Shaving Day

It's the last day of march, and that means time to shave off my two year beard and make way for Mustache April. That's right. Mustache April.

I must admit, there were a few tears streaming down my cheeks as I sheared off my long luxurious face-mane.

Oh well, it will certainly grow back, but for now I will enjoy a solidarity of one. Let Mustache April begin!

More Rough Stuff.

I stutter here

trying to pull down words

metaphors

clever twists

that can spell love, thankfulness and desire

I want to leverage them like boulders from my mind

so they could roll down this page

but my hand is weak on the lever

and my mind slow and stuttering

Because thses boulders are too big for a page

too big for a day

too big for me

too big for me

the wieght of your love is five blankets in december keeping me from the cold

the wieght of my thankfulness is the weight of water in june pressing your ears but holding your body free

The weight of my desire is the is the wieght of gravity, unyealding , inevitible , constant

So I stutter

try my hand

determined to return

and attempt to leverage again

It's never enough.

Zenith Lake

Back to the grove of ancient trees I take my soul, I take my soul
Beyond the sunset and the moon, out past the twilight in the north
Beneath the shadow of their age voices whispered with respect
To climb is to ascend the sky, the windblown symphony on high.

Back to the stillness of the lake I take my soul, I take my soul
Through broken trails and splashing brook, out past the twilight in the north
Floating on our tiny ark, two by two we paddle through
Shelter from the cities flood of noise, filth, and senseless blood.

I cried a bit. Which is silly really, because it wasn't real at all. Then again, neither were the tears.

Papa, time to get up, he yelled, tugging at the covers. Huh? I plucked my tongue from the roof of my mouth and swallowed twice. That sh** taste didn't leave; it wasn't even lessened. Papa! Here I got a kiss for you, he planted one on the back my unshaved head. Gettup breakfast is ready, he shouted. Uh huh, yes, I replied burying my face deeper into the pillow.

After jumping on me, pulling blankets off me and tickling my toes a bit, I got up.

I pulled on old clothes. Blinked copiously. Wiped drool from my lower lip.

I wasn't sure why I was sad, not just tired but sad. I don't often wake up sad. I wiped my eyes. No tears, just crusties, sand, some goobers in the cracks. I was downstairs in the bathroom when I remembered. I was crying, weeping, sobbing, when was that? I remember my body shaking, my lips like little leaves in the wind. I remember Michael's hand on my shoulder as I fo0und the end of myself and sobbed. I sobbed so hard even he looked surprised. He'd put his hand on my shoulder and then walked away.

And then I remembered. In the fog of him walking away, was a little boy yelling, Papa, Wake UP!

So I can't remember the last time I cried in a dream, but although my pillow was dry this morning, I had that feeling, the release of having a good cry. Which is a bit foolish, because none of it was real.

Journal Entry

3-22-10
7:51pm

By the time I reach the far cover of this journal I will have changed. (By the time I reached the end of that sentence I had changed.) Some changes will have been for the better; I will have learned more about myself, strengths and weaknesses, my body, my soul, women, my King, I will have aged another year, I will have become more skilled at various tasks and arts, and so on. I pray that far fewer will have been for the worse, though i know that mistakes will have been made, some for the first time, others the many-thousandth, and still others the last. I will have hurt loved ones and neglected strangers. I will have built barriers where bridges would have proven a better fit. I will have let down a great many, and will have been let down by the same. So much could be said, and with such unwavering certainty, of the effects this world will have had on me and I, in return, on it, for it is a matter of fact that I am inconsistent.

You, on the other hand, are anything but. You simply and terribly Are. Though my eyes will have been taunted, tinted, tainted by many a flashing thing, when they meet Yours they will find them freshly familiar, ancient in the most groundbreaking of ways. I am a choppy sea, and You a raging glass, a mirror in a hurricane. I am at the mercy of the hills and valleys alike, You are the Holy Redistribution, the plains of staggering heights and gaping depths.

I put all hope for a better tomorrow, a stable and worthwhile today, and a redeemed and utilized yesterday in Your broad hands, oh God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, hope of John, life of Paul, muse of Lewis and Weiss, mystery of generations. My awkward frame rests and rejoices on Your edgeless plateau of gracious and generous peace. For You Are.

May it be so.

the deed never done right

this was new

he never let conscience or forethought creep in
he stabbed, he wiped his blade, he moved on

wouldn't slow down long enough
for it to sink in
moving quick, eyes darting, nervous
but never brave enough to admit it

i can feign it good enough to get close
and deal the blow
he thought

and he did
almost did
victims were always left maimed
the deed never done right
the dull, clumsy efforts of a novice

but now
he planned it
the angle and location of the blade
the distance to and from
the amount of strength and emotion it would take

yet

still he stumbled and fell

plunging his blade in
to strike an artery

once again he had floundered
just nicking the vein