FORERUNNER PROGRESSION

81

i’ve noticed something about my time off, as of i’ve come to deem my seasons of unemployment.  these vacations leave me with a harsh inability to sleep at night and waste away my days.  i search through every moment, looking for what the next may bring, finding quite often it bears the same nothingness.  or the same something.  i saw a vision once of heaven.  it was just Jesus and i standing in a sea of white, so broad there was no need for a horizon.  it just… was.  He asked me if that was enough for me.  i understood only that the question carried much weight, not to the degree, nor will i ever understand the degree, only, hopefully, understand better, but i understood the weight, so i waited to give an answer.  i said, “yes.”  He put His arm around me and we began to walk.  a few months later this thought plagued me of how i could answer yes to that, but answer no every day.  i have the opportunity to take full advantage of enjoying Him in these empty space of time and space and relationship and job and children and a wife and so on and so on and so on.  to act as a son would toward an amazing father by simply being with him and doing things together.  i came to the harsh realization that, maybe, maybe i don’t have a clue how to let go.  maybe i’m just scared to see what He would do with my life.  but i’m tired of being my own god because, as i stare, once again, into, this time not peeling, eggshell white, i begin to realize that that’s just not working out so well for me.  and if it doesn’t work out well now, it’s definitely not going to work out well for my afterlife.  

59

it amazes me how life moves on. like a thread, weaving through a piece of fabric, things become a part of the whole of the world’s vast list of experiences. sometimes, it feels as though i’m the thread yet to be brought in.  the color that has quite matched into the specific pattern i find myself constantly staring at.  i’m often told that the plans the Lord has for me are incredible and immense and too grand to imagine, but, just as often, i find myself just wanting to taste and enjoy the moment of today. and, again, just as often, i am told i need to. the juxtaposition of the now but not yet kingdom, the now but not yet calling, leaves a tension that is obvious and undeniable, mesmerizing yet daunting, full of joy and full of aingst. to take hold of today, or live for tomorrow, or, somehow, maybe find that narrow path in between, and walk down the property line with one foot in each territory, owning neither, just passing through.

 

22

I drank it to the dregs.  The bitter elements swirling in my mouth, mixing with the sweet.  Trying to decipher which it was.  I swallowed them both.  I could not deny my need, and would have gone on like that, wanting, until it killed me and dragged down those around me with me.  But my pride was crushed when you extended your hand and allowed me a choice.  And I chose it well to not let the opportunity go.  From time to time I still taste the morsels of grounds, but, far more prominent, is the sweet aftertaste of a cup that was enjoyed and quenching more than it was anything else.  Oh, how I long for just one more sip.

Words that rhyme with fear

These sounds, they’re breaking down

and can’t be put back together

the same.

They’re scattered into the immensity that is -

never to be heard again, but always resonating,

expanding,

out.

And so they believe we go,

expanding out,

but they won’t tell you about how

sound does the same thing, and light, as you and I

go.  And we will all go.  Won’t we all go

Halel

“Though there be wolves, I walk with a lion - let rise the dead and dyin.
A great awakening is on the horizon, in the clouds comin down, it looks like Zion.

This is war, this is war, I fear for the casualties now covered in wool.
Hold fast the ranks and watch your flanks, as we halel it might look like pain.
But we, the alive ones, are singing again, and we’ll dance, we will stomp on the enemy’s head.

Though there be wolves, I walk with a lion - let rise the dead and dyin.
A great awakening is on the horizon, in the clouds comin down, it looks like Zion.”

Lessons in Breathing

The mariner left an indiscriminant trail,
ephemeral ruts, with hopes that no others would follow so closely
as to fall into the plowed lines, themselves.

His sails, high and taut, caught the violent movement.
A tear was there, though, from the very beginning.
A sudden shift in light, a chill filled the space, and, in his zeal,

his error was thus realized and culminated all at once.  The split
would leave him stranded, off course, and alone, subject
to the tide, whichever way it might go, not likely to arrive at the plotted destination.

St

And then I was a name.
Became a name.
There were three
                in all.
A total
                and total waste
to me
before.

A strange protrusion of what we deem a crowd
                ejected out from the interior
encircling,                                                                                                                                                                                                            enamored
by the throne – empty.

Where did we go when we first started that lead to our arrival here?  It seems
so far away from the intentioned direction.  Our hearts misleading minds
once again.  Feeling just didn’t feel
right anymore,
                I suppose.

You were the one who spoke
                out
against
the transient silence.  Not abstaining enough
to listen.  Always go,
and do, always
push
                away
from me.

They began to dance, longing to see the sea, longing to see
                anything.  The victor’s stance, eyes wide, dilated,
waiting.  Aren’t we
 too?

You spoke my name, the definition, the reason, non-existent.  The season,
changed.  The dance around an empty throne, the one seated, invisible
to closed eyes and vying strides.  We chose this.

Storyboard

I have no reaction for anyone but my self.  My own mind can carry conversation well
enough.  I don’t need your falsities and half-beliefs.  I need
so much
more
than you were ever willing to give.

You told me this, in not so many words, from the very beginning, I saw it in your turn
whenever I would try to hold
your hand, you would hold
yourself
far away from me.

The lion on the bed was just a child-friendly placation to the violent indiscretion of your discourse,
setting me off course, off my course, of course,
because evidently you are
the only one
who has ears to hear.

It’s not how it used to be

There’s an ebb and a flow to these types of things.  So they say.  They say many things.  Most lies.  Most lie.  So much is asked.  So much asked of me.  In times like these, thoughts become perverse reasonings for re-runs of documentaries.  Nothing’s left but reaction.  To reenact in mind, maybe with hopes of changing or altering, pulling tighter the gaps because memories can just be so damn fraudulent.  They rebuked me for being out of control when I take control.  It’s not always so simple though, if you’d believe it.  There’s not much that can be told, but we are talkers.  We take turns to respond.  Or not to respond to each other, but to our own inward reaction.  Piecing together the pieces of things that were broken, it was always the last piece that we missed, evidently.

They’ll call this a revolt.

You may always walk
slow, dried vines snapping
with each point of pressure,
but a rise
reveals the 

Red ribbon, gray field,
we used to run
through, our senses,
amused – astonished
by the catatonic state
of things, what’s been taken,
still, a red ribbon
waves – the youth
in a vacant place.

Casting Light

For me to see
clearly, the fog
would have to relent,
be rolled back,
roll itself back,
scroll-like and be bound
so it doesn’t come unhinged again,
this time with momentum to stunt my vision
quickly, violently, potentially
inexorably unalterable.

The status quo of change – it is our constant
in a world of no constants.  But, the incessant chirping
of the birds
is heard
always, always to remind us
daybreak isn’t day broken, but
night.

The Repercussion

The deft dispensation of addiction
to the more,
My ignorance comes at a loss,
but the buckling was advised, though not always
adhered to – more lies
decide for me.

So I scream and shout
to drown out the sounds
of drowning – noise
travels faster
through the water, so said my teacher, when I was quite young,
and I suppose, that, for one thing, was true.  But no one hears me now.

I wrestle and writhe underneath
the weight of things
that debases me, leaving my foundation
weak – perhaps it was weak all along, but
I can’t know for sure.  All I know for sure is
I’m secure,
locked beneath.  And all is
silent
except my mind.

The perched, penchant transition, unaware, dressed in layers,
just to shed, else
down, anchored
there.  To remember where I was in relation to here, or, here
in relation to where I was, or
somewhere, another there, a different there, somewhere where I was
before I got to here,
and perhaps to remember how I got to here, and
what path I traced from there, that somewhere, the other there, to here,
but since I am here, and am away from there, where am I?  Here, yes, but
where is here, because, who knows where I am?
And who knows where I am? 
No one.  And how, and why
did I end up here, where I am?  I do not know.  I am not where I was, there, but
would love to be anywhere but here, probably there, at least, and
I am not I am, am I?  No.  I know I am but am not him, so, also, where is he
now?  I just am.  I just am where I am, somewhere, and can be nowhere else because
my dad once told me, you can’t be anywhere but where you’re at, and
that, I suppose, is true also,
and I cannot get to where I was, but I would like to know how
to end this, though I know how to end it all – I know that, for another thing – and,
to keep it all from ending but end this, not that, that’s the goal.
So, to end this without ending that, since the two aren’t mutually exclusive, since
it all ending would end all of this, but, ending this would not end it all,
it would really help to know
where I am at, but, since I don’t know that,
and I don’t know the how, without ending it
all, because of the conditional restraint,
I am back to where I was.

The red click always perturbed me,
the belt always choked, rubbed raw
my throat – but I’ve found my place and settled
into it. 

My ignorance, my
ruin, my sinking, my
end.  My ignorance, my
feigned ignorance,
maybe the first is only a part of the next, but
the root shoots offshoots to bear similar fruit, yet,
to manifest the rest
might be possible now
in maybe a vain variation, an alternate rendition of, or maybe just
a similar chord – but colder.

Rarefaction in the Rare Faction (formatting issues on lines breaks)

I can see it.  I can see it now.  Through her vindictive repose
and all the all of almost was not enough.
The broken vessel weeps until the tender makes tender the heart
and scars, but feigned truth and ignorant perceptions
keep things tattered, and the vessel lies
in pieces at my feet.  I am quick with wit to come up with excuses and reasons for not being
one able to put things back together.  Her dress is torn, worn
from time and abuse, misuse, without resolve to solve
anything because she refuses to hear the truth.  She’ll stand on the outskirts, looking in
until things get put back in place, but I’m concerned it might be more dangerous there than here.
One can never be sure though.

The stained glass makes things harder to see
clearly, diluting the light
from outside, leaving me
with only a view of the darkness within.  The darkness swims
against the tide of outward flow – I’m missing
the ghost, and nothing’s left but a ghost of me, of who I used to be
before it all came crashing
down.  Before the clay slipped out of the potter’s hands, or entered the kiln
too soon, killing the original intent – the heat, too intense, could’ve lit
the crack up the side until the whole thing was ruined.  Maybe,

maybe it was an act of violence from the outside; if light can’t get in, it doesn’t mean
something else can’t.  Perhaps it was another opponent of the outside.  Maybe
the light was street light because it’s long since been time it was night, so, not day, and that leaves
only night and less sight than I could’ve ever had in the brighter star, even through stained glass,
and the crass notion of nothingness here would be resolved if only I would ever evolve.  Determined
to wait, to remain in potentially lesser shadows than parking lot shades and watch the colors splash
across the room until day comes dauntingly, waiting for the one who knows how to piece together
this puzzle of shards that I can’t see well enough to do myself.  But another notion rings me gently,

subtly, but growing, until shakes turn to cold convulsions and delusions, the room spins mockingly,
pretending to be anything but that which it is – four walls and wooden planks for seats.  Everything
drips and the paint, the deluge of black sea pouring into carpet dyed the color of dead
blood, peels and falls and squeals and claws in violent flows of misappropriated favor –
a last ditch effort before dawn, but dawn is
coming and has almost arrived, and the one who made the vessel that I tipped over will be here
with another, I imagine,
the newer one, a better one
than before. 

Until then, things lie
here, but she’s been watching the whole time, and
something tells me maybe
I was never fully alone and
maybe I wasn’t the only one
with something broken,
waiting here.
Darkness is only absence of light.

I Don’t Know

I feel a fear, a foe, a faux
belief, a lie, I lie
awake, pensive to the need
to break
away, because the smoke
chokes, provokes, makes
things hard, hardly
bearable, detestable,
breaks the table that all my weight
settled on, but I go,
on and on and on and on,
but always off
again – the eccentricity of
intensities in these three
cities of self, my self, tearing, bearing
so much of each other, the implosion, broken,
but the pieces still are
there
for rebuilding.

A Simple, Quiet Repose on Things Loathed

I wanted to write today, but you
and all your noise in my head created a discord,
and, yes, it resonates in me, shakes me, wears on me like your white
pea coat and your curls in your hair
and curled lip when I tell you I still wanted to go and try and stay here
with you, together, but you,
you told me no, that I needed to do what I needed to do and not follow
and just move on or move out
of this rut that I’m wedged between, between here and settling. 
But aren’t we both tired of games and playing and
running
away?
Isn’t it the stain on your jacket?  The reason why you’re leaving?  Because you’re
afraid
the stain has already set and can’t be taken 
out, removed?  Don’t you believe 
it’s the adverse to my rationales and repeated pleas for reasoning in the inverse?
So why can’t you stay?  Why can’t you just be
where you want to be?
How is it that what you’ve been looking for has finally found you and set you free
to quit searching, 
hide-and-go-seek, down the dark corridors to more rooms yet unexplored yet 
you know to be
just as empty as the last?  Don’t you know to be?  
Don’t you see that, yes, the door is open, yes the cold air is settling
and my feet feel the frigid blow, my peace is wrestling though, and I promised,
I promised I was going to fight for this, and, so, I challenge you,
don’t you see that this potential could move 
into kinetic response if only you would 
stop creating the equal and opposite reaction?