smash the universe for the sake of itself.

epiphany

the reason i am so frail now
is that my whole identity has become bound up
in one not You
the reason so much hurts these days
is that part of me is driven by
fear.

fear of loss of something that is good
but something that has perhaps become
an ultimate thing.

this is what has caused the insecurity,
the mistrust, the fear, the emotional turmoil, everything.

this is why these things sting,
the words,
the prospect of others,
the comparison
and the crisis of self.

so Spirit...
shatter this within me; break this apart
wrest this from my desperate grasp

this is the one thing before me right now
that is capable of rendering all of the moments up until this one
meaningless.

if i succumb
when my foundation becomes Another,
than the One disappears

Reduced.
Betrayed.
Denied.

identity both there
and in us
it is the source

Idolatry

is the source of my pain
my frustration
my fragility

this is,
quite simply,
a chain.

break the chain
let me walk in freedom

this wasn't a problem before
because it wasn't
only when I've allowed a good and beautiful thing
to supplant
the Good and Beautiful One

I surrender this to you
i quit it.

i am tired of grasping this idol.

let this die
and fall from my grasp

you are the only One worthy of my worship
my obsession
my destiny
i've gone from looking at the horizon to
looking at Another

i can take criticism and not be crushed
i can give criticism without crushing
because of the grace God has shown me through Jesus

extraordinary patience.

there is nothing between us now.

[romans 8:38-39]

portrait of the artist by an easel

First, blank.

With all the pure vision
of the glory self in mind
a far-off, luminous sight
Now, shrouded and mysterious
by an eternal, ephemeral cloud bank

Creation begins.

A singularity
A kiss
A brushstroke.

Then, with pure and tentative movements
You, slowly and deliberately
Pour Your colors deep into me

Every earthen fiber
and golden sunrise
I breathe in Your breath
still gasping
through
rough edges of
a stiller rougher canvas

Swift and risky
and always tender motion
is the dance of Your hand
upon me.

Sometimes harsh angles
Overlaid with softer curves
Soon,
a pattern, emerges,
Intricate and beautiful

and I imagine
in my mind's eye
Passer-bys pass You by
and, overlooking your shoulder,
Scrutinize the surface
and marvel at the making
critique the composition
and wonder at the source

while still You paint on.

the pattern, oft hidden from their eyes
as well as mine
unfolds in the rarest of times
and the cloud bank rolls its chaos away
but only too briefly
to reveal
in one breathtaking moment of clarity

that,
(like the angel trapped in marble)
we are ever-chiseled and ever-freed
by Love and Truth

and we are all works of art
in progress.

the wind on the water (part ii)

This is disconcerting.

This unraveling of self.
Like ribbons unwinding
Intertwined
in an unpredictable wind
How instantly
currents of air
Ripple through us
Changing us.

I read of desert winds
that rape and mar the land
the harmattan of the Sahara
the aajej of Morocco
and dust storms
that conquer men
and the knives they unsheath

and I read of
secret winds,
untamed winds
unnamed winds

This, here
in my backyard
is but a sudden, casual breeze.

Upon my own distinct piece of fragility
I traveled far in my mind.
Imagine myself cast upon the wind and the water
Kissing droplets of rain and dust, alike.
I find solidarity with
such fleeting elements.

You disappear, I disappear.

We are magicians, all.

We whisper enchantments
Words exquisite
And in a charming, playful flourish
Or in one cold, hard stare
One grand, sweeping motion of showmanship
A magical, invisible wall forms
Enveloping, shielding you
Wrapped in a silent, motionless
cocoon of being
and solitude

For the briefest of moments.

I followed your steps
across tidal pool rocks
matching your path
but I find
I could not quite keep up with your pace

and I feel so small
sitting by the ocean
sitting next to you.

You bear your past
On skin, on soul
a secret you keep for yourself
and I will revel in my unknown
the same as you do.

In the end
These paths
of wind, of water, of rock
and Silence
are the frailest of walls
yet a singular thread connects us all

and Love,
please remember

that things are better
so much better

when you are around.

autopsy

I've been contemplating a lot the divorce that so often occurs in our culture between the heart and the head. So many times we use our logic to unravel complexities of faith, life, theology. It is so easy in our culture to comfortably analyze and blog and spit out information and Scripture and arguments that don't necessarily transform our lives, relationships or attitudes on any deep or meaningful level. I'm learning more and more (and over and over) that knowledge is not just an intellectual assent to an idea, but a deeply-rooted way of living that proceeds from our inner life. It translates into outward behavior and choices.

Proverbs 2 says:
"My son, if you accept my words
and store up my commands within you,

2 turning your ear to wisdom
and applying your heart to understanding,

3 and if you call out for insight
and cry aloud for understanding,

4 and if you look for it as for silver
and search for it as for hidden treasure,

5 then you will understand the fear of the LORD
and find the knowledge of God.

6 For the LORD gives wisdom,
and from his mouth come knowledge and understanding."

I got in a minor car accident last week. I hit my head so I wanted to make sure I didn't have a concussion so I checked myself into the ER. While I was sitting there on the hospital bed, my mind began to wander and I wrote this.

autopsy

hush, now.

we creep along in the dead of night
the moon scowling at our mischief
or perhaps we only imagine
its suspicious disdain

stealthily, secretly
we grasp and pull
your broken body from the tree
carry you deftly
and importantly
away, away
from familiar claws

that we might perform
your autopsy.

she reasons and interprets
with methodical glee
at the moment of your expiration
when you breathed your last
that the confusion and the loss
bellowed deeply from the bowels of hell
as a cry for the scarred and the lost
and the abused
and a rousing wail
against the plastic
and the whitewashed
and the unchanged

i think she's right.

but upon her life
you leave no so much mark
only a philosopher's kiss
hollow and rational
and reasonable
which stales the air
and dwindles passion

silently divorcing
her heart from her head

i watch her
hearken in her own illusion
of you but in part
and never in whole

i see your image
torn asunder
a mass of throbbing, pulsing
flesh and veins and bones
disembodied
in cold calculation

and i find
as i diagnose
her pitiable, blinded state
and mine

that we have quite dissected
the wrong Being.

weather report

lately
moments seem sweeter
colors, sharper and more vivid
laughter, more heady and pure
and Time,
far more precious

like rare drops of rain
falling soft and pure
upon the lonely, cracked earth
my thirsty soul revels
in the deluge
and i am
drenched in love
in song
in art
in complete and utter
JOY.

these tiny treasures
spill and splash upon my face
soaking, enthralling my spirit

rejuvenation.

quick, love
let me dance
let me drown
before they dissipate
only to return to the sky
as a mere mist
a vapor

a beautiful, immaterial dream.

i'm confident they shall return to me again
whether in a flood
a summer storm
or morning mist

though whether here or there
or when
i cannot say

but until then
i tilt my cup toward the resplendent sky

and pray for rain.

If these walls could speak

If these walls could speak
They'd whisper sweet apologies
With regret in their stone-cold eyes
For the limitless heights to which they soar
Come with a terrible price
Crush and melt a man's very own soul

If these walls could speak
They'd sing a solemn dirge
For the weary backs upon which they were built
Chains and anger clanking in the bitter winter wind
Brick and mortar held together
By the stale, sickly sweetness of blood and sweat.

If these walls could speak
They'd send me their stealthy, sotto voce tones
Warning of shadows pacing the watchtower
Bastard enforcers of fate, of fear and self-loathing
Their rifles aimed at pulsing, throbbing, messy hearts
With an executioner's glare

If these walls could speak
They'd resound with all the insanity
And the howls, the riots, the unspeakable acts
Behind translucent sheets, under tables and behind closed doors
Upon the maimed, the marred, the unforgiven

If these walls could speak
They'd pray down that invisible hand
To carve their sorrow and shame
Upon my flesh and bone
With their haunting tales of angels and demons
And beautiful, fallen ones
Wrestling, warring for human hearts.

If these walls could speak

I'd silence them all.

If only Grace would pour her light down upon me
To melt the steel, the limestone, and the razor wire
Dissolving the patterns, the lies and the illusions constructed
by my imagination.

If these walls could speak, why,

They wouldn't speak at all.

on prayer: troupe

we are quite the act, you and i.

a dance
a tango
a messy, freeing entanglement
of arms and legs
of hips
of breath
of movement

your hand upon mine
and upon the small of my back
while
rhythm and passion
intertwine
and i lose control
over and over
and under
and beneath
fervent summer nights

we inherit the risk
and the whirlwind
while we shimmer together
drunk with wine
with words
with intimacy

the stars blink and smile
and watch our shadows
glide across the floor.

still, my love,
i have traded you in

and i assume the role of master
innocently, maniacally
pulling your strings
jerking your movements
twisting your head
into a garish, ghastly
tarantella

how i shape this discord
to harness your motion
to choreograph your steps
to contrive and conform into

a safe, pleasant, harmless thing

where i always come out on top
and i rule the world

and so i emerge
perfect and scar-less

a heartless being
a lifeless doll

shake me up, my dear
before i rob myself again.

Fusion

The story: This poem was born out of thoughts and conversation from atop the Space Needle on a beautiful Seattle evening.

I was hoping this would be a song, but for now the thoughts are a poem.

The idea for this started when I stepped out on the observation deck of the Space Needle and was greeted by a trio of musicians, playing violin and guitar, with no one around to listen but me. Their audience was the merely the city below.

Other conversations inspired this poem, but the image of those musicians silhouetted against the night sky, instruments in hand, with no one to hear them but the city below was just a beautiful picture to me.

We sat atop the world.

Glittering like a jewel in the evening
Full of possibilities of pain and pleasure
The stars found themselves mirrored
In the glimmer below

Or was it the other way around?

I heard violins and guitars
Strummed and plucked
For pleasure none but their own
And their gypsy tunes drift
Carefree and lustily
Like a fine, sweet smoke.

Despite their warmth, I shivered
And retreated inside behind glass doors
Where the view is less brilliant
But far more manageable.

A lone, fragile thread
Starting to unravel
As words unconsciously
Eased through the cracks
Of a contemplative heart
Belying the calm, pleasant facade.

A lovely contradiction, to be sure
In which notes resonated
with only the slightest discord

I heard your counterpoint
Rising and falling
In a broken double helix
Straining toward tension
Longing for release
Meeting in brief, rare moments of
Synchronicity

Yet the harmony and beauty
Become enmeshed in the discord
In the disconnect
In the contradiction.

This rebellious fugue haunts me
And while it reverberates indoors
Upon these glass walls
There is no chance of dissipation

For I hear it gently ricochet
Against my spirit
Again and again

And I hear its source
And I become it
While it becomes me

And through the glass window
I hear strains of that gypsy melody
Play on and on outside
To serenade the shining city below
With its unfettered bohemian spirit

And I think to myself

Maybe I should invent a new genre.

the Abyss

I am tumbling.

Down, down, down.

The sensation is pleasant at first.

The feeling of weightlessness seems euphoric.

Then, suddenly, Terror grips me

I feel my windpipe constrict

Reeling and flailing

I kick and struggle and resist

but to no avail.

Jagged rock and clods of dirt grasp and cling

Bite and scratch unrelentingly

I feel my bones crack and wail

I taste warm blood upon my lips

And I cry out

But produce no sound strong enough

to carry toward the light that has long since receded above

The pit in my stomach yawns in enormous dread

Like a giant chasm

Helplessness.

And so I,

I succumb

to Gravity.

Blackness.

Disoriented.

I wake. At least, I think I do.

Unconsciousness slips away, then returns

like a lingering wave upon the sand.

It's so hard to tell.

I know something's broken.

My jaw? My ribs? My arm?

But the panic has seared all pain

And coalesced into a numbness

My eyes strain, willing to see some form or shadow.

But, perceiving nothing,

I quickly lose heart.

The same old Terror seizes me.

I stumble, hands outstretched

Scrambling, clamoring for the edge, a wall, a stone

Anything.

Where are my bearings?

What are bearings?

There is no north or south, nor east, nor west

Words lose their meaning down here.

The falling has warped all sense of space and time

I blink.

The fluttering of my own eyelids is the only sensation and signal I can perceive

There is no light down here.

Day 14.

I have memorized the walls.

Some of them, anyway.

They stretch before me, these alien cavernous canyons

Taunting me, evading me.

I struggle to climb and grip the sides

But I know better by now.

I have fallen too many times to count.

Convex, concave

The sheer height and angles prevents me from what I desire.

Escape.

Day 21.

My eyes have not adjusted.

In fact, they're probably useless by now

but I have learned not to need them.

The walls that I have loathed

Have become familiar.

I know their grooves, their nuances.

I dare to explore

Creeping along, sometimes sprinting ahead

around corners and nooks and quarries.

I am in uncharted territory, but it matters not.

By now,

I can anticipate their turnings, their leanings.

Day 39.

The loathing has passed.

It is Loneliness, and not Terror that grasps for my attention

But I pay her no heed.

I recall days up Above

The smell of new shoes

and of filet mignon

The soft murmur of in low-lit rooms

The thrill of new conversation

and uncovering the mystery of Another

Navigating through

Insecurities and quirks

Phobias and defense mechanisms

and being bound by memories

by obligation

by preconception

and self-consciousness.

And I recall

the pain of learning to unveil myself

in the presence of Another

and

unlearning Fear.

I fight exhaustion

drift to sleep...

I am stunned to wake and realize one morning--

if it can be called that down here--

That this Abyss

has always been part of my world.

split second view

panorama

as when the clouds roll back,
revealing for an instant
a mountain's snow-capped splendor
and majestic charm
in momentary clarity

'til a mere twist and tilt of the earth
by mist and meteorological certainty
by the whim of a delicate wind
it is shrouded again

dissipates

yet burned
upon memory
and longing

these days
the glint of the horizon
gleams sharper, purer
and catches the pink-tipped sunrise
with ease
and casual resolve

an imperceptible smile
plays upon its lips

anticipation.

reflection

sleepless, alone

a thought stirs

disembodied

a faceless dread

a nameless fear

blurred and indistinct

finding traction in silence

in solitude

earlier today

i fiddled and twisted the plastic straw

it cracked and split

torn asunder by boredom, by idleness

by a distracted mind

why so destructive?

i peered hard into the darkness

willing and straining

to see as you do

to feel as you do

but all i caught was a glimpse

of the grotesque

leering back at me

with a casual sneer

and i realize

in numbness

as i peer through

that in the mirror

the looking-glass

and the clouded puddle

steeped in southern rain

the reflection is mine.

and beholding

the Beautiful, the Terrible

a ruinous Truth

i give and i strive

to bleed and pour out

to sharpen my will

to fill out my senses

to bring heart and mind

into one accord

and where fear may reign

bring Love subversive

to dissolve

and bear away the dross

where waves and particles and molecules

collide

interacting, shaping

and changing the composition

and the very fabric

of you

of me

and colors, once indistinct and imperfect

sharpen and blend and swirl

until everything is new

and whole

and full

and all reflects You.

on duality

darkness settles deep within
descends with a blissful sigh
with a jarring thud
layer upon layer
sweet and seductive
foul and oppressive
beckoning and clawing, enticing and writhing
hideously alluring

compartmentalized.

oh wretched duality.

for
i
also
see

beauty and truth
and whispers and love
and prophecies
and paradigms shifted
and prisoners freed
and the wounded healed

by body and blood

and trajectories chosen
destinies fulfilled
a kingdom extended
creation reclaimed
and a battle fought
to the sound of a thousand trumpets
to the cry of a thousand voices
to the explosion of a thousand memories of what was
what is
and an ache of what's to come
and what should be

and
i
see

evil extinguished.

for
light
too
descends.

repentance.