"This is an emergency,”
We read aloud, blandly.
Mouthing the words to a pre-recorded cassette tape,
We sat straight laced, playing counterfeit serenades on our father’s piano.
I sang along to your version of the song,
Writing intricate harmonies that didn’t belong
You took your shaking wrist, placing the pen to your palm
And carefully carved both of our names on the log

I said, “Forever?”
And the knowledge gave way to the fall
We tasted fruit that reduced our heart beats
‘till all of the notes became jokes tattooed on our souls
I stood up to toast eternity
But noticed our yoke wasn’t easy,
It spoke of rules that the judge never wrote

I stared at my time line
And tried to erase and chased my revelation
With the glorious taste of God
In His vastness as we stood face to face.

I want to drive to the docks tonight
And paint you by moonlight;
A color by numbers.

We’re all just numbers at the nucleus;
Centers of gravity drawing in
And pushing out.

You are a beautiful, beautiful thing;
And I caught myself singing
Your name, out of key.

Hey, hey; you’ve become a melody
And I’ve become a pair of lips
That shouldn’t sing.

heavy, controlled breathing
the world speaks to me through a lense
technicolor television
stereo sound
the plot is murky
characters fickle, frail
people are always dying.
voices keep talking about politics
and religion
i used to be so involved
now i wish i could tear the clock from the wall
so that we could stand still for a moment
that would be a change.
expansive family;
everyone i meet is a victim
but everyone i meet holds a gun
where i come from,
time isn't a factor.
where i come from,
love isn't so trial and error.
i watch black children play with white children
and i watch their fathers wage war
the political civil slaughter
it plays out like a film before my eyes,
and i'm happy i burned my lines.
but i can't feel justified
by a fire.
i get so complacent,
try and remove my suit.
i want to be comfortable,
breathing toxic air and feeling it
as it wraps around my delicate skin
my tongue becomes a razor blade
chipping at the glass
people are always dying,
and i am always lying about my intentions
i don't want to be anti anything
growing up is deciding family is more important
than opinions;
and that family is in everyone.
breathing heavy, controlled;
some days it feels like i'm the only person here
isn't it odd that we are buddhists
and christians and jews
and muslims
and africans and asians
and humans.
and humans.
and humans.
and humans.
and humans.
at the nucleus,
we are just independent cells of one brain
relating and associating
one family with different members,
positions,
duties.
we are brains that reason
and justify and rectify and react and avenge
we are hearts that love
that break, that heal, that forgive
we are questions without answers,
we are humans,
we are humans.
we are individuals that evolve,
devolve, and contain the capacity to change
to grow, to learn, to re-evaluate
but at the nucleus,
we are all the same.
sometimes, i wish i was built for this place
for these molds and conditions
but i don't understand time
or unforgiveness.
i hear slandering words on my lips
and the taste is unfamiliar
i want to tear it from my mouth.
we evolve, devolve and contain the capacity to change
capacity to change
capacity to change
we are humans;
designed for eternal paradise
we are contained
as individual particles
wandering aimlessly grasping for truth
we gasp for air,
we are intro-retrospective
we are lonely,
we are afraid
we are far from home
we are lost
we are astronaut.

i woke up from a family reunion,
faces from my past gathering to reflect
and everyone still hated me.

it's funny how the mistakes you make
cannot be forgotten,
not even by your dreams.
or maybe it is just me.

every word i say is a bullet to the chest
of some unsuspecting passerby.

i made a list of people; i should go back
and undo all that's been done.

and what would my life be if
i wouldn't have been so selfish then?
if i weren't so selfish now?

so i thought about carving instructions into my skin
saying, "give her her song back,]
and the rest scatter across
everyone i have ever hurt."

and realized songs were all i had to give away.

when did a prayer for angels become a chorus
and quit being a divine request?

i look around my life and compare it to my words
and my words sometimes describe idealistically
the greatest actions.
but my hands move complacently in place,
back and forth; back and forth.

i justify every illness.

i am always cold.

over the past four months
i have exhausted all of my energy
trying to find a place to call my home.
only to find myself feeling desperate
and alone.

so i quit eating choco taco's.

i can't remember the last time i wore socks,
but i probably wore them too long.

i keep writing new songs and burying old ones.
i'm like the octo-mom.

i've made a habbit of burning bridges.

i want to live and to feel and to communicate,
but what if my only role in the community
of Christ is to screw it all up?

Oh bother.

I am that harlot He mentioned in His family tree,
murdering my friends so their wives
would sleep with me.

death is a virtue and i am a corpse,
beginning to smell.

today, i woke up from a dream
missing all of the people i pushed away
and wondering if my hands
are going to keep
pushing away
or if for once
they will
embrace

tomorrow...

so i took a poop on my guitar and called it music
the insects carved my name in a giant stone
so i put it in my pocket, to remember the event
and got my hair cut
to incorporate myself gradually back into society

the next day i broke my tooth
and cut my lips on the words i used to say "[EXPLICIT] you,
don't ever call this cell phone number again."

i was taking a bath and washing my back
with backwards elbows
and i thought of you.

yesterday i registered for college
and punched myself in the kidneys (with backward elbows).

you keep using words that don't mean anything close
to the context you use them in.

four days ago i was lying in the grass trying to sleep
while the cold wrapped around me like a girl
(who i was certain to divorce, because i have issues with commitment to
anything that isn't an eternal Creator)

and i imagined getting shanked in the liver with a screwdriver
then,
i figure it would leak out the toxins
and maybe i wouldnt end up getting cancer
like the rest of the kids who drink carbonated piss(eth) all day long

i keep making friends enemies.

i keep changing my mind but rarely my clothes.

sometimes i get to feeling like i'm the last person alive
before i realise that there's a world around me
if i was just a nicer human being.

i start to eat fruit and make racist jokes
until my tongue is a sword
barfing out language that everyone understands
(and wishes they didn't)

how do i expect to play baseball (with backwards elbows)?

i went to the museum of science and technology
with my family and a baby.
the baby was not my family but he came too.
he likes museums and i like the look on babies faces
when they like things.

so today i found out why i believe everyone
is family
and started to look into community
and global famil-ia-zation.
what a thought that God opened up some
worldwide fellowship of brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles.
crazy uncles.

i want to tell the drunks i found a wine
that will beat all wines.
i want to tell the hipsters about the new scene.
can we tell the fornicators about the perfect lay?
it seems to me
that weed cannot compare
to a God who tells plants not to grow
and they obey.

i shave my feet.

i touched my tongue to the barrel of a gun-
it taught me how to breathe.
and for an instant,
my apologies seemed like memories
and the present
was hardly worth recieving.
i returned it to it's rightful place just yesterday.

there was a letter underneath the breadbox
so i read it under my breath.
cursive writing
scratched out in shoddy script.
it read, "you are a poor husband"
i wept.

it was eleven thirty when i drove home last night-
drunk in the absence of wine.
my eyes,
they saw the road before me
stretch out like a canvas.
i spent all night putting last month on pavement.

i drew a portrait in the concrete,
a self-titled drawing of me.
it wreaked
of imperfection.

yesterday, a woman smiled at me
and i wondered,
"who does she think she is?"
as my car's heart stopped beating,
my own remembered
it should tell my lungs discreetly
in hushed tones
that they should really be breathing
and in one breath- i accidentally returned the favor.

am i lying to myself
or am i finally being honest?
and which one is worse?

all of my friends seem to have the answers
but contradict one another.

last week, i read a book of accusations,
now, im recording an album
to tell the author
just how very wrong he is.

i found a letter tucked inside the leather bindings.
it was yellowed with time
and the script-
it wreaked
of imperfection.
it read like a poem
but convicted like a King.

"follow Me."
then i wandered aimlessly
searching for destiny
in everything.

begging for some ounce of wisdom,
denouncing my understanding
as vague and
unworthy.

moments of clarity:
i am a fool.
and somehow, this is wisdom?

"talitha, cumi."
and the irony of it all
is i've been dead
this entire
time.

you can't tell it now,
but there was a time when i was something.
leading every nation in a song of our salvation.
now i dress in rags,
and my lungs are filled with tar.
i have sought outward expressions to show
you how i'm scarred.

you can't tell it now,
but i once asked the seas to part.
they silently obeyed because a God was in my heart.
now i cannot swim,
which poses problems with the state i'm in
drowning in an ocean named
Success.

you can't tell it now,
but i was at one point a noble man.
my tongue was tame and cautious with every word it said.
now, i cannot speak
except to vommit words of wrath
and to curse the ground i walk upon.

you can't tell it now,
but i was beautiful and young.
painting with my fingertips
and singing joyful songs.

now my own reflection stares back callously; so old.
i have aged beyond my years,
and my heart has grown so cold.

my fingers once were tender,
and it seems my voice was sweet.
have i lost all of my surrender
since my lips last left your feet?
because i loved without a reason
and i spoke the words of truth
now, my tree is out of season
and i've not bore any fruit.
once i was a leader,
a city on a hill
but the towers now are crumbling
and my hands have learned to kill.

is there any shred of dignity
left inside this shell?
take it, Lord, and use it
somehow, MAKE ME do your will!
i am frail and i am absent
with a silent, mourners song
but your eyes reflect a comfort
that i've waited for so long

if there's virtue in my future,
lord, bring it to me quick
i'm ashamed of blood that's dried
across my calloused fingertips.

if there's something in my spirit,
that you see fit to save
please forgive me that i've slaughtered,
and built for you a grave
forgive me that i've murdered
with hands you built to hold.
forgive me that i've sacrificed
the innocence i used to know.

lead me to the water
where i drink to never die
so that when i leave the fountain
i will finally be alive
put your blood into my body
cut my heart out of my chest
chisel out the arteries,
I only want the best.

Now put your bones into my fingers
So they move as you demand
I have failed you as a leader,
but to serve is your command.

now put your eyes into my sockets
so i see a world in need
put my feet into your sandals,
so i follow where you lead

put your words behind my lips
so i will speak in love alone
and make in me a brand new creature,
that will lead your children home.

disheveled hair and homemade cigarette;
i spent thirteen hours soaked in sweat,
watching the ceiling above my head as it whispered, "you're alone."
i carved antonyms softly
into my palms- starting on the left side,
then moving to the right.
the first read, "humble; compassion"
but the deeper
of the two hands read,
"insincere"

you said, "there's a time to mourn
and a time to dance"
but it feels like we haven't danced in ages
and my body is worn
like the blemished sole of your worst pair of shoes.

she meant to say, "forever,"
but it sounded like "goodbye."
We were weeping
in the kitchen, as we danced for one last time.
and even my most fortunate memories
refuse to allow me to smile.

i keep moving all of my belongings
from one side of my bedroom
to the other.
my life is just a bunch of re-arranging;
never anything new.

i have a closet full of hand-me-downs
and gifts from faded faces.
last night i painted a canvas of ink
with erasers.

my solutions resolve
to doubt.

my questions evoke
more questions.

my heart beats for all of the wrong reasons.
you said, "everything has a season"
but i keep running in circles.

today i spent thirteen hours,
conversing with invisible faces
and dreaming about cereal.

my friend says i am held to a higher standard
which is funny to me
because i am the worst transgressor;
spitting in the face of the holy
and burning my profane offerings.

if there is, as some people believe,
a law that i must obey
to get into heaven
i anticipate hell
with complete certainty.

so what makes you and me so arrogant?

we're carved from the same filthy stone
counting days until He returns.

we keep coming up with dates
so we can be certain to stall the inevitable.

as for me;
i am wavering and fickle.

i spent thirteen hours alone in bed
wanting You,
but not enough to reach.

and when we demand a sign,
like we deserve one-
be patient with our arrogant lips.

pretty soon i'll have to leave
and write songs to you while im asleep
in the gutters and graves
where the homeless are praying
i find some place else
to spend borrowed time playing.

pretty soon i'll run away
rather than press my cold lips to your face.
if love is a garden,
it's now overgrown
with weeds and reflections
at one time you've known.

but unfortunately, you cannot know me
i am cold to the touch,
and fragile, you see.
i am falling endlessly.

i thought that we were pacifists
but it seems you brought a sword
i was out gathering flowers
when i first heard the word
they were drumming on their chests
as if a war was soon to start
and i was balancing the difference
in my shallow brain and hollow heart.

empty;
this city is a whore.
the wedding dress is stained;
this sanctuary
is a wasteland.

you are not my friend
you are scars across my chest
poison on my tongue,
tar inside my lungs

you are not my friend
but a bullet in my back
you're a prayer list left unanswered
judgemental hypocrite

you are not my friend
but created to deceive.
you are vomit on my carpet
and i wish that you would leave.

evacuate the building,
there's excrement inside
the church bells won't stop ringing
and the homeless are denied.

clergy on the alter
nailed against the floor
sacrificing life
in the hope of something more

god is in the closet,
fighting just to breathe
while the smokers and the drunkards
break their backs to set him free

evacuate the body
there's no blood or bones within
i'm searching for some spirit
but there's nothing here but skin.

bathe the walls in gasoline
and set the thing on fire
ths building is a cemetary,
god's own funeral pire

but he's breathing in the alleys
he's alive among the trees
his heart is beating loud
on the slimy city streets.

i will praise Him in the ghetto
where Akim taught me to love
and i will hear Him in the struggle
of my family without homes

in a world of orphaned children
radicals without a name
we will bathe ourselves in gasoline
and explode in an Undying Flame.

sweaty palms; exhaustion.
i've worn the same clothes for three weeks
painted to remind myself how
rags can become
works of art.
i touched my toes to the edge
where the pavement meets the grass
and in one motion teaches
the tongue to tame
a lion.
but in this dry, desolate city
i am not the king of anyone or anything.
there are no monetary
belongings; only
today.
i keep reaching out for light
and finding myself engulfed in darkness.
feels like tomorrow is another
opportunity for me
to fail.
i finally confessed the truth
that i've been killing myself for years now
and i think the honesty
left me feeling
numb.
where do i come from to belong
to a place like this, where the world is on fire
and a kiss is a gateway to such
unthinkable, regrettable
deeds.
i'm begging for one more chance
to prove that there is honor in my chest
and my lips will touch against
the air between us
alone.
oxygen is teaching tired lungs
in an effort to expand their horizons
they are filling and emptying
choreographed fine;
alive.
where do i come from to find
such redemption glaring in every moment?
that as i let you down, you
are rebuilding my
integrity.
when i wake up, i find myself
strangely sensitive to the world around me.
and in her breath, i feel love
then find the strength
to say
no.

"i'm wrestling myself; i am moderately out of control.
i don't know what i want
but i want it right now.
if it's good, then i will love it
if it's less, than i'll deserve it and embrace it
with a smile that facetiously recites,
"i offered up my worthless life
in a small effort to sacrifice
and somehow move Your perfect eyes
from my suicidal nature."

fingers numb;
rebuilding a prison.
carefully stacking stones
in murky waters.

everyone is trying to kill me."

so, i counted every thought
transposed them and caught some fleeting conclusion.
it said, "hope is lost."
and i grasped a rope that was made to choke,
then died halfway as i carved a note
in the palm of my hand.
as i laid there they read, "Alas!
this is not my skin, but an unworthy host;
a shell of skin
meant to protect this fragile ghost
and i have got a ticket to Colorado
if you want me;
come and find me."

then winter came and found me home
in the mountains,
cold and all alone
where the trees cry out my name to me
and the winds sing me to sleep.

i am older now
and bitter too,
but an envelope addressed from You
somehow found it's way into this lonely living room.

the words compiled a photograph
of nothing- only emptiness.
i sighed and put my hand into the memory;
pulled myself somehow into the past entirely
in some effort to make things right.

i have failed countless times;
let you down and scarred your eyes.
i wonder if, when you forgive,
it makes me more alive.

so i changed my name on the twenty first,
to it's hebrew form
hoping it would make me more like You.

but i am not like You
and my identity feels so permanently shaking
like a tare in the wind.

i dont know what im supposed to be
or even what i want;
where im going to sleep
or what i'll have for lunch
but i can think of six hundred and thirty three ways
to reach out and touch You
and only one
to walk
away.

i spent all night thinking about redemption.
you were a star tucked behind an endless expanse of darkness
and i was a boy in need of some flickering light
which was how you supplied;
giving eyes, then pulling them back behind shameful lids.

yesterday i was consumed by a fire
that diminished
but today i am burning alive.

how easily we forget our eagerness;
i asked if we could drive all night
which was a waste of gas
but a wealth of insight
for whatever that is worth.

"ultimately," i said, "i am dying."
and she had a sad expression
but i was smiling.

we'd spent the last year searching
for meaning in life
and i found it in the thought
of my last breath.

the children had written songs
of freedom.
while we were still
whispering our pitiful prayers.

on the african plains,
they raised their hands in praise
singing "Yeshua, redeemer!"
while we wept
denying the need
for a savior.

last weekend,
when i looked into your eyes
i saw god.
then, i knew that i would die
so i celebrated all night.

i've spent the last week
painting everything i wear
and hearing songs
in the most inconvenient noises.

if this is what it feels like
to know you're going to die,
i wish you would
have told me
years
ago.