To the ladies:
Stay classy, not trashy and if you trash he with FOUR LETTER explitives you have lost yourself. Beauty is not given it is won, not like a prize to gloat over or a trophy to show but like the hostage you delivered. Jealousy is bitter, draining the dregs of treason to season the dull taste of love. Love love love LOVE like a fire that keeps the heart alive in the middle of a world frozen by winter. It is NOT the fairy tale, unless you make it a tale to be held in the same regard as fairies...never existing. Stop running and start sitting, the chase is not fitting for the hunchback of soul. Be whole, and giving a thousand broken pieces is not the way to keep them close, shatters will shatter and the shattered leave blood spatters spelling out the letters F-A-I-L-U-R-E. If he chases will you run? And if he runs will you follow? All of you not a just the HOLLOW...shell. What fell from the last cloud 9 love drunk wine soaked adventure. Keep believing in dreams.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
here it goes again...for the first time
Here it goes again...for the first time
Like a thousand flying feathers
Pouring out from beneath my chest
Like words pouring from the pen
I saw you, before I saw you
And now these same words
May lead me to see you no more
Delicate…fragile…honesty
Because honestly
I just need to be honest…
The poets words, sank the arrow
Coincidence or purpose, I don’t rightly know
Shaking hand, holding crumpled paper
Lines recited in Latin’s child
I knew then, like I know now
That what I would know
Was not up to me…
Cold hands stealing breaths,
Lips poised to speak but stand crippled
By a sacred silence
Where more is spoken by a look
Than in a word
Be my sacred silence…
Like a thousand flying feathers
Pouring out from beneath my chest
Like words pouring from the pen
I saw you, before I saw you
And now these same words
May lead me to see you no more
Delicate…fragile…honesty
Because honestly
I just need to be honest…
The poets words, sank the arrow
Coincidence or purpose, I don’t rightly know
Shaking hand, holding crumpled paper
Lines recited in Latin’s child
I knew then, like I know now
That what I would know
Was not up to me…
Cold hands stealing breaths,
Lips poised to speak but stand crippled
By a sacred silence
Where more is spoken by a look
Than in a word
Be my sacred silence…
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Sky scrape
rough draft
Concrete and tar-covered veins poured in from every direction you could imagine; twisting around, under, over, through and beyond, beyond the graves of history’s architects who now lay in wooden coffins and stone memorials where no one remembers; beyond the limits of imagined substance and mathematical dialogue on weight and support; beyond the heaping hills of refuse outside the imagined perimeter of our city; beyond anything anyone could ever imagine or see.
Steel screaming as it is lifted on wings of woven wire; it climbs into the clouds to be set among its kin, Pressed together by gaseous plasma and flame, while blood pours in molten drops to stain the ground with the marks of birth. Form taking on form, abstract becoming reality, paper souls outlined in blue ink; they rise from the ground, anchored on concrete soles, bones of rebar holding together the separation between earth and sky. They are rather ugly in the beginning, dusty, crying, misshapen and crude in design; then coated with skins of glass, they shine like a thousand fire all reflecting the sky, reflecting heaven and the sun, its guardian.
Car horns blast as the screech of brakes bring charging mechanical chariots to a halt beneath the glow of burning electric suspension, filtered through crimson reality. People sprawl out on the walks and paths like a million moving hairs on the back of a new life that we have created.
Cities are alive, sentient creatures.
Cities are the reflection of man and the reflection of heaven, all brought together on the façade of mirrored glass; delicate enough to bow before fire and flood: strong enough to stand before wind and famine. Music pours through organs of mosaic and expression, rhythms so varied that ears can scarcely full hear all that is being made.
There is sweetness in the belly of the scraping giants; bread, wine, beauty and love: there is bitterness too; lust, envy, deceit and murder. Man lashing out against man, against the image of God; slaying what should be loved, destroying what we can never create; Cain enslaved to slaying Cain.
Listen to them now, the cities have gained a mouth to speak.
They groan as earth shakes beneath them, contesting the bloodshed, contesting the evil that is committed in their shadows, contesting the destruction of beauty, contesting the hand of masters that gain pleasure in chaos; so now they destroy, steel shaking and falling on the heads of the broken whom by brokenness break others.
It’s time to heal the world…
Concrete and tar-covered veins poured in from every direction you could imagine; twisting around, under, over, through and beyond, beyond the graves of history’s architects who now lay in wooden coffins and stone memorials where no one remembers; beyond the limits of imagined substance and mathematical dialogue on weight and support; beyond the heaping hills of refuse outside the imagined perimeter of our city; beyond anything anyone could ever imagine or see.
Steel screaming as it is lifted on wings of woven wire; it climbs into the clouds to be set among its kin, Pressed together by gaseous plasma and flame, while blood pours in molten drops to stain the ground with the marks of birth. Form taking on form, abstract becoming reality, paper souls outlined in blue ink; they rise from the ground, anchored on concrete soles, bones of rebar holding together the separation between earth and sky. They are rather ugly in the beginning, dusty, crying, misshapen and crude in design; then coated with skins of glass, they shine like a thousand fire all reflecting the sky, reflecting heaven and the sun, its guardian.
Car horns blast as the screech of brakes bring charging mechanical chariots to a halt beneath the glow of burning electric suspension, filtered through crimson reality. People sprawl out on the walks and paths like a million moving hairs on the back of a new life that we have created.
Cities are alive, sentient creatures.
Cities are the reflection of man and the reflection of heaven, all brought together on the façade of mirrored glass; delicate enough to bow before fire and flood: strong enough to stand before wind and famine. Music pours through organs of mosaic and expression, rhythms so varied that ears can scarcely full hear all that is being made.
There is sweetness in the belly of the scraping giants; bread, wine, beauty and love: there is bitterness too; lust, envy, deceit and murder. Man lashing out against man, against the image of God; slaying what should be loved, destroying what we can never create; Cain enslaved to slaying Cain.
Listen to them now, the cities have gained a mouth to speak.
They groan as earth shakes beneath them, contesting the bloodshed, contesting the evil that is committed in their shadows, contesting the destruction of beauty, contesting the hand of masters that gain pleasure in chaos; so now they destroy, steel shaking and falling on the heads of the broken whom by brokenness break others.
It’s time to heal the world…
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Thought
There is this thought I have that the world is finite. It is ludicrous, so very, very much so, the definitions of reality fade between global industrialization, conflict, war and the sunny warm afternoons of summer. It is like a lava lamp; ever circling in a mind warping elastic blob; I HATE LAVA LAMPS.
There is this thought I have that one person can change the world; shift the sway of time and break out from under that cycle of decays and success. Yes, history has proven it again and again, but each generation is born into a new history; grossly effected by the previous history. When that time comes though, we have a chance to stand up in the face of deceit and break away from the monotony. Men and women are born each day and each is given a chance to bring change.
There is this thought I have that the Church is amazing, and grossly stagnate in the west. I’m not going to bash the Church as a whole; just those ones that sell-out to a prescribed, dried out and flaky version of reality. You can see them every Sunday on TV. The same messages recycled over and over and over like a lava lamp.
I have this thought that when Jesus was born he was the spoken word incarnate into the flesh; that he changed the definition of reality to a subjective little nothing. It was reiterated later in the gospels and preceded by the words of the Patriarchs. Prophets and seers, men and women, PEOPLE like you and me. A lot in the world has changed but there is nothing new. We can break the reality, this fake version that people cling to.
I have this thought that there are people like Elijah walking the earth today; that miracles are a viable demonstration of power and that we need to stop making excuses for why we don’t have them. I want to have dinner with prostitutes and the weird men in black suits that work for the IRS. I want to tell people that Jesus is not just a “was” but rather a definite “is.” I want people to see that he is alive in people’s hearts today; not just in words but in deed.
I have this thought that a butterfly is just as beautiful as a flower and that people are more beautiful than anything else in nature because we are the image of God.
I have this thought that dreams have substance and we all need to be dreamers; that I life without risk is not one worth having. There is a satisfaction and honor in taking a risk to achieve something.
The whole world is waiting for you to take a risk and show them how to live.
There is this thought I have that one person can change the world; shift the sway of time and break out from under that cycle of decays and success. Yes, history has proven it again and again, but each generation is born into a new history; grossly effected by the previous history. When that time comes though, we have a chance to stand up in the face of deceit and break away from the monotony. Men and women are born each day and each is given a chance to bring change.
There is this thought I have that the Church is amazing, and grossly stagnate in the west. I’m not going to bash the Church as a whole; just those ones that sell-out to a prescribed, dried out and flaky version of reality. You can see them every Sunday on TV. The same messages recycled over and over and over like a lava lamp.
I have this thought that when Jesus was born he was the spoken word incarnate into the flesh; that he changed the definition of reality to a subjective little nothing. It was reiterated later in the gospels and preceded by the words of the Patriarchs. Prophets and seers, men and women, PEOPLE like you and me. A lot in the world has changed but there is nothing new. We can break the reality, this fake version that people cling to.
I have this thought that there are people like Elijah walking the earth today; that miracles are a viable demonstration of power and that we need to stop making excuses for why we don’t have them. I want to have dinner with prostitutes and the weird men in black suits that work for the IRS. I want to tell people that Jesus is not just a “was” but rather a definite “is.” I want people to see that he is alive in people’s hearts today; not just in words but in deed.
I have this thought that a butterfly is just as beautiful as a flower and that people are more beautiful than anything else in nature because we are the image of God.
I have this thought that dreams have substance and we all need to be dreamers; that I life without risk is not one worth having. There is a satisfaction and honor in taking a risk to achieve something.
The whole world is waiting for you to take a risk and show them how to live.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Giant killers
Destiny doesn’t wait for the soft kiss of a promise; it is in the hands of those breaking beneath the weight of pursuit. They fight for dreams, fight so violently, with bloody knuckles and bruised muscles. I FIGHT FOR DREAMS. Despite this disharmony of some duped cadence trying to swing my heart beat to a foreign key; keep moving you warriors, remember who you are. We are the light on the horizon; bursting through nights cold grasp. We expose the evil and the wicked. We break down palaces that no one has ever seen.
Speak to the wind and tell it to carry your voice far, farther than your feet can go, farther than you can imagine.
I am a message in a bottle, cast into the ocean of the earth. I will stand proudly and proclaim THERE IS A WAY OUT. And I will stay shouting with the threat of arrows whistling overhead. I dare to dream, to tread, to take my destiny and force it make a way for me. I will take my heart and let it beat out a path where that way may not be wide enough for the girth of vision. Come fancy-dance with me, like fireflies mimicking stars. Faith is in my lungs, stretching, pushing heavily against everything on the inside. I have to grow to make room for it. We are children of Abraham, children of promise.
Let’s heal the world.
Creation is waiting for you, longing for you to be revealed. Not to the watchers set in the sky, but to yourself. You are more than you can imagine. You are a message in a bottle of flesh cast into the ocean of humanity. When you land on that shore, no matter what part of the world it is, burst open and shout loudly what is on the inside.
Don’t be defined by the cacophony of deluded wise men, thinking they are religious, but never knowing God. Rise up and defeat Goliath, step up and cry out. Let the whole world see, there is a man who can still fight. Let your bruised fist grasp that worn sling, swing it hard and let the one who wrote that message on your heart guide the stone.
There are giants that kill dreams, but there are dreams that kill giants.
Speak to the wind and tell it to carry your voice far, farther than your feet can go, farther than you can imagine.
I am a message in a bottle, cast into the ocean of the earth. I will stand proudly and proclaim THERE IS A WAY OUT. And I will stay shouting with the threat of arrows whistling overhead. I dare to dream, to tread, to take my destiny and force it make a way for me. I will take my heart and let it beat out a path where that way may not be wide enough for the girth of vision. Come fancy-dance with me, like fireflies mimicking stars. Faith is in my lungs, stretching, pushing heavily against everything on the inside. I have to grow to make room for it. We are children of Abraham, children of promise.
Let’s heal the world.
Creation is waiting for you, longing for you to be revealed. Not to the watchers set in the sky, but to yourself. You are more than you can imagine. You are a message in a bottle of flesh cast into the ocean of humanity. When you land on that shore, no matter what part of the world it is, burst open and shout loudly what is on the inside.
Don’t be defined by the cacophony of deluded wise men, thinking they are religious, but never knowing God. Rise up and defeat Goliath, step up and cry out. Let the whole world see, there is a man who can still fight. Let your bruised fist grasp that worn sling, swing it hard and let the one who wrote that message on your heart guide the stone.
There are giants that kill dreams, but there are dreams that kill giants.
Friday, February 19, 2010
inked
I am in this room. It’s warm and slightly dusty but not dusty enough to make you sneeze or your eyes to water, just enough to tell you it is still and old. Light is coming in the windows, bright white sunshine, splashing the book case with light. On the old cherry stained table in front of me are blank sheets of white paper. The old paper, not the kind you find in a printer. It isn’t that clean and perfect white; crème might be more precise. It is rough too, sops up the ink. There is a quill and an ink jar; both fresh. I pick up the quill stroking my hand against the feather. The jar catches my attention again and I dip the quill, deep like, I pull it out and let a drop or to spill on the paper and watch as it begins to dry. I poke it with my finger.
Stained skin.
It seems appropriate, I don’t think anyone is actually white; we are all more like crème. Some of us just a have a little more ink than others. I like ink though; I like that weird smell it has. I like that I can use it to write down the soul of a matter, not just words. The ink in itself is a word, a word that flows through all languages, it takes different colors and mediums but that doesn’t change the fact that it is very distinctly ink.
When I think about heaven I think about God drawing my eyes with ink. Taking fleshy white marbles and dipping a needle in some ink we have never seen, ink that lives and speaks, ink that changes over time and can never be erased or blotted out ink that came from God Himself. Yeah, I think about God picking up that round white thing and plunging that needle deep and inking my eyes, sort of like a tattoo.
I have two tattoos and will be getting more, but I have some that are divine, not in the really good sense, but in that real Divinity kinda sense. They are written on my heart and soul, on my mind. People ask me about them how I got them and where they came from; I tell them this Jewish guy I know wrote them there. They always ask what they mean; I try and tell them but sometimes they don’t understand that God can write and that He writes on souls. They have this thought, maybe God isn’t real. They know they are written on too, but their colors are fading. They think that because mine are bright I did something different, that I am either a lunatic or I have answers. I do have answers…one answer really; His name is Jesus, He is God. And He likes to tattoo.
Song of songs 8:6 “Set me as a seal—mark, brand, (ink)—upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is as strong as death…” Love is deep you know? It is strong too, stronger than people know; strong enough to rip you apart from the inside out, strong enough to kill you. I tell people to be careful with love; no one ever wants to believe that it can be strong enough to fade their colors. These are the same people asking me about mine. It is ok though, because mine were faded once too; faded like an old parchment with ink that is disappearing, beginning to flake off; faded like the glory of a republic that only exists in minds or like a dream that you begin to lose as soon as you are awake.
Are any of us really awake?
I just woke up, and I can’t see that room anymore. That ink I poked my finger in is fading away. But my colors…they still are bright
Stained skin.
It seems appropriate, I don’t think anyone is actually white; we are all more like crème. Some of us just a have a little more ink than others. I like ink though; I like that weird smell it has. I like that I can use it to write down the soul of a matter, not just words. The ink in itself is a word, a word that flows through all languages, it takes different colors and mediums but that doesn’t change the fact that it is very distinctly ink.
When I think about heaven I think about God drawing my eyes with ink. Taking fleshy white marbles and dipping a needle in some ink we have never seen, ink that lives and speaks, ink that changes over time and can never be erased or blotted out ink that came from God Himself. Yeah, I think about God picking up that round white thing and plunging that needle deep and inking my eyes, sort of like a tattoo.
I have two tattoos and will be getting more, but I have some that are divine, not in the really good sense, but in that real Divinity kinda sense. They are written on my heart and soul, on my mind. People ask me about them how I got them and where they came from; I tell them this Jewish guy I know wrote them there. They always ask what they mean; I try and tell them but sometimes they don’t understand that God can write and that He writes on souls. They have this thought, maybe God isn’t real. They know they are written on too, but their colors are fading. They think that because mine are bright I did something different, that I am either a lunatic or I have answers. I do have answers…one answer really; His name is Jesus, He is God. And He likes to tattoo.
Song of songs 8:6 “Set me as a seal—mark, brand, (ink)—upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is as strong as death…” Love is deep you know? It is strong too, stronger than people know; strong enough to rip you apart from the inside out, strong enough to kill you. I tell people to be careful with love; no one ever wants to believe that it can be strong enough to fade their colors. These are the same people asking me about mine. It is ok though, because mine were faded once too; faded like an old parchment with ink that is disappearing, beginning to flake off; faded like the glory of a republic that only exists in minds or like a dream that you begin to lose as soon as you are awake.
Are any of us really awake?
I just woke up, and I can’t see that room anymore. That ink I poked my finger in is fading away. But my colors…they still are bright
Friday, February 12, 2010
BREAK
slam poem
I am chained down/With heavy links of social perception/Expectation and regret, inward reflection, fleshly metallic deception/All day trapped in steel frames/Assigned positions and titles from tongues left unbridled/These illegitimate names/Giving praise to the biggest mockeries/Outright hypocrisy/ Filthy stewards, tainting the purity of Liberty/I WILL BREAK OUT/Break from these wayward masters/Ideas and perceptions producing societies beneficial Bastards/Identity in crisis/I WILL BREAK OUT/Break these chains that try and define the ineffable mind/Plastered a rebel because I reject these crooked chronicles/Labeled a prodigal/I have turned from Delilah’s rise who gained power by plucking out Samson’s eyes/Break out of this invisible prison/Mercy, a jest in the democratic court of a perverse King/Filled with at the sight of man caged/trapped in silence by these wicked sirens filled with bloodlust and violence/Implemented through passive aggressive means/GUILTY through secondary indifference/GUILTY for the hunger in my mind/GUILTY of hoarding the bread but freely pouring the wine/Damned phantoms creeping in cooperate alleys with white gloved hands/Hearts caked with rotting infection/The stench of Dreams long since dead/I WILL BREAK OUT/Because they are out to destroy us/And by they I mean we and by we I mean I…I am out to destroy me?/The dichotomy of a fractured sentience born of false existence based on the perception of lies/Media feeding pride/Promoting racial tensions while behind the curtain legislating unethical missions to destroy ethnic cognition…I WILL BREAK OUT/ because he showed me the way/The jaws of Leviathan have been smashed and Babylon will not hold me down and I will rise with wings born of grace/freely given to me and I will freely give them to any pauper who wants to be a prince/I WILL BREAK OUT/Because these chains hold no power and death will not be my end…
I am chained down/With heavy links of social perception/Expectation and regret, inward reflection, fleshly metallic deception/All day trapped in steel frames/Assigned positions and titles from tongues left unbridled/These illegitimate names/Giving praise to the biggest mockeries/Outright hypocrisy/ Filthy stewards, tainting the purity of Liberty/I WILL BREAK OUT/Break from these wayward masters/Ideas and perceptions producing societies beneficial Bastards/Identity in crisis/I WILL BREAK OUT/Break these chains that try and define the ineffable mind/Plastered a rebel because I reject these crooked chronicles/Labeled a prodigal/I have turned from Delilah’s rise who gained power by plucking out Samson’s eyes/Break out of this invisible prison/Mercy, a jest in the democratic court of a perverse King/Filled with at the sight of man caged/trapped in silence by these wicked sirens filled with bloodlust and violence/Implemented through passive aggressive means/GUILTY through secondary indifference/GUILTY for the hunger in my mind/GUILTY of hoarding the bread but freely pouring the wine/Damned phantoms creeping in cooperate alleys with white gloved hands/Hearts caked with rotting infection/The stench of Dreams long since dead/I WILL BREAK OUT/Because they are out to destroy us/And by they I mean we and by we I mean I…I am out to destroy me?/The dichotomy of a fractured sentience born of false existence based on the perception of lies/Media feeding pride/Promoting racial tensions while behind the curtain legislating unethical missions to destroy ethnic cognition…I WILL BREAK OUT/ because he showed me the way/The jaws of Leviathan have been smashed and Babylon will not hold me down and I will rise with wings born of grace/freely given to me and I will freely give them to any pauper who wants to be a prince/I WILL BREAK OUT/Because these chains hold no power and death will not be my end…
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