Posts for June 1, 2018 (page 4)

Men’s clothes behave better 
on the body.  Slouching over 
shoulders, creating caverns 
of comfort for knees, hips 
and breasts. You never see 
a man and stop to think 

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, honey 
You can’t be comfortable. 

Women on the contrary, 
swim like snake-fish in 
wriggling skins of cotton, 
cashmere, ciffon, brocade. 
Conforming the body to 
contortions unimiginable 
to the human spleen. 

Sometimes I like to try on 
pairs and take note of
daily task-lists 
that could be achieved 
without risking explosion. 

Blue shorts: grocery shopping, 
petting my dog, slight bend at 
the hips if I were to drop a pen, 
afternoon nap. 

Leggings: basically like wearing 
my own skin on top of itself, 
can eat whatever I want, 
people will more than likely 
see my underwear.  

Jeans: will hold my cell phone
in the butt pocket, look business
casual (if dark), feel great  
taking them off, coming home. 

a pile of rocks at my feet
i dig in deep into the dirt
bat as old as mathusla waits
to fly off shoulder     SWAT 
black scotch 88 tape
around the handle already pealing
empty horse pasture
just sold to a developer
may as well been walking
through eden or riverfront
same thing to a 12 year old

It’s 11pm, one child awake and screaming
the other sprawled out in our bed
we want intimacy, in different ways
but I feel disrespected, 
you feel unloved
I’ll reveal then
what I really believe about sacrifice;
covenant keeping, Christ-exalting marriage

I’m good, thanks!  
tie on, sun up, Fitbit charged
I’m pretending  
the sinful responses to those nearest
a product of exhaustion  
not a reflection of a deprived heart
most revealing

I’m good because Christ is good
The health of my family priority one
and my best energy and most gracious responses 
belong to them
Don’t miss Ephesians five–  
my bride is The Bride
I am (supposed to be) Christ
The sacrificed son

Ask me who
I have most consistently loved well
If it’s not my bride
I am not well

If you came in a box
It would say, “Handle with care.”
Like a porcelain figurines,
You are pastel, delicate, and beautiful.
But so rigid.
One wrong word,
One thoughtless gesture,
And you might break,
Leaving me to pick up the pieces.

There was a hint of resurrection lacing together
the words of our December goodbye.
She was leaving into the arms of Saint G
and she would be gone for quite some time.
June was her final word and I made it mine as well,
inspired and hopeful, but choosing not to believe.

June has never been a kind month.
People seem to leave me or tell me secrets
that ruin my love for them.
One year, awful circumstances kept me from family vacation.
Divorce missed the month, but June still rained on my lonely bed
every night I wasn’t given to drunken slumber.

Her final word lodged in my brain, I resolved to make a change
to live my life to make this monstrous month better,
not because I believe she will actually come home
but for the self I have been longing to find,
free of the many agonies of the past, and
full of forgiveness for those who did me wrong.

As June makes landfall in my life again,
devotion to self satisfaction and healing
has allowed for a more fulfilling living experience
marked by spontaneity, massive risks, and shattered comfort zones.
I have not failed any endeavor I have chosen to pursue
even if the outcomes have been a little disappointing.

But most importantly, I walk into this month as me.
That and my God are all I truly need
and all of life’s remaining blessings will come in time.
I hardly even think of the girl who set me on this path
and that’s where I find the most beautiful part of the story.
There was a hint of resurrection and the resurrection was mine.

When I think of life
I think of the fight
And how everyday
We have the choice to do right.
People hurry because of the word time, 
Often compared to the symbol of the scythe.
But there’s nothing to rush ,
no reason to hide ,
Or moments will pass you by
And you’ll miss your chance to be alive

When he means it,
Sometimes you’ll
Never know.

He may restrain himself,
Hold the squishy pieces
In a safe 
In a bank
In another state.

The advice he gives,
When you have asked,
Is pragmatic 
Precise
And if you hold it
Closely
You may catch
A faint whiff of
Bleach.

When he means it,
You may perceive it 
As denial
Though from his 
Perspective
He’s sparing you
A heartache.

When it’s nothing
Every light is
Green
On an orange barrelled
One lane road
That’s closed.

When it’s nothing
It is you
Who must secure
The valuables
In a safe
In a bank
In another state.

do you recall being close
where bodies were want of touch?
our voices a muffle chose-
warm skin expecting a nudge.

this intimacy written
between us… wet sentences
unraveling each minute,
unforbidden premises.

if there was any fire
left for the bottom of my
feet every step would be
the tip of salvation 

I am a minimalist.
No, Minimalism.

There are blank spaces, bland spaces
gluing together. Nothing really.
It’s wearisome until
you let go.

You is too many. We is unnecessary.
Wearisome.

relax

Seeing the body, no, a form.
A mind thought darkness. No mind. Darkness.