Pt. III: [purgation]
“To sleep is such sadistic sorrow”
“It’ solemn creature, this night. Wrestling with shadows, shifting hindsight. Flesh. Mind. Temporal bind. Dreams to fly, (flight when self idol appetite has died).” “Son, how do you feel about light? The only rule is a shattering of the past.” “Sir, surreal is my perception. (none are who they project themselves to be)”
“To sleep is such sadistic sorrow”
“It’ solemn creature, this night. Wrestling with shadows, shifting hindsight. Flesh. Mind. Temporal bind. Dreams to fly, (flight when self idol appetite has died).” “Son, how do you feel about light? The only rule is a shattering of the past.” “Sir, surreal is my perception. (none are who they project themselves to be)”
Tangled in the sheets, near empty bottle next to my pillow,
pills on the windowsill. Sleep? I’d love to. But all the liquor and all the
sleep aids in the world wouldn’t lay me down. Twenty- one. Twenty, twenty,
twenty… one. Twenty one years. Twenty one countries. Twenty five homes. Twenty
Twenty. I always planned on dying at twenty-seven. But right now I’m
twenty-one. Thirty seems like eternity. I’ve seen too much. I’ve lived too many
lives to sleep. Experiences fill a lifetime. My cup’s in a bathtub. She’s there
again, running circles in my brain. Such a crowded bazaar, the men in their
white gowns and flowing white head clothes. Women, all in black, faces hidden.
Scarf around her head, chador around her body, henna on her hands. She’s
running through the street, screaming. Screaming isn’t a word to capture it, a
word is such futile device. Pain poured from her mouth, like a dam now over
flowing. The voice of true terror, child birth. Of all the people in the
crowded street, she picks me. I look at her feet, at first. She grabs my
shoulders. I stare in to where her eyes had been. Empty sockets, smoldering, still
sizzling, singing. Her husband took an iron poker to her eyes. Blood covers her
cheek bones, now exposed, publicly for the first time like when mascara runs in
the rain. She’s still screaming, I’m un aware. It’s those two holes, voids all
consuming. Just her vacuum eyes and mine. I’m. paralyzed. I’m. Nine. She’s
blind. She runs past, like the passing of an ambulance. I’m nine. She’s blind.
I think. Though something says she saw me. No one seems to have noticed. Sure,
heads turned as she ran by, but no one has seen her. No one saw me. I see our
tour guide up ahead; he shrugs and beckons the party forward. I asked about
this, and was told it was rare for husbands to do this to their wives but was
common for the Islamic Secret Police in Iran. What is this Islam? Surely the
Quran cannot allow for such evil things? Much less command them. This was when
I first decided to read the Quran. I
don’t like being the last in line anymore. I turn over, now facing the room
with the white washed wall to my back. I caress the leather of my bible’s
binding beneath my pillow. Jesus. Why won’t you work? I want to sleep… I’ve
heard three days of sleeplessness leaves the human mind in a state of insanity.
Did you sleep those three days you were dead?
Singapore. We lived in the YMCA that summer. I was eleven. It was magical. I got my first pair of contact lenses because I wasn’t allowed to play football in the street anymore, I always hurt someone, and always returned bloodied in new places. I was running out of skin. My guardians felt bad for me, so they got me contact lenses. I was self conscious about my big glasses. The man who sold them had all of the appropriate equipment, stowed away in the hole in his wall, where he practiced etymology from a hole in a wall, somewhere in the back alleyways somewhere in Singapore. I was scared and excited. He was friends with my guardians, so it was cheaper. As we were returning to the Y… and… a parade! The streets were full of flesh. The skin I wore was perfectly suited for the occasion. It was the Thaipusam Hindu Festival, it was an orgy of mutilation. It was a parade. My new eyes beheld visions that would define them. Flesh intertwines with metal. Silver and gold weaved in and out of skin, like a quilt. He wore limes hung from hooks that dangled from his chest and stomach like a teddy. She wore a metal mask, the hooks pulled the skin off her face in its four corners, and her forehead like tents. I wonder what creatures took refuge in the skin tents. Flies? Maggots? Inchworms? Larva? Angels? I used to make tents with sheets and couch cushions with my sisters, but we were the only ones to occupy them. He had a pole running through his cheeks, and a lime skewered on each end, he couldn’t close his mouth. I wondered if his jaws got sore. They pulled a giant peacock float, with ropes tied to hooks, which lifted the skin off their backs. He hung golden jingle bells from his back. Another wore a metal cage around his entire self. Some golden goddess rode on his bloody shoulders. My personal favorite, the bird cages supported by a system of metal poles skewered through one’s skin. The birds seemed happy, swinging on their little wooden support beams. I didn’t know skin didn’t tear like paper until that day. It stretches more like rubber. Everyone’s eyes were glazed yellow. And Empty. I opened my eyes. My bedroom stared back at me. My back snug against the wall. The clock on my bedside table mocked me. As did the bible under my pillow. My shirt was drenched. I took it off. I lay flat on my back now. Hands folded behind my sweaty head. Position three in my nightly routine. I cycled through the four positions countless times a night. Yet, pill number three, with my face in the pillow, had yet to smother me. The room smelled like skin. Metal and skin and blood and yellow eyes and dazed expression procession and metal in skin and metal in skin and metal in skin and I return there again and again and again. They jeer at me, mock my childish mind.
Singapore. We lived in the YMCA that summer. I was eleven. It was magical. I got my first pair of contact lenses because I wasn’t allowed to play football in the street anymore, I always hurt someone, and always returned bloodied in new places. I was running out of skin. My guardians felt bad for me, so they got me contact lenses. I was self conscious about my big glasses. The man who sold them had all of the appropriate equipment, stowed away in the hole in his wall, where he practiced etymology from a hole in a wall, somewhere in the back alleyways somewhere in Singapore. I was scared and excited. He was friends with my guardians, so it was cheaper. As we were returning to the Y… and… a parade! The streets were full of flesh. The skin I wore was perfectly suited for the occasion. It was the Thaipusam Hindu Festival, it was an orgy of mutilation. It was a parade. My new eyes beheld visions that would define them. Flesh intertwines with metal. Silver and gold weaved in and out of skin, like a quilt. He wore limes hung from hooks that dangled from his chest and stomach like a teddy. She wore a metal mask, the hooks pulled the skin off her face in its four corners, and her forehead like tents. I wonder what creatures took refuge in the skin tents. Flies? Maggots? Inchworms? Larva? Angels? I used to make tents with sheets and couch cushions with my sisters, but we were the only ones to occupy them. He had a pole running through his cheeks, and a lime skewered on each end, he couldn’t close his mouth. I wondered if his jaws got sore. They pulled a giant peacock float, with ropes tied to hooks, which lifted the skin off their backs. He hung golden jingle bells from his back. Another wore a metal cage around his entire self. Some golden goddess rode on his bloody shoulders. My personal favorite, the bird cages supported by a system of metal poles skewered through one’s skin. The birds seemed happy, swinging on their little wooden support beams. I didn’t know skin didn’t tear like paper until that day. It stretches more like rubber. Everyone’s eyes were glazed yellow. And Empty. I opened my eyes. My bedroom stared back at me. My back snug against the wall. The clock on my bedside table mocked me. As did the bible under my pillow. My shirt was drenched. I took it off. I lay flat on my back now. Hands folded behind my sweaty head. Position three in my nightly routine. I cycled through the four positions countless times a night. Yet, pill number three, with my face in the pillow, had yet to smother me. The room smelled like skin. Metal and skin and blood and yellow eyes and dazed expression procession and metal in skin and metal in skin and metal in skin and I return there again and again and again. They jeer at me, mock my childish mind.
“Phantoms upon mirrored smoke, apparitions flit in the
eye’s corner. The future flirts to reveal herself. A game of inches, this way,
then that. And I’m enticed by guilty anxieties. The birthpains of
foreknowledge. The betraying blade of false mindedness. Salmon swimming upstream.
And I against her currents. She’s intent on impregnating me. That I might bear
her consequence. Though it’s not mine, not my place.”
I lay flat on my back. His hand is in my mouth. My blood is on his face. I felt it surge through the veins in my lower lip and saw it in slow motion as it erupted. I was Vesuvius on a surgical chair while the hand of death amputated the cancer from my mouth. I was thirteen.
His hands invaded my very self, my distant soul. I lay on the mat, which I previous stood upon, jumping, kicking, twirling, dancing, learning my body. Green belt. Martial art paints air with motion. I learned my body, but now he was learning my body. He was Persian, and my parents were in Iran, while I continued my lessons during the day and took care of my sisters at night. We were in Murdiff, UAE. This time it hurt, this time he squeezed so hard I thought my testicles would explode. When I went home and looked in the mirror, I was bruised. Mother, father, please come home.
My mother watched as he invaded my mouth. The anesthesia wore off. My mouth bore the blade of a flaming sword. My brain became white, molten lava. I squeezed the edges of the table. I felt vulnerable.
Today wouldn’t be different, I was trapped, I didn’t know how to escape him. My teacher wanted me again today; I could see it in his eyes. He wanted me more and more and more the more he had of me. I was afraid, I was sick, I was alone, I was strong, for my sisters, I kept it to myself. Did I enjoy it? Is that why I didn’t tell anyone? Who is there to tell? When I was 5 and it was my baby sitter, I could tell my parents. Then they fired her. This time I was alone. 12 is a tender time. But I learned how to escape my body, and watch the devil ravish it, from a far. I don’t live there any more, not when I need to escape. I live on the ceiling, the feeling of floating is so freeing. I learned to let the wind do the leading. I learned my body is not my being. And my being could be…
I think it broke my brain, that day. Like the time I fell upside down from the second floor balcony. Time folded it’s self, the fastest way from point A to point B is to fold the fabric of time and bring them together. Pain lets us do this, it taught me to see. All things shall pass but the word of God will endure forever. Time was a black hole as I lost my senses, I saw a bright white light, I hoped I had died, but my eyes lied, I still lay in pain on the operation table. My mother had tears on her cheeks. Why doesn’t anesthesia affect me? Why can’t I be numbed to pain? Physical, or emotional, or spiritual… not even mental. I’m so tied into whatever energy surrounds me. Reality hounds me. My mother was so strong, she didn’t make a sound. My blood was on the surgeons shirt, and on the wall behind him, and gathering in pools beside my ears.
I returned home. My tae kwon do teacher would pick me up every day before lessons and then drop me off after my learning was finished. My sisters were waiting for me with our tutor, she was white afrikan, and a little cruel to us. I was afraid of her sometimes. But I was afraid of all women since I was 5, but mostly now I’m afraid of everyone; but especially men. Except for when they listen. So often adults would allow me to be their equal, this I loved. Now I can’t speak with men. They cause too much pain. Our teacher recorded buffy the vampire slayer and wanted us to watch it with her. Her Afrikans accent was delightful when she wasn’t angry, it made me want to do whatever she told me. It was the episode where there was no sound, and these strange men in suits would glide across the ground. I wasn’t afraid as I watched. But that night, when we were all alone, the demons came. They took the form of the images in our minds. The stood on the other side of the door, in a screeching silence of satan. We trembled, my sisters and me. We could feel them, hear them in the absolute vacuum of sound, see them in the black hole darkness. They tormented us all night. We couldn’t sleep that night. I would later learn how to get used to that. I wanted to leave my body, but I had to stay for my sisters, I think in that way, they saved me. Or Jesus used them to preserve me. Probably both. The next day, time folded upon its self again. Sleepless nights, after a few days, or a week, tend to stack on top of each other in my memory. Or maybe I just choose to forget. The demons would come every night, satan, or whatever name my tae kwon do teacher went by, would hurt me every day, and my sisters and I would pray. The demons were held at bay by the sound of Jesus’ name. I learned that darkness cannot occupy the same space as light. But in that place, there’s so little Jesus, and so much dark, they come right back as soon as you let your guard down. It’s like navigating underground caves with matches. But ultimately we learned how to see beyond vision, there’s a non-physical light. Jesus can guide the blind, with a little faith.
I take another shot. Memories pass through my brain like boxcars boxcars boxcars. Number five and I feel dizzy. I check the clock again. Only seventeen minutes that time. I couldn’t afford to keep drinking this much. My tolerance to sleeping pills is too high, even with the aid of alcohol. Someone once told me, when I confessed my inability to sleep, that Spurgeon wrote, “Sometimes the most spiritual thing a person can do is sleep.” This made me fear I was trapped in the physical, and maybe that I didn’t really love God. But how can I not? When God loves me? I wish I could feel emotions. Then maybe I could confirm that I loved God with a warm fuzzy sensation. And maybe that feeling would ease me into sleep. But maybe sleep is an illusion. Sometimes the demons try to torment me still, but they get angry and run away because I’m not afraid of them anymore, and they get tired of getting burned by Jesus’ name. I’m blessed to get to see these things so vividly, experience is a good substitute for faith. I decide I’ll go far a walk. I started walking the night when I was 13 and lived in Cyprus. Something about wondering about cities at night was calming, and prayer came naturally. Sometimes I would walk all night until morning. Homeless people are just as interesting in foreign languages. And either way, here in America, and in Cyprus, I can’t understand their words, but I know exactly what they’re saying. They’re asking, “How do you keep them outside you? I see that they torment you too, the spirits, but somehow you can’t be touched, the ones in side of me are clawing at you, drawing me to you, but we cannot touch you.” Darkness cannot occupy the same space as light. When I pray, they always become angry and violent. They don’t like to be burned. Fortunately for me, I finally lived in a suburb, so there weren’t so many night people to deal with. When I lived in Sharjah, Cyprus and Singapore, we lived in urban areas. Which were always so alive at night, but never so peaceful. I wrote a book about a boy who was possessed by demons when I was 14. It scared my parents, but it gave me strength to express my confidence in the power of Christ to overcome the darkness. They said it was too vivid and that people wouldn’t understand how something so evil and so good came out of someone so young. I never thought I was young, youth is just an appearance, and appearances are so deceiving.
Tonight as I walked the streets, I met a woman who told me she was 2,500 years old, even though she was only 60. There were probably a few inside her. As I walked I thought about what had happened at school last week, I was learning Persian at UT’s summer school sessions, and one day they decided we should learn self defense as a way of learning the body parts in Persian. My Tae Kwon Do teacher was Persian. Those memories flashed back. I smoked a pack a day and drank till I forgot every night since then, which isn’t that unusual for me. The councilors at UT’s mental health wing of the student services building refused to see me. So I continue writing this instead. They asked me if I preferred to talk to a man or a woman (before refusing me service) I couldn’t decide, I’m afraid of them both. I’ve never chosen sex and know I never will. Maybe if there was someone to talk to. But I’m thankful right now, there have been so many people I loved because of being the way I am, that no one else has been able to love before. I think I’m just broken enough for to be useful. I don’t mind that I’ll never have sex, or kiss a girl, or be able to hug any one, because people trust me and let me carry their burdens with them. It’s worth it to me to be a vessel for His healing power. But I do wish I could forget… there’s so many things I wish I could forget. That sounds like a fair deal… let me forget and I’ll accept my role. Celibacy really is a gift, it’s just these images…
When my guardian angels get nose bleeds and then hang themselves from the nooses from the mobile hanging over my bed, I realize I must have been dreaming, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, I need to find reality again, where my real guardian angels wait to find me.
green legions lead them
the blood of martyrs feed them
my fear and guilt keep them
but we shall overcome
and defeat them
and then
We won’t need legs to stand
glass will return to sand
the trees will clap their hands
men and women will be man
Sitting on celestial rainbow rocking chair A son, in his father’s lap, paints a master piece
She quilts reality with threads of sight Gently he guides his son’s tiny, determined fingers
Love shines from her endless silver hair “Daddy, look at what I made!” he says, pleased
It’s impossible to fall from such a height He posts it on the fridge where the memory lingers
~~~~ ~~~~
He waters his human garden tenderly She swims through a sea of stars
Feeding fleshly flowers grass and trees Waves of time churn around her
Pruning people shadows of the Heavenly Orion sings sweetly of lover’s scars
Weeping bitterly over fallen leaves Schizophrenic dreams surround her
~~~~ ~~~~
Intersecting, spinning disks descend Love- binds Noah’s newest ark
Electric, magnet, cloud and ocean Made of human lives, together sewn
He comes this time that we ascend This time, carrying a history of art
Freezing crucible earth’s slow spin -And brings prodigal children home
~~~~ ~~~~
A butterfly lies in grass with a broken wing Indian brushes paint a glowing sunset
Proving broken life is still a beautiful thing Of lilac, lily, hibiscus, lazuli bonnet
She perseveres despite just waiting to die Daffodil and daisy on skylines out west
Spread s contagious hope with wings open wide Petals sing the waning day’s sonnet
I lay flat on my back. His hand is in my mouth. My blood is on his face. I felt it surge through the veins in my lower lip and saw it in slow motion as it erupted. I was Vesuvius on a surgical chair while the hand of death amputated the cancer from my mouth. I was thirteen.
His hands invaded my very self, my distant soul. I lay on the mat, which I previous stood upon, jumping, kicking, twirling, dancing, learning my body. Green belt. Martial art paints air with motion. I learned my body, but now he was learning my body. He was Persian, and my parents were in Iran, while I continued my lessons during the day and took care of my sisters at night. We were in Murdiff, UAE. This time it hurt, this time he squeezed so hard I thought my testicles would explode. When I went home and looked in the mirror, I was bruised. Mother, father, please come home.
My mother watched as he invaded my mouth. The anesthesia wore off. My mouth bore the blade of a flaming sword. My brain became white, molten lava. I squeezed the edges of the table. I felt vulnerable.
Today wouldn’t be different, I was trapped, I didn’t know how to escape him. My teacher wanted me again today; I could see it in his eyes. He wanted me more and more and more the more he had of me. I was afraid, I was sick, I was alone, I was strong, for my sisters, I kept it to myself. Did I enjoy it? Is that why I didn’t tell anyone? Who is there to tell? When I was 5 and it was my baby sitter, I could tell my parents. Then they fired her. This time I was alone. 12 is a tender time. But I learned how to escape my body, and watch the devil ravish it, from a far. I don’t live there any more, not when I need to escape. I live on the ceiling, the feeling of floating is so freeing. I learned to let the wind do the leading. I learned my body is not my being. And my being could be…
I think it broke my brain, that day. Like the time I fell upside down from the second floor balcony. Time folded it’s self, the fastest way from point A to point B is to fold the fabric of time and bring them together. Pain lets us do this, it taught me to see. All things shall pass but the word of God will endure forever. Time was a black hole as I lost my senses, I saw a bright white light, I hoped I had died, but my eyes lied, I still lay in pain on the operation table. My mother had tears on her cheeks. Why doesn’t anesthesia affect me? Why can’t I be numbed to pain? Physical, or emotional, or spiritual… not even mental. I’m so tied into whatever energy surrounds me. Reality hounds me. My mother was so strong, she didn’t make a sound. My blood was on the surgeons shirt, and on the wall behind him, and gathering in pools beside my ears.
I returned home. My tae kwon do teacher would pick me up every day before lessons and then drop me off after my learning was finished. My sisters were waiting for me with our tutor, she was white afrikan, and a little cruel to us. I was afraid of her sometimes. But I was afraid of all women since I was 5, but mostly now I’m afraid of everyone; but especially men. Except for when they listen. So often adults would allow me to be their equal, this I loved. Now I can’t speak with men. They cause too much pain. Our teacher recorded buffy the vampire slayer and wanted us to watch it with her. Her Afrikans accent was delightful when she wasn’t angry, it made me want to do whatever she told me. It was the episode where there was no sound, and these strange men in suits would glide across the ground. I wasn’t afraid as I watched. But that night, when we were all alone, the demons came. They took the form of the images in our minds. The stood on the other side of the door, in a screeching silence of satan. We trembled, my sisters and me. We could feel them, hear them in the absolute vacuum of sound, see them in the black hole darkness. They tormented us all night. We couldn’t sleep that night. I would later learn how to get used to that. I wanted to leave my body, but I had to stay for my sisters, I think in that way, they saved me. Or Jesus used them to preserve me. Probably both. The next day, time folded upon its self again. Sleepless nights, after a few days, or a week, tend to stack on top of each other in my memory. Or maybe I just choose to forget. The demons would come every night, satan, or whatever name my tae kwon do teacher went by, would hurt me every day, and my sisters and I would pray. The demons were held at bay by the sound of Jesus’ name. I learned that darkness cannot occupy the same space as light. But in that place, there’s so little Jesus, and so much dark, they come right back as soon as you let your guard down. It’s like navigating underground caves with matches. But ultimately we learned how to see beyond vision, there’s a non-physical light. Jesus can guide the blind, with a little faith.
I take another shot. Memories pass through my brain like boxcars boxcars boxcars. Number five and I feel dizzy. I check the clock again. Only seventeen minutes that time. I couldn’t afford to keep drinking this much. My tolerance to sleeping pills is too high, even with the aid of alcohol. Someone once told me, when I confessed my inability to sleep, that Spurgeon wrote, “Sometimes the most spiritual thing a person can do is sleep.” This made me fear I was trapped in the physical, and maybe that I didn’t really love God. But how can I not? When God loves me? I wish I could feel emotions. Then maybe I could confirm that I loved God with a warm fuzzy sensation. And maybe that feeling would ease me into sleep. But maybe sleep is an illusion. Sometimes the demons try to torment me still, but they get angry and run away because I’m not afraid of them anymore, and they get tired of getting burned by Jesus’ name. I’m blessed to get to see these things so vividly, experience is a good substitute for faith. I decide I’ll go far a walk. I started walking the night when I was 13 and lived in Cyprus. Something about wondering about cities at night was calming, and prayer came naturally. Sometimes I would walk all night until morning. Homeless people are just as interesting in foreign languages. And either way, here in America, and in Cyprus, I can’t understand their words, but I know exactly what they’re saying. They’re asking, “How do you keep them outside you? I see that they torment you too, the spirits, but somehow you can’t be touched, the ones in side of me are clawing at you, drawing me to you, but we cannot touch you.” Darkness cannot occupy the same space as light. When I pray, they always become angry and violent. They don’t like to be burned. Fortunately for me, I finally lived in a suburb, so there weren’t so many night people to deal with. When I lived in Sharjah, Cyprus and Singapore, we lived in urban areas. Which were always so alive at night, but never so peaceful. I wrote a book about a boy who was possessed by demons when I was 14. It scared my parents, but it gave me strength to express my confidence in the power of Christ to overcome the darkness. They said it was too vivid and that people wouldn’t understand how something so evil and so good came out of someone so young. I never thought I was young, youth is just an appearance, and appearances are so deceiving.
Tonight as I walked the streets, I met a woman who told me she was 2,500 years old, even though she was only 60. There were probably a few inside her. As I walked I thought about what had happened at school last week, I was learning Persian at UT’s summer school sessions, and one day they decided we should learn self defense as a way of learning the body parts in Persian. My Tae Kwon Do teacher was Persian. Those memories flashed back. I smoked a pack a day and drank till I forgot every night since then, which isn’t that unusual for me. The councilors at UT’s mental health wing of the student services building refused to see me. So I continue writing this instead. They asked me if I preferred to talk to a man or a woman (before refusing me service) I couldn’t decide, I’m afraid of them both. I’ve never chosen sex and know I never will. Maybe if there was someone to talk to. But I’m thankful right now, there have been so many people I loved because of being the way I am, that no one else has been able to love before. I think I’m just broken enough for to be useful. I don’t mind that I’ll never have sex, or kiss a girl, or be able to hug any one, because people trust me and let me carry their burdens with them. It’s worth it to me to be a vessel for His healing power. But I do wish I could forget… there’s so many things I wish I could forget. That sounds like a fair deal… let me forget and I’ll accept my role. Celibacy really is a gift, it’s just these images…
When my guardian angels get nose bleeds and then hang themselves from the nooses from the mobile hanging over my bed, I realize I must have been dreaming, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, I need to find reality again, where my real guardian angels wait to find me.
green legions lead them
the blood of martyrs feed them
my fear and guilt keep them
but we shall overcome
and defeat them
and then
We won’t need legs to stand
glass will return to sand
the trees will clap their hands
men and women will be man
Sitting on celestial rainbow rocking chair A son, in his father’s lap, paints a master piece
She quilts reality with threads of sight Gently he guides his son’s tiny, determined fingers
Love shines from her endless silver hair “Daddy, look at what I made!” he says, pleased
It’s impossible to fall from such a height He posts it on the fridge where the memory lingers
~~~~ ~~~~
He waters his human garden tenderly She swims through a sea of stars
Feeding fleshly flowers grass and trees Waves of time churn around her
Pruning people shadows of the Heavenly Orion sings sweetly of lover’s scars
Weeping bitterly over fallen leaves Schizophrenic dreams surround her
~~~~ ~~~~
Intersecting, spinning disks descend Love- binds Noah’s newest ark
Electric, magnet, cloud and ocean Made of human lives, together sewn
He comes this time that we ascend This time, carrying a history of art
Freezing crucible earth’s slow spin -And brings prodigal children home
~~~~ ~~~~
A butterfly lies in grass with a broken wing Indian brushes paint a glowing sunset
Proving broken life is still a beautiful thing Of lilac, lily, hibiscus, lazuli bonnet
She perseveres despite just waiting to die Daffodil and daisy on skylines out west
Spread s contagious hope with wings open wide Petals sing the waning day’s sonnet
I now realize that rest will soon arrive, in the form of a quilt, in the form of one like a man, who was, was a man, who is, and who is to come, a Love that will wrap around this planet and heal us, His tears will quench the flames of hate, anger, and war that we have sparked. The storm is coming.
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