
pool in our backyard, and the water is still ice cold. I am awake. I
shiver and swim to try to warm myself up, but my muscles all want to
cramp up at once; I take refuge near the steps of the pool, and end up
sitting there dangling my feet in the water, then leaning back enjoying
a perfect Fall day in our Arizona Winter. The wind brushes against my
skin and I thank God for this moment and for this day; having learned
two nights ago that right now I need to do what I know how to do --
praise and thank God for the simple things. God gave me a life to be
lived and an eternal cause to particpate in, not a personal battle that
is meant to overcome all my time and thoughts. Grace and understanding
overcome; grace and understanding all-consuming.
3p.m.
Sam is on the concrete bench next to me and we are discussing his
half-way house, and tonight is his daughter's fifth birthday. We are
both on our way to Camelback, and I will remain there while he
transfers to route 72 to his ex-girlfriend's house. They have plans for
tonight. Sitting in the rear of the Route 66, we head towards Arizona
State University and then take a detour past Mill to get around the
Tempe Art Festival. The bus winds in between University buildings and
construction zones; and I am happy to be on the bus rather then
driving. I want to be connected to my city. The city is about people,
and the people talk, and some moments are uncomfortable. This is the
city I miss and I long for when I am driving in my car. Bus drivers
like to talk, and I move to the front of this bus to make the
conversation easier; the same way I did several months ago on the Muni
riding up and down the streets of San Francisco. As we cross the
Tempe/Scottsdale border, proud but shabby frat houses and small coffee
shops give way to topless lounges and auto-detailers, and even those
eventually give way to small summer patio homes, cactus, and huge
Western-movie brown boulders as the bus struggles to climb into Papago
Park.
5p.m.
I came to people watch and have a cup of coffee. I am not part of the
Scottsdale Fashion Center scene, and for that I am proud, but it hurts
to see the entraped. This is their perspective, their world that was
manufactured for them by someone else and was bought and sold with
expensive Argyle sweaters, Lucky jeans, and plates of food from
Paradise Bakery. I would say I was appreciative of not being in want at
these stores because I am above this kind of marketing, but really,
it's because I just bought a bunch of new clothes at the Mervyn's by my
house last week. I watch the sunset from a Scottsdale bus stop, and
discuss Hemingway with a homeless man named Benecio.
7p.m.
I return to my neighborhood and walk the sectioned-off streets of Mill,
having been dropped off by a bus up somewhere around Sun Devil Stadium.
There is a cutting breeze and I forgot to pack my beanie in my
backpack, but the Christmas decorations are lit up high on A Mountain
and the trees lining the bars and pool clubs of our college town are
decorated with white lights. The evening cool is refreshing, and I know
most things die in winter, but I want to come alive in winter.
9pm
Joined by two good friends to walk the streets of Mill and to feel the
sharp breezes cutting off the lake. And a place to write, until 2am.
Hearts bloom. | | |
| In Genesis 2 you said it is not good for man to be alone.
Once you saw that, problems began, and sin arose, and down here at the
bottom of the problem my emotions froze; to beg of you to take pity on
wretched hearts that have no direction I'm here, asking you to take
this from me. I can cry and I can beg night and day I pour myself
begging for an awakening or for an untimely death from you so that I
can drink from heavenly waters, waters that know no shame.
But instead you won't take it, tell me it's mine to bear and I have no
direction from here, Oh heavenly father, in this forsaken mess where
have you gone, where are your children supposed to rest? Pardon me if
this sounds off beat but I'm sick and tired and poor and lost here and
I know I deserve nothing from you having been given everything and you
are the potter and I am the clay so I can sit here and yell day after
day but you have every right to turn from me your stare and towards me
your death ear.
But guide me, for I am tired of holding myself accountable to that which I cannot see, that which I fear. | | |
| Hope In the Morning
I am processing all of this here and truly trying to find what's best as I sorrowfully lay my head against His chest and breathe in what I hope to be love and grace and comfort from above while drowning out the tears and jeers and tuantings of all of those who profess to be receipients of His love. Ever growing, ever mounting shame is what I have come to expect and realize from this religious game but I pray and pray night after night that the one holding me does not align in sight with those who glare mockingly, those that I want to love so deeply as well and say to them ... you too are my brother ... you too are my sister ... and we are all His ... but who won't have the room in their family for someone with my struggles, even though a child of His.
I pray that somehow God understands, that somehow if even for a brief moment I can take refuge from this torment in his capable hands. Teach me the way confused as I am, not knowing my place in the theology books of the learned but only hoping thru your Son I have a place with the blessed. Sorrow and depression and fear strike me when I think about this too deep, but I know whatever the outcome it is your plan that you hold my hand and walk with me in this garden as I weep, that you help me to understand and come to that moment of peace that I may never see on this green land but I may fully see it someday when I stand, in front of you one day when all of this makes sense, but oh God I am confused as to what to do in this moment I share with the world now.
When people like me are so lost and hurting now.
When the world seeks to hate or understand now.
When I feel lost and lonely and without a hope now.
Or when basic desires come into play now.
For you said it is not good for man to be alone. You said this, right there in Genesis, to Adam when he was walking with you in the highest glory that ANY MAN ever knew from you, hand in hand you talked but you realized the needs of your creation and you spoke to him without hesitation, "It is not good for man to be alone." Oh God, teach me what this means for me, and help me through this fog to fully see. As I may ask to understand while falling through this sky, what this means for people like me. | | |
| Memories quietly drugged trigger this craving / Of a time when allibies sufficied me in their lies / I look up and don't see what the future has in store / But rather how pain is felt when I look up and it is them aiming across at me, again
Let me know that my future has no memeory / Let me know its blind to lies and loss comes as suprise / Convince me that it's all for good and this is the final reckoning / Tell me that now is not a charity for their sense of pride
Reckoning has no end for those who love to push / It is a game of greed and their prize is Christ's walking dead / For the second coming of promises made and said / Is a time of truth to no one whose wallet gains from phrophecy / So let me hold your head close to my battle wounds / And I pray that those who love protect you from their truth
Let me know that my future has no memory / Let me know its blind to lies and loss comes as suprise / Convince me that it's all for good and this is the final reckoning / Tell me that now is not a charity for their sense of pride
I yell loud for this fake love to shatter across / To pierce their chest with the cold that we have stood in / We take a collective breath and stand still now for the time / No worries their stare will soon take aim and cast down on us aside / And we'll bow our heads and pray to avoid their empty eyes
Let me know that my future has no memory / Let me know its blind to lies and loss comes as suprise / Convince me that it's all for good and this is the final reckoning / Tell me that now is not a charity for their sense of pride | | |
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