i feel like writing,
but then i suppose... (and i do suppose in the supposing)
one writes to be heard.
and i believe that is so.
also because someone once said it...
they really must know.
(though my knowing is knowing i don't really know)
so pause.
"art is talking.
and if it never reaches an ear
it is as though it was a still-born...
a cry one will never hear."
for silence is oh-so astounding.
true?
probably, maybe, not always so much.
but whatever.
all wish to be heard:
& known,
assured they are
more more more
to be watched and partaken of,
even if by one
(or One, you know.)
so.
my floor is rather blanketed by
an array of clothes
(old and uncool, and especially over-worn)
and so i have to tiptoe to my bed
which is a mattress on the floor
you can tell when my heart is in utter chaos.
by things such as...
shirts and skirts and a mountain of books
abandoning their hangers
and leaving their nooks
of shelves or
proper
placements.
a property predicament
nothin finding a home.
granola tastes good to my tongue.
&
i had a dream where i lived in a mansion
that smelled like olllld wood and had
secret passageways,
up and down, like
dr. suess or something .
this is
my heart.
but i
feel
locked up
in the study, perhaps...
the
doorknob ain't turninnnnnnng
and where is the brass skeleton key
to
set
me
freee.
come on.
but it's okay.
seasons are seasons
and may always comes with spring.
so i'm waiting in this winter, winter wilderness
to feel something again.
His "thump thump" heart beat.
oh
but He is chief among ten thousand.
and i wrote today
this is what i wrote
in my ugly black journal
[well, i really can't find it]
but it was about dying.
suffocating out the "me".
becoming one with the God-man
bleeding on
that treeeeee.
something something about dying
and finding life.
so here i am dying in a town that
looks brown day in and day out.
with no piano.
no piano.
(oh Jesus redeem me.)
and...
i got myself a grave.
here i sit.
the dirt is my pile of chaos of clothes
and my tomb is this mattress and sheeets.
and i feel breath leavvvvvvvving my lungs
never to return
finding it's last
hopin' my ressurection is soooon to come.
by the way.
i'm never too beautiful.
black under the eyes...
and no clothes fittin' right
with brown wavy locks.
for the mirror isn't my friend.
at all.
at all.
and you won't take notice.
but i remember.
He's my only friend.
and it's okay -
because this is going somewhere
and it's worth it
and it's real.
real.
real.
like lightening and winter's fall of
ice upon the window pane,
every morning
reminding me
what is REALLY going on.
and it's okay to be in secret
shrouded, oh so hidden, by time.
and
speakin' of whichhhh
that which is carried within the womb
(the womb of time is what i'm saying)
isn't always ours to hold in our arms
and nurse from infancy to more and more
reality
known as maturity
for sometimes it's at the altar we lay it
and leavvve it there.
so these dreams.
these prayers.
these over and over tears and yearnings
for the words of God
to come forth, bear fruit, walked out in the flesh
may be
some things
only to see from afar.
but what is, who is, the voice in the wilderness
never to walk NEXT to the messiah much at all
this time around...
but wisdom will be justified
when the children come a BOUND-ING
and screaming the truth of the father.
the truth of their roooots.
and so.
some are bob jones'
standing at the side watchin at a distance.
longing to be marchin in the parade of the
apostolic, signs and wonders, new revelation
straight from heaven.
but he's crippled.
lookin down at his
mangled feet.
oh well.
this must be humility.
moving on.
moving on.
moving in.
moving in.
letting selfishness be torn from this skin
so only what is of Transcendence can remain
will keep on, keepin' on.
only this that is of God
will stay.
for i'm a selfish brat
wanting spoil for my own on this side
when
again i say, i was
born
to
die.
i'm just a friend of the bridegroom.
i'm just a friend of the bridegroom.
i'm just a friend of the bridegroom.
please look away from me.
i'm nothing much to see.
i promise you, He who is coming,
is much
much
much
more beautiful.
