Quam Gloria, Hallelujah!

Past the spectacles galore, I come to your throne to adore the meer manger and swim under your living currents away from from these lawless waters. I want to simmer under the heat of your quiet glory. I want to embrace you and BURN DEEP DOWN, all these carcinogens I found, I keep bringing them around. Bells ring, and I have learned to rise this week, but I don't know where the time will go and I fear what I have already known, although I cognitively know I am now

More than dust. More than a mourner. More than just a scorner, scorning all the things that happened in that seamless house of unseemly men. We acted as cowards despite eternal weight of relationships. I hid behind the cushions, you know, where we would stash our trash. I hid amongst the trash, for fear of where the time might go. Feared it might be predestined to be blown away, cause the Joy of life seemed to be light and fluffy, but I felt the burden constantly and indefinitely.

I wonder about you Brother-King, as I find you to be more consistent than the pain, how consistent was your pain? How constant was that weight? Did you feel the heaviness of the brokenness of this universe when you were first born? How did you not cry?
How come you were the only child not to cry, I would think your tears would your first reaction to how dismal a place we left for the HIGHEST GRACE. The lack of maneuverability in your fate.

JESUS. WHAT KIND OF EYES DID YOU SEE FROM?

As sin entered through your ribs, as our idolatry of murder spilled into your innocence as you became that which you were destined to abolish.YOU WERE BORN AMONG THE GENOCIDE OF CHILDREN.

You must be able to see something I can't father. Within merely the guilt I am capsized and return to filth  What Joy resides within you to call me out of this? Where resides this registry of hope to keep my heart sustained? How gentle you are, as you wipe down my feet, with your hair. My Jesus.

You watch me as I attempt to worship you, I fumble upon arrogance and pride and narcissism and vanity and lust. And self hate. I feel disingenuous to core. But God you are so good.

Quam Gloria.
Quam Gloria.
Quam Gloria.
Hallelujah.

Everything

There is no glory here. Its like groundhog day, the record is turning, but the song is going nowhere. There is no glamour in a drunken romance. Its there, always there, always reminding you that you are breaking her heart before you even know her. Some romance this is.

But a grand romance is still here.
I lie to myself, about you. I drop my faith by the doorside, and I crawl into bed with my enemy. Where is the glory I can't see? Its in your jealous tears. Its in those groans to deep for words. Its the way you will calm my unsettled skin after I've let the cancer take its place. I traded love for addiction. You traded your life for me. You traded everything

for me.
Cause you're madly in love with me. Not obsessed, not dependent, and never apathetic.

You are of a different kind. I am worse than the lepers, my heart more sick than the pharisees. STILL, after contortion upon contortion, session after session of me hurling stones at your temple, you are steady from the throne, you keep the tide away from my feet, so that I am not swept away by shame. It took you everything to atone for my failures, and even upon death, you never let me go. Still I stone you.

I would blame it on my hands, on my dead flesh, I would turn to masochism, take out my eyes, but you wrote the truth upon my tongue and your wisdom upon my lips. And at nine every night, rises a Steadfast Seabear, speaks order into the air. Out by the shore, he beckons my hands to paint those castles and  cathedrals from within this cavern old. He and White Grizzly speak about one cavern in particular. I look upon it often, and my quiet prayers become violent cries of desperation. Our knuckles are throbbing, as our hearts are turning. Its the inconsistency eating at our bones. Their groans align with mine. The cavern is a wilderness where honesty lay, where we are genuine men. Truth is, thats a part of me. Hypocrisy is finite and closed.

And stones lay at his feet, and broken he stands with a crown in his hand. Among the wild depths within my soul, he remains scarred and oft, still in pain. By and by, I will never wear out his name, and I swear upon time and faith, that the day will come when our hearts beat the same. A day you traded for everything.

Reality of my weakness

If your out at the right time, you might catch me slinging sparks
Out here in the desert. That's just my way of wishing the night away. I really just want to draw in chalk in front of you doorway. To line your bedroom with salt to keep those darker things away from you. Those gates won't prevail, I swear it to be true, though the thought creeps into my mind often; you laying down to die, your breath finite and cool, and my petition remains irresolute.

On still, within the account of my inconsistencies, lies fear for your heart. A great lack of faith about the healing of those family wounds.

Despite the promises made to me. Promises made in red
I saw it again today, passing by in my tradition, in the repetition, he lied counter-current to the day by day routine that I settle for.
STILL HERE are those waters I am engulfed in;
of lies
medicine
and self-discovery? - indulgence in the damage that took a hold of me when he took a hold of you. Thought time would iron out those wrinkles but I haven't spoken to my own Blue-Birthking in months, that blue just seems to have turned gray.
Thought time would conquer that departure,
thought wisdom would be heard and understanding would have her voice heard because
I thought I was a greater being having stood upon my enemy,

Seems that's not the case. 

Seems to be a tease in the reality of my weakness

And thats where I'm at.

I'm asking my heart whether I can depend on it to surrender. Conviction won't roll off my mind, understanding has made her home here, and I know, I've heard her from within the whale. 

Just stand still the voice says, just take my hand and remember the seasons that came before

Before you tell me where my promises will land and how the naive will raise their hands

The peak of truth is my promises to you. Thats the reality of your weakness.

And there lies the mustard seed and there lies the mountain. 

Crowns Upon Temples

Today was different. This past two weeks have been different. Sure, sore red eyes undercoated with purple weight all the same. I've had my legs locked up on staircases, and I've been deep blue in the foreign current. I still tumble upon disbelief.

His words, run thick through my blood. Upon the pounding of my heart weighs a sword of great spirit. The gravity of the Son is to grand to flee from. Such great dishonor I brought upon myself when I fought for falsehood and such sorrow when I held my hands over my eyes to avoid such beautiful light. But my eyes are shining in the morning light, and while my voice is still gruff, my aim is beauty and true. Still and still I am finding another cavern to crawl into, and another city to be illuminated and to adore.

You ask me what these cities are, at what depth have I traveled within my soul, by what roads have I journeyed here?

This is love, to die for ones friends.

You and I can see that the our purpose in this life is to love each other. When we were dying and decaying, that's what we held onto. Now that love brought us back from those depths, we live in its vibrancy. We live in these temples, at its command, centered around its propositions and decrees. This is what law I serve. This is the rules that I follow. Mind you, I understand the passion for anarchy, to up-throw tyranny, but I will always serve what is good. I will not live for myself. That is true tyranny at its finest. To serve a finite evil, whether it be your flesh or the demons one follows.

So I find myself here, in the purest relationship I have. My dear sister. You inspire me anew. The one girl I can swear to protect and serve. Youthful and naive, the dust doesn't have to settle in our footsteps. Power and authority can break new breath upon these grounds. These walls are being raised, and that wolf of the world has scheduled demolition.

So I will have my war with the wolf.

He will see what the Word is manifest. There is a call for those who know his voice. To take up torch and speak new life into the ashen nature. We are without excuse to give up, to not take up agreement and concordance with the breathtaking spirit of love. He is resounding in his decree, THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN SHALL NOT FALL. In grace our glorified bodies will rest and we will know the truth of those words. For now, we hold onto the lamb who was slain in verification during the wrestles of doubt and hopelessness. We will wrestle anointed.

We are anointed to bring good news to the poor. So that love might be glorified. So that he might be glorified. We are temples to take stand in light and be illuminated in glory of the insurgence of the love of MY BROTHER-KING!
Meteorites will fall. Weary hands will rise towards heaven and exclaim,

I AM FREE!

OH DEAR GOD I AM FREE FROM THIS CANCEROUS CURSE!

I am free by grace.

Selah.

Weary hands shall meet and bonds will be formed from weary days heavy-ladened in warm adoration of truth. Of Clarity. And set in clarity they shall find what I have found. There are deeper reserves made for memories not to be forgotten. Deeper reserves made to hold love within us. Fruits of faith and joy and endurance and self-control to be had in those temple-gardens. Bread is to be broken in your walls my sister. As I have had faith, in the healing hand of Brother-King, so shall you. By his grace he will take your iniquities my sister, as he has mine.

I watch you in eagerness. Find him. Cry out.

Submit to the truth my dear, how grand, how holy is he.

Meteorites in the night.

Remember the scent of autumn before the blood slipped into our beds? When you and I were cruising in the oldsmobile singing our hearts out, curving our hands along the currents. Did we notice the doors closing behind us, or were we to preoccupied by youthful idealism?

I don't know friend. Karma tells me nothing about the future's history, guess grace has her eyes on me. I can't say I'm prophet, but when grace comes close, roads once hidden in shadows are illuminated. She is a shimmering knight, she shimmers and she glows. I am in mad love with her. Guess I am young again. It's like all those shining stars are coming back again. The dark sky is full of light. I am anticipating arrival.
I wonder now if you and blackbird could sing sweetly again for me. You're both grown, gone off to foreign lands, gone into your own battles. Don't think that I ever forget about you kids.

I don't ever forget about you kids.
Don't trip up, cause here it comes. I've been brewing a warm wind, to come and bring some comfort to your cold bones. One, that maybe blackbird could fly along. One that maybe you could put that singing voice back in your lungs. I still dream of a day I see you two cry in sober-hope. Meet me there, thats where I stand. I've learned to be quiet and wait.

It's only a matter of time before you two fall in love with him again.

I know, because I can't stop. I can't but return to those golden pastures where he captivated my heart for the first time. Where his waters started flowing, gushing from within my soul. What a sweet and lovely sound living water is! Cleansed by blood, what a miracle it is to see the abundance and fullness and depth of life I find within my soul!

Such an outstanding contrast to the dark waters I lived in! How tragically broken my heart was, but as a youth in passion, in the frustration and the torment...

as I wrestled in those sheets... I cried out
Bring these dry bones to life!

And I wondered if my life could really change. I wondered if the heart of my King truly yearned for HEALING for my broken heart, if he really desired love to RESTORE MY FAMILY.

If I would escape these addictions

I was bound by a stronghold.

Remember when we started off? Before all the walls went up, when we were just fleshy and vulnerable? When all our wounds were fresh and we didn't have the time to bite our tongues? When we thought romance could fill up our holes rather than burn up our innocence?

My friend, do you remember the fear in my heart?

I was scared that something was waiting around the corner for me. 

That I was on the verge meeting utter despair

That the end was soon.

That His promises weren't meant for me.

That who I was, wasn't good.

That I was just a liar and a user.

That I was the filth of the earth.

I thought that.

When things go really dark, and when I was filled with shame, thats what was in my heart.

Do you remember me crying on ellie's porch? It was because I saw the heart of the Lord. How much greater was his love for you kids, how beyond measure his love for you was! How I wept in fits because you could not see. The weight of my SWEET KING'S EMOTIONS!

How sweet they were. How lovely they were.

Last week

I went walking without my bat down some dark country road. 

I took off my shirt. I wasn't scared. I was full of dignity. I was full of courage. 

I sang out to him

FOR THE SAKE OF THE WORLD, PUT A FIRE IN ME

LIGHT A FLAME IN MY SOUL FOR EVERY EYE TO SEE

I admitted my fear to him, in courage, in humility. 

I confessed my shame. I poured upon my grief.

And in my confession, trouble stirred in brush. Standing there was a ghost enveloped in deceit. He was there to stop me from meeting my Holy Lover. I recognized my enemy, and by grace I prepared for him. I wrapped truth around my waist. As soon as I was bound by truth, My identity as Saved and Sacred encompassed my mind. I took out my trusty torch, the flame was blue and alive. Seeing that, with just a mustard seed, I began to defend myself. I would not let that ghost capture my heart.

I remembered that ancient text.

"...their faith is credited as righteousness"

-Romans 4:5

So I sung to my Lord

You are full of Mercy!

You are full of Grace!

You are full of Mercy and Grace!

As I sung that, I drew close to his heart. And I started praying for my brother. He showed me all the love he had put in my heart for my little bro. By the prayers of the punk-saints and my own blessed mother, the lord gave me the strength to speak to Jonathan in great love about all the darkness in our family. I wept at the feet of Jesus.

And then, a meteorite flew through the sky as a sign that my King was truly there. His holiness. His love, astounds me.

Remember those stars in my eyes?

They shine brighter than before. 

Who am I? At the core?

I am a child of God. A co-heir with Christ. I am a saint with which the power of the name of Jesus has been bestowed.

Was my suffering ever meaningless?

No, because Christ was always at my side.

My addiction?

Has no power over me. FOR CHRIST IS VICTORIOUS.

How can I but praise him! How can I but cry out in joy! I surely have faith that both you and blackbird shall meet my king. I look forward to the day.

The Old Iron Door

She is pressing into the old iron door, with all her might, and all her strength. Her heart swells up within, because time has taught her how to counter the will of her body, despite the weight, despite the exhaustion. Her arms are smaller than mine, but they are golden and radiant, and now they are swelling and red, because she is RESOLVED to open that door. She KNOWS what is behind it. She KNOWS the worth of true treasure. And she is breathing through her gut cause she has met these headaches before.

It wasn't long ago in fact when the scorpion's sting was still fresh on her fingers. She looked at him, as he blared the radio, entirely unawake. SHE was awake to what he did, and she leapt from his car, conscience of the consequences. All the scrapes and tears in her flesh, just to flee the tragedy she was tempted with. SHE WASN'T TERRIFIED OF BEING ALONE. But, her bones were fragile, like the rest of ours are. They were broken and split, and fortunately for her, she was okay, because Jesus would lift her from that crucifix.

No, she wasn't born of the garden of Eden, but her blood was of good mix. Her father did not lay curses upon her name and he loved his wife so. Her mother was a woman of discipline and truth, she could not be led astray into the sut, into those gutters intended for her.
Because of her parents, despite the brokenness of the world she was born in, Two Suns burned in her heart. Giant and hot, trustworthy and eternal, her words are theirs, for they modeled her like clay, with Jesus working through their hands.

Her hands are now here, and her knuckles are white. White light is leaking from this old iron door, shining on her ash covered face. Finally good faith rewarded.

Look at her, she is so much older now. Her body was so fragile when she leapt out of that car. She was so scared, so unsure. Now, the light that radiates from that door is consumed by the faith in her eyes. That light consumes all that she is.
I want to look into her eyes, I want to share in her vision, whoever she is. Oh that grand sight.

The crowns she lays at His feet.

The song He sings for her.

That Old Iron Door is opened.

Conversation with the King

Its down to him and I.  Its the dead of night and neither of us are going anywhere.
He is resolved and I am willing. I call out to him,

"You speak to me in poems and songs,
but what about in the rusting,
in my crumbling community?
When we make attempts at piety
we trip and fall over each other.
Sober-hope is dry on the weekends.
When we forget all the lessons on righteousness,
When we look at the dead and wonder where the mercy was for them.
What about them?"

I put my cigarette out on our wood porch, as I avoid looking him in the eye. I've been tripping on the confusion in exhaustion. I've been thinking upon the memories of dying enemies. They were just poor men with rich friends. Rich friends with poorer souls still, they wouldn't be quiet as they covered their hearts with concrete. They've been in my prayers, I've been calling for revival in those woods
Ya know,
where all those men gathered round their money and drugs, burning their souls with country music and incense. Those men, who are laying out there now, sick of the taste of regret in the back of their throats, the drugs deepen the taste but alleviate the disdain.
What can I say, I was raised in those woods. I laid claim to my vice, I've stumbled upon the starbitten history of our dead culture. Hell, you could journey to say, they besieged the cities in my soul, crawling up in those caverns to take and capitalize on lies and feminine lines.

"THAT WAS OUR HOME." His words shot through my soul.
You are a temple my son, one in which I reside. I am your conductor, you cannot run off residual energies. Your Art will end up hollow and empty. That is the consequence of Isolation. You could wrap up yourself in a cocoon but I will not leave you hanging on a limb waiting for you to emerge. You are neither a moth or a monarch, and that transformation will not suit you well my friend.

I said "WOAH, WHAT ARE YOU SPEAKING ABOUT JESUS? IF I AM ALONE IN THIS, IF MY COMMUNITY HAS TAKEN TO THE GROUND, AND I AM SLEEPING ALONE WITH THESE THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD, WHAT SAY YOU THEN?"

He says, You are no criminal, if thats what your thinking. You did wrong kid, yeah. But your community isn't dead and neither am I. They are well and breathing and speaking life into you. You gotta take that truth and wrap in round you tight. Cause, like it or not, I died for you kid. You're made for me, whether its a love you can see, or a time to cry out in need. Take what you have here and build a home son.


Your pride isn't worth speaking out fear.
This cage isn't worth missing the cities I built.

We sat quietly together for a while as I thought on what he said. I turned to look at him and he was standing up. He looked me in the eye and said,

Get some sleep. We'll slay those monsters in the morning.

Intimacy

I was his kid once. There were times where I felt, I was his right hand man, no man could usurp my position. The wolves could not, would not, dig there claws in. But as I grew older that turned out to be an illusion. I breathed in her blood, it was unclean and it was numbing to the touch. I don't know where it became unclean, whether it was actually me; but I knew she was not being redeemed. Despite what it seemed, I was pulling on her strings, it was MY FEAR that was manipulating her and me. I had become captured by distortion, my hands in a contortion, and any holiness left was neglected and headed to abortion. He said it was all dark, and his new girl said I'd lost that light. I cried "Father please, Could you be a little more quiet?". His anger was gone. He was nowhere in sight.

I wanted to tell him I was embarrassed, that I was ashamed. That there were demons forming, demons calling out my name. That my addiction was growing, that my integrity was collapsing, that I was scared my faith was perishing along with the little identity I had. We missed out on those promises held by our starry-eyed birthkings, but their crowns were cracked anyways; then they were disowned, and finally overthrown. Some of us found sages to keep hold of our secret stories, to hold them as sacred and secure, never to be sold. Others found the Lords of World, always keen and cunning and counting the new kid into his hurt demeanor, paving down the path of healing with the pleasures of stealing. Stealing, we would never see it as such, but as our eyes gaze back to the hollow glaze, we are evaluating the worth of everything we see and we are buying and selling, counting the common and the sacred on the values of worth we deem to have meaning. The convenience of a temporal truth.

Truth is relative right? At least consciously. But subconsciously I am taking her for free from my computer screen, when I know in my heart she might mean the world to me, if I only knew her. But I don't. I don't know her, and I never will, she is an image or a clip, she is the most intimate section snipped to fit my addiction.

It is an addiction I am sick of having. I am sick of being consumed with her genitalia instead of keeping my eyes on the road while I singing her "blue dahlia". I am sick of being part of the american sex trade, I was far too young, to be part of that grand objectification by our culture. I was a cog of our lust-conditioned culture. A slave to my eyes and my hands and to the same wolves that ate our daddy's heart. He wasn't coming home just from a hard day at work, nor was he leaving just to escape the ramblings of his incompetent child. It wasn't just his rage that was wild, it was his tears, as he wept in fits apologizing for things I didn't understand, as I anxiously forgave him, too frightened to see my father as a weak and broken man. Whatever passion was left went into the idols that gave him that glaze. The same glaze that covers my eyes.

I don't mean to be critical, but I will not brush it aside. Aside and aside it was hid, away from the light so that no one could peer into this disgusting heart of mine. I don't mean to be critical of you, honestly I do respect you, but these are my scars, and the wounds are getting infected constantly. I am trying to find meaning despite the seeping sickness plaguing me. And my flesh tells me its inherent, that it's part of my definition, that there is nowhere above this because I am as captive as you are to this identity.

If I close my eyes, and study the white-hooded flame-carrier, even in temptation, even in the sickness, I must recognize that there is something pulling me away from this. That I am not just convicted by repulsion, though repulsed I am. I am convicted to glance at gentler hands. That my hands are made to be gentler hands, that thats the deeper truth. That these bags under my eyes, won't cross into the divine threshold, but my soul will be kept trudging through eternities wake. That my nature exist for intimacy, not just to take on some pseudo-spiritual legalism, but to break reigns of backseat "love" for pursuit of sober-eyed truth-love. Idealistic, I know, but if the King reign like I say he do, I can keep these sweet sweet lovesongs, the ones I wrote as a child to be true.

Before it all set in. When my nature was handpicked to spin her round. To settle down.
To see the glee of children singing with her, to shout those hymns with her in happy tears.
Whoever, wherever she is.

I think I could rise above, I think I could be intimate. I think I could bring myself in. This culture is so hollow, leading children into a void. But I am not hollow, I am wholy whole. I am whole without another soul. My steps carry weight, not on their own, but this body is not its own. I recognize that. I share this temple intimately. I have faith in it's foundations, in its dedication. Doesn't matter what comes through my gates, those wolves should fear what resides inside. What resides here has been planted, and the roots are more than steel beams, not to be uprooted by these horrible half-dreams. Not to be usurped by geneology. For The Father is a Grand King.

I believe theres more for me. I believe in Intimacy.


Here's a spotify link for the Song Blue Dahlia I was referring to earlier.
If you dont have spotify, get it, its free.
The Gaslight Anthem – Blue Dahlia

Replenish (a confession of sorts)

Part of me sees death as a means to escape. Its hard not to think of it at times. I'd be lying if I said it didn't worry me. But there's nothing to assure me from an escape from duality. Least not freedom from the persona I despise. Why would I kill off the little breath of life I have?

Ive been watching you from afar. I see how you lie. I see how he creeps and crawls into your skin. He's just like me. And your just like her. You could drink life away. What a waste. You live in your lies, you speak like a breathless ghost; like some dead girl. What a waste. I cant keep from watching, but I cant get to close, I'm too fond of you.

I'm too fond of you and that scares me. It reminds me of a dead grey winter, where my words would build altars to false gods, constructs to enclose any life from shining light. I wonder if those constructs disappeared, I wonder if I would stop replaying all those failures. All those memories. Unresolved passions and wounds that make me feel cheap. Make me feel hollow.

Sometimes when I am laying in that hollowness, looking into the darkness, other memories come floating to me. A dear friend would sit with me. He'd speak to me, while I was blurry and teary, the only thing I could see was the candle light and the only thing I could hear was his voice deep in the music. Dear God it was romantic. My mind was afire with bright light, electricity ran though those thought highways, illuminting long forgotten habitats and glassgolden cities. Yeah, they were covered in dust, but by God, how did they shine! I tell you the truth, we are the Kingdom that the Great King is seeking. Oh how rich that kingdom will be.

And I get lost in the dabble of the world. The White Coated Torchbearer is overshadowed by some dark, hollow-eyed fool. He sulks around and drags his feet. The label of a deadweight, deathspeaker haunts me. It wasn't cascadence she heard when I spoke, it was the slug-speak of a fearful man. The White Coated man in me questions the authority given to make such accusations. On what grounds are the word deadweight eternal? And do I hold onto that word in at attempt to revive some old sick compassion?

And my compassion? Where did  it flee to? The reason I know these men of thorns, the reasons I hum with these criminals. What is it for, If I lack compassion. It has become cold and intellectual and lust is riding on the edges and crevices of these constructs, waiting to demolish me. Self-glorification has set its golden hand on my shoulder, whispering of beauty in self-destruction. How dark and demented these voices are. How hollow is there tone, but they beat upon my heart and resound within the rest of my being. As their mallet hits my heart, my vision blurs and I am cold and numb.



I want to call out.
I want help.
And no, I don't want your sickness. Not in the least, I can't escape from this pain your way, I've seen the results and they're disgusting. I'm tired of elderly pride. I'm tired of my pride. I'm tired of getting in the way of brother-king destroying that masochistic-consistency.

I'm tired. And I know something pure and sweet is out there.

Maybe I should lay down at buruchaperu. Maybe they really do know the sweet song.
Maybe that re-dispensation of gravity won't cut me up like that wolf is saying.


I need my mind back. I need to be replenished.
Vous Etes Mon Coure

If I give it all

Take what you need now honey, and do what you like

Dont worry about me mama, I'll be alright.

Doesn't matter what happens, when I wander, my brothers come after me.
It all crumbles in the end, doesn't it? I fumble as what I relied on to be reliable, fails me. I can't blame the consistency of the future on the men around me, despite what I think. I keep thinking on how the ground has fallen underneath my feet, returning to despair, but leveling when work calls on me. I cant blame the floor, for space-time is a non-entity. I can't hate my Brother-King, he is in the very breath I breathe. And he is lovely.
But of course I did. I had my heart split in fractions, one wanting to rest in truth, one looking for validation in falsehood.

My brothers came after me. They sought after me. And they stayed with me.
That meant so much to me.

When I say the Sentry is supernal, I mean it. We can't look at each other as the blind see the blind. There's not enough time to disregard, based off the insight of our fleshy hearts. Eternity weighs on every man. Yes, by grace we are savaged, and in grace we must understand. Thats where providence is found, not in buildings, not in systems. Those crumble.

The Sentry and The Champ return me to the climb. There's a city on a hill that I must reach, but there were some old ghosts keeping me, speaking to me, as if they had a right.

they don't. they only have what is given.

The Champ is an Emerald Shepherd, I dont know if he sees that. Both he and the sentry speak words of weight. Words of weight in their humanity. I see sainthood in their compassion, in their defense of The Lord and his Kingdom. Namaste. Namaste.

Often, I feel weak around them. But I guess thats fine. He is strong in my weakness.

And His Grace is enough for me. Its all I need.
Its in his kindness that I am drawn to repentance. And its in the spirit of repentance that I know He's present; there in that time, I know He's worthy. I know why I call him Brother-King. Its gentle, and sweet.

I owe You my future. I owe You my all.

Only cause it already belongs to you. You bought me. You bought me with your love.
I am yours.

Providence in Buruchaperu

There is a season for everything.
Some peoples seasons play out like chapters.

When they remember the events of their lives, they flip through pages, skim through certain paragraphs and idolize others, and when the chapter is over they move on to the next one.

I never quite worked like that. I always lived at last minute, my head was down, and life hurled me around like a comet. What a fiery orbit. That was the world that I lived in. I was bold and brash, and I spoke the ramblings in my head like grand prophecy. I stirred up my fire whenever the storms were brewing and I held tight to the riddles of those romantic dreams. The chapters were rolled together, one incoherent paragraph. The plots never died down, it was all spitfire rolling into gasoline. One barrel detonating after another. One great fireworks show.



Now, the things in the room are still rattling and theres still a light in the corner flickering. My hair is ruffled and I am still slowly unclenching my fist. I'm letting go of romantic dreams and grasping parables to fill those open seams between my ribs and heart. I am going somewhere else, where things are not so dusty, where the scent of flesh doesnt lay on the breeze.

I spent to many years chasing after that scent.

 I can never get those years back. I can never get those years back.

Then again, I cannot retrieve next year after its done. I will feel the hands of ghosts then as I do now. I cannot sway suffering and ask him to leave me be. But I can have providence and I can turn from myself unto more beautiful things. I can listen to his words and place them like precious jewels in my heart. I dont need to necessarily wrap a chain around my waist. I may have a fever but I haven't quite built up a sweat like her. My blood is thicker now, despite how poisoned it is. I'll probably need a specialist.

As much as I do need professional help, I've gotten through the brush with the help of my Punksaints. It was by their help that I got the courage to cut the throat of the sea-monster Psalv-Muron and it was by their help that I entered the hands of the Buruchaperu. It was from the hands of Buruchaperu that the Young Cardinals came to me, and now I return to their home with them. Fitting, isn't it? It's funny, this feeling that I'm home. Home feels pretty foreign to me.

The folks here are the rusty saints that my heart has called out for in my rebirth. 

I spent the years looking for someone like you Brother King.

Some wore your scars, others carried your luminescence.

But I havent seen a man shine through their scars, not like you do.

Not till now.

I was always waiting for something to happen. For a grand miracle amongst the explosions. For the troops of angels to come down in a whirlwind and arrest the tyranny and the hostility. I spent a lot of time clicking my red heels and wishing for home. More time wishing than praying anyhow.

I always thought somewhere deep that fortunes belonged to the richer men.
But, by God, how rich my life is. How full of providence and blessing it is.

Im scared to believe in these wayward dreams, and I'm scared to sleep without the static running in the background.

If the Champ asks, yeah Im doing alright. Got a parable in my right hand and a torch in my left. Gonna run with those scarred saints and were gonna sleep and pray before we go out to drive.

It'll be right. Got Providence on my side.

Identity of Blood

Behind my shoulder someone is watching me. Keen to keep pace, to guide my steps. Imperfection has made its way into their words, and death flows from them into my life. Death flows into life. Love is to risky, to dangerous. We have to keep close to the shadows, we can’t be seen or heard.
My voice spills out words into another’s life. I am watching over their shoulder, keen to keep pace. My words have always been known to be laced with imperfection and pride. But who could I tell that to? They will devour me like wolves. They will leave no way out.

I see now how the cornered channel their frustrations into their children. Poison is passed from one generation to another. We would die for that poison. We would die for our pride. Thankfully, you don’t have to work to hard to die, the poison is potent.

My ancient fathers spoke of liberty and justice. 

What is that to the soul? 

When do I feel the hammer of liberty and freedom separate the sickness from the love? 

Where is liberty from pride?

I’ve felt pride capitalize and customize the quarters in my heart. I’ve known pride to prey on those sick lives, the ones I loved most. And at PRIDES DEATH, seven more return. SEVEN MORE in its place, seven more bring their deathly stench to replace.

Where is liberty from pride?

When, ancient fathers, would we make it home safe and sound? Where ancient fathers have you made your home? Are we included? Were you going to insure that promise with your heart, and did you lose all sight when you lost your passion? Did you speak false hope out of fear?

Am I dead to you?

Are you dead to me?

Can you feel the cost of  your pride?

 I can feel your wounds now. I see your intentions rise up inside of me. I hear your words on my lips.I understand your dead words and I know what your tired teeth were trying say.

I get it now, but I feel the weight of your losses.

The weight has taken its toll. It grinds against my bones and gives me fury while I sleep.
Further and further and deeper and deeper the anger treads. Down to the darker corners in my heart wrath resides.

Parts of me have died because of this poison! Sacred and sweet parts of me.

God I hate it all.

Dear God.

God, sometimes you burn in my bones like fire. Your ministry of reconciliation is the warmth of my skin.You inspire the spark in my eyes. But days like now, they aren’t like that. They are days when I feel dull and used and torn and broken. I don’t feel like a joyous celebration of Gods glory.

I mean, I still love you. With all my heart. And I want to love those who hurt me. I want to love myself, despite my error. I get carried instead by ghosts and old fumes of denial. Not by you. I have to speak the truth.

I have been ungodly and impure. And I have violated myself with pride and hate and despair.
I don’t want to be ashamed to see you. I don’t want to be full of death.
When I look at you I see a deeper truth than all this brokenness. I see sober-hope but still a spectacular redemption. A family becomes a grand bride, made pure and anew, by the murder of sweet Christ. The death of my sweet brother-king for the holiness of a dead people. New Identities, from new blood. We are born in dead blood, but reborn of living blood.

The truth counters the weight of the trespasses. My identity is not found in my heritage or actions or experience. It is defined by that First Heir of the New Kingdom. 

My Brother-King is the only one who weeps with me. He groans in ways to deep for words.

During these summer nights when I cant hold myself from thinking of death he comes around.
Sweet and majestic and quiet he sings me through.

In Malachi it says God has a book of remembrance. So do I Lord. I will remember what you do.

I will remember your kindness to me.

I will remember your kindness to me.

Giving up the Ghost.

Looks like I've ridden out Psalv-Murons waves. I'm not so scared of the deep anymore. Im not so scared of the ghosts in the sea.

They might hide in sunken mountains and they might have seen the great watery depths, but they don't have my heart captivated when they sink their eyes sink into mine; I'm looking at something brighter.

The cold and lonely type ride upon that salty swelling ocean. 

Sure, there are some treasures lining the sea-floor,

and maybe these weak arms couldn't hold all those gems.

My weak arms kept me warm as I struggled home.

Sometimes we would forget to keep an eye on our hope and the ocean would sweep it off the deck. Whenever our hope was overboard, we had a very difficult time steering our ships. Thankfully, fierce lighting would light up the sky and we could see the colossal kingdom looming against the skyline. We were scared and tired, but we knew that what we saw couldn't be unseen. Blackbird kept her distance, fearing the mountain might fall on her; she could still feel the old origin rubble covering her; she could still feel the weight rolling in her blood. She could never understand the trembling in my hands. Maybe now, maybe now after the aftermath, the tears have made their payments and those painted circles might heal over. Maybe one day it will be crystal clear.

It's not at all crystal clear here. My greater eyes still need adjustment

to discern between my thoughts and reality. Loneliness will still attempt to cripple me.

Thing is, in my solitude I am still whole. I miss blackbird deeply and I wonder if the wound will ever close,

Thing is, his grace keeps me clean. Its enough for me.

I am giving up the ghost. I dont need a ghost to sing her siren songs to me. I dont need a soul. His grace is enough for me.

Prayers I thought would never be answered found their homes. God's divine will has come into fruition. I see before a Gentle Blue Birthking. He leads down into calm waters and we carry on through calamity. His touch is reminds me of the Single Man of Discontinuity, the All-King. Perhaps the great continent divide sobered his red temperament, perhaps I missed his gentle blue hue, maybe I hurt so bad I didn't believe it was there.

I see now a Gentle Blue Birthking. My All-King lead him to me. As he promised. My heart is getting strong. 

Blessed be his name.

When I am wrestling

When I am rejoicing

Blessed be his name.

The Elders Elixirs were no good

All these secrets I keep, why are they my secrets? How bad does my breath reek of them? Can you hear their weight by the infliction in my voice; is my mask more convincing or am I letting go of these fading fractures?

I see church steps, and I moving towards them. I am holding my head high despite what all the fact I am wrestling with. What is traversing is catastrophic. I never let their images sink, they were too young to factor into this disillusioned heart. I am scatterbrained, unable to hold a thought. My mind leaps away from me, trying to escape a sober reality. I'd rather live in a drunk world, away from the tyranny of my memories. I wasn't concerned with the elixir, despite how hypocritical, how unlike me. The journey was to a void, someplace I felt entirely uninterested, entirely unaware of myself. A place where I lost who I was. Where I didn't bear my name.

It was by these elixirs my name became spoiled. Elders attempted to escape their old skin and children cried out for anyone to know them. I was born among them. 

Sometimes, on the darker days, I feel as if I have wasted all my time crying out among them. Truth is, the lake is dry, the sorrow is fresh out and I dont think you'll find anything if you come back tomorrow. I could hold on to it all, but what would be the point of that? Never helped me in the past. Won't help me now.

No, what I want, what I need, is new light. The summer light. I want burnt cheeks not the beakers and elixirs to cure whatever dysfunction is going on with my family. I want to drink lemonade with my grandparents as I learn to carry compassion with me wherever I go. Always having some for the blackbirds who come my way. I want to walk up those church steps, and live in that sanctuary, receive the brokenhearted, offer the sober-hope.

No, I never imagined as I child that I would stay up through the night, stirring my madness and lust, speaking in strange phonetics, wishing the demons away. Sure, I always knew it would be a rough walk. Suffering doesn't change as time goes by. Neither does this sober-hope. Guess thats all I got to put on these secrets. Cause the elders elixirs were no good. I know. I tried them.

Hit the reeds

Pull your car over. I need to get out and scream. I need to let it all out. Cause I can't pretend like it never happened. I can't pretend that suffering isnt going to occur. And I cant pretend that it wont return after its done with me now.
I need to run out into the field and feel the reeds hit my hands. I need to walk this out, pace till I can find a definitive place for all the wrong turns. You may never need to catalog evil, but I need to sort this sickness. When you lose the luxury of pain being temporary, you need to know where your prayers go.You want to know where your blood flows when you pour it out for others. You want to be honest and seek truth, you just gotta keep praying as your pushing your sweaty hands into the dirt. You can't hyperventilate. You have no time for defeat. You have to move on.
Hit the road. Play me that song that burns my lungs. Let me pound my fists upon your dashboard, just enough where your airbags might come forth. I can hyperventilate here, in between the beats. You wont ask me about cause I'm looking kinda manic now. Just know buddy, I'm not ludicrous, I dont think I'm even ridiculous. I'm struggling. I'm wrestling. I'm burning for answers. I'm burning for some retribution, for justice and victory. I can't slow down right now. Not now, when my brothers backs against the wall. When my sisters mind is a playground for animals. How can I keep mute?

But if I speak, how could I defy the mold. How could I reach further than these governing ghosts?

 How can I trample the only notions known?

I will look for you. I will wrestle with you. I may come out bloody and torn and fractured

But I will know you. And I will have my soul.

It is not theirs to take.

Questions about Time Travel

White Grizzly has returned from his hiatus.I wonder what I will tell him. I wonder if my secrets will flee from my lips, or whether my second nature will seal me up proper.

I want to seal it up from everybody. I know this age is green, but bricks keep dropping like rain. Its not proper for this to continue. I was supposed to have made my escape long ago. I live in between mountains, in the valleys and the crevices. Its where I was born and its where I made my home. Every year I ascent those mountains, but I never stay, its so cold up there. Its warmer in this lonely town.

Sometimes, I wonder if all the grandeur I dream of will be looked at by historians as an irrelevant footnote. I'm always dreaming, always left in that dark wondrous neverland. Where history doesn't mean a thing, and I am not stuck here. I am in a hopeful future. Its hard to resist acting towards that future as soon as I awake.

I think the Man I am in my dreams is a different person. He's in love with everything. He really is a torchbearer. He has a light about him and his story compels.

Right now I hate everything. Mostly because the cancer reaches everything. The smoke arises from my foolish mouth and stains everything I speak into. Its like a cigarette addiction. Sin is like cigarrettes. Thing is, no one finds my smoke appealing. It stains homes, and churches.

I dream of a day where my breath is purified. But there no cure for sin. Just death.
Even when gazing upon the king, its in the back of my mind, gnawing away. I will look away, divert my gaze.

There is no cure. Sainthood is allusive. Must I always question your grace? Are the transmissions turned off? Why do I feel like I am the brides disease? Why do I always feel this way?

Blackbird, you would dream it all away. Sometimes I feel that way too. I just want them to be true. Not dreams. I hate these dreams.

Heartless Ghosts

Your just a ghost trailing me. You're always waiting for me to slip so you can steal my bones and feel the remnant purity crumble in your hands.

So now, I watch for you. I keep a notebook full of my paranoia. But I will bring it to court on the day I see you. And someday I will hunt you down, and I will bash in your teeth and I will set your lungs on fire.

You heartless ghost. You drive such fear into me. You heartless ghost.

Staying on this planet, suffering is standard. Where am I to go, how am I to leave? These bloody hands are my memories. When I get stuck here, when I am waiting, where are your promises stored? What canvern must I search, from what fountain can I draw hope?

I have been decieved my King. I am waiting for the breeze to touch me again. I am waiting my Lord, for the rage to quit its game. I wonder if this is what you intended for me? This old and hollow forest isn't my home.

My home has no witch overseeing my heritage, in my home, witches don't curse my family name. Its hard to believe that home exists. That it is somewhere. The idea that somewhere I dont have to hear the bloody cries of my family.

Though I fear, that my family may cry eternally. I don't know. I do fear.

I fear that witch may have her day, that she may have her way. That my torch wasn't built to destroy. And that blackbirds gaze wont hold her back.

King, if I were blessed, if I could ever ask for blessing, for favor. I would ask that THAT WHORE OF BABYLON, not lay her hands on blackbird.
I shutter when I remember my vision of her hands on blackbird. But I understand your message.

Dark cannot stand within the light.

At times, even that is abstract to me. But you would always wrap your arms around me, protecting me. I can feel your warmth, your security. Even in these hollow woods. Haunted with these God-forsaken memories.

Though whenever, I search for you I find you.

And I wonder, how God-forsaken are they?

Quiet sweet submission

My outlandish preaching has been reduced to floating prayers, silent and often unspoken. My love will be quiet now. I will be very quiet. I will pray in my room with my door closed, the lights off and my head on the floor.

Romance is dead in me,

and she will sleep now, 

and one day

she might wake.

But sitting in the quiet with my king, it's there when he speaks. In the long fields with an old book in my hand while my sensationalism is dead and apart from my flesh. Thats when my king tells me his tales, thats when I understand honor, and I get obedience. And, man, I battle for those times, cause I got a fever that wont break.

But they come. They always do.

And his songs and melody doesn't seem to far away when I quiet down. His direction is not too hard, when you got the flame of his hand piercing your heart. When the kids ruffle your hair and put a little fire under your feet, you already got somethin burning you to a truer blue; the rough sun doesnt kill you the same. The beatings all come with bandages and you know her sorrow songs are not the end of her.

Somehow, love is born from your rough heart.

Somehow you are capable of that.

You thought you were always gonna be sick and perverted.

You thought your love would always be laced with lies.

But not in this kingdom.

Not in his kingdom.

Submission to a Pure King. To a righteous authority, its flying, not falling.

Fly girl.

Here is my prayer.

I need to strength from my body. Strength lost from a lack of authority in my life. I NEED mentors and strong men to battle with me. Reign over me lord. Reign over me.

Trepidation

Can you feel the potential in your shoulders and the weight of your mind on your neck?
Can you feel the protest rising up on your borders, can you feel the predetermined war without reason?
Do you know what you were born for?
Do you know what sort of conflict was intended to break you down,
just so you could reconstruct and reinvent yourself?

Or were you born on high ground, letting yourself roll into life,
cause you're looking at my blood like a foreigner.

Do you sometimes feel awkward when your looking at God, cause you've fought and fought and still find yourself irrelevant compared to your king?

Sometimes, Brother King,
The hardest thing is,
that in order to be on the field with you,
I have to forgive and allow grace to move in,
for all there horrors, I allowed to walk in.

Im terrified of losing control again, and my fear is funny
cause I am the thief of my own self control.

What a wretched man I am.

Blackbird Haunts

There is no goodbye, you'll haunt me now, I'll forget never.

She holds account for my blind love, and I know her curling passion. 

Our hands know where they fit, and I know her sense of humor,

and its not as funny as her goofiness.

She finds me hiding in the shadows, holding onto some old hope, 

she always tells me, "you dont belong there,"

even if I am destroying her mind.

I've known her in her warmth, and I can tell her tale so well you'll weep. I can chart out her motives on a map, and walk out her path for her. I could be her if I wanted to. Cause I know her in my bones.

But its not my place to speak there, its not my place to reveal what I know. I have no right.

I have no right in her life. After what I did, I could believe in a special place for sick men like me.

I have no right in her life, and I was never hers. I was not what I claimed I was. And I knew everyone could see through my facade. I am not made to lie. I'm a liar anyways. A bad one.

She asked me the other day, if I would ever change. And my responses, theyre not enough. You've seen me in my most wicked ways, and you know. My words are fickle; upon temptation and a dark circumstance, I am moved entirely. My words are not profound, I am weak and fragile. And if I am loving you, I am probably also hiding from something. Mostly God...

And when I'm hiding from God, my love gets real sick. 

My eyes are hollow, filled with empty anger and lust.

Death resides under my tongue. And flesh and pus flow from the hinges in my jaw. Its fucking disgusting.

For some reason, I cant help but return here, to this sick objectification of sweet blackbird. Rage burns when I sleep, and when I wake I want to tear at my skin.

Like I said, I could be you.

I could not drink enough gasoline to get you out of my head. I couldn't hold you long enough to keep you. 

I know, your sick of my rotten breath.

I'm sick of it too.

Where to go with this.

I am centered over this helpless life, or at least thats where I find myself.



To young to hold my hand, she doesn't think of the end of her life.I dont think, she even understands that she is separate from her mother. She doesn't know she will be the object of objectification, by men obsessed with their compulsions. Only in the near future.


You know, you think you are justified in your impulses. But what you find out, is you are stuck in a world that has limits and boundries and set definitions. And before you can declare your reality, even if you acknowledge it as fantasy, your head is spun around by gravity.

And some people just keep spinning and spinning. 

And some sit like silent silhouettes, not moving, not breathing. terrified of being.

They wait for their name to be called, for their stomachs to be certain.

But, I can tell you about the man I am, from the bloodshot eyes,

Not from drugs, but from sleepless nights. Hurling up whats left of the torrent in my stomach.

Too much time spent in that ocean...

Sure, I told you that man is not mortal, but my, how he can break. He crumbles and brings himself upon the steps of the institution he hates. He paints his own world black and gray, and all he knows is this current that his selfishness holds him in. And finally, as he develops his illusion, wraps it in power and holds it with love, it grows and feeds on him and his family. The illusion is a symbiote and the man will grow in attachment, he will wear it as a mask, and his identity is stolen.

But its name is not the name that i bear. But his name eludes my lips, cause I to busy putting forth my own definitions. But my heart is sealed for him. I am truly his. That is my foremost definition.

And I get very tired of living my way. Wish I could be rid of this...

I dont know how to get rid of this.

The champ and sentry will like this weeks musical selections. Maybe Blackbird too.

New Dreams

Whenever I would foretell the future, in the past,

I would start off describing the toll of my apparitions and my soul-sucking addictions. Because, for most of my life, they were my greatest reality. I listened to long forgotten radios in our insect ridden home. I thought, whats the point taking the time to take a breath outside if your just going back inside?

Riku and I would escape to fight off the juggernauts at night. We hid in castles together for just long enough to feel each others warmth. My solace was with her.

Thing was, Riku wasnt always there, and when she said sayonara, I went searching for her.
I ran myself in circles pleading for her to come home to me. Chasing girls whom I no longer remember. Split my love songs upon them, before I could wait for her to return.

Then confusion came to reign. 

Riku was disembodied

I left myself 

And Blackbird's heart was punctured

I kept myself enthroned, attempting to define love,

being so desperate not to lose it.

I redefined my King. I redefined Blackbird.

I forgot Riku.
I broke the seal and ripped apart all her letters, and forgot my childhood love. I forgot her guts and the beautiful swords at her sides. She would go with me anywhere, because there is a very special king who sent her.

And its hard to articulate the difference between the two. Between blackbird and riku. The wound in my heart dividing the two is still numb. I am not the judge of identity. I must let the light break into the homes of the scared, and give the proud a fright.

Sure gave me a fright. Shook me up and showed me how much of a ghost I really am.

The fire of my torch is more solid than my own existence. Then again, I realize its more solid than anything else I know. Solid blue flames pulverize my heart, they tear the tissue, they tear my bonds of musk and dust. It's heat thrusts me into places I've never seen, hospitals of love and sanctuaries for the crawling children. I must sprint to new fields of grace, let go of whats behind me, cause this fire will not let me turn back.

In these new dreams, as the wolf comes to meet me, I return his words with a left hook straight to his soul.

I love the law of my King. It's beauty shall radiate through my bones. My brother accomplished and fufilled the law, and I am free to live.

 Know wolf, I am a Torchbearer.

 I may not know where she is, but I know my Brother King has lit my torch. My flame burns because victory is already here. Today.

Grey to Green

When I was born, my parents loved each other. 

My father had already been hurt, and it seemed to him that he was losing a child. 

My mother was young and full of warmth.

When I was born, my name meant "God is Judge"

A name that tore apart my fearful friends. My name set fire to the cancer that ate at their raw skin.

In the wake of the grand rupture of the marriage, It kept me sane.

Sometimes. Sometimes, they're wasnt enough sheet rock in the walls to keep the fists from coming through. Sometimes, the monsters always knew I would be hiding under the covers. Sometimes, my glazed eyes weren't glazed enough to keep the vivid horror from ingraining itself into my conscience. 

I would lay my face on the floor, as stress breath ran through my mouth, and I tried to suck any life out of our dead carpet into my heart. Enough of my life-fluid leaked out to fill the house with spirits. And the paint was falling off the walls from all of.. our

                                                                                                        scratching. Five anxious bodies, terrified of our home going up in flames.

What he wouldn't know till late, was I burnt as I slept. Dreamt about apocalypse and apparitions. The madness kept me clawing through my mind, they kept me chained to that ghost; knew him as half enchantment, half curse. What a wicked sound came from his head; I tried to keep him at bay, but I had not the know-how to keep him out. I plead with my father, "please hear this song" but his ears were clogged with rust, and his light had been reduced to a collection of jars he looked at when he got real desperate. 

My song, became angry and defiled. That spirit of mine rose up a war anthem, rusty and sun-burnt. Its breath was quick and quiet, waiting for short bursts of wept tears and screaming anguish. And for a while, I just kept my head up because my heartbeat was the songs drumbeat. Sure, I knew that the All-King's Great Commission lied further than what my anthem was reaching; that he planned for my victory not just survival. I could never deny that there was a melody, but I couldn't harmonize.

Maybe because I had to thrust fire deep into the source of distortion, maybe because I took the SWEET GIFTS and twisted them into steel to pierce myself with. My bones werent stable enough for me, and in my anxiety and isolation I took myself apart and rearranged my soul. I wasn't building to conquer an empty world, I was preparing(waiting) for lighting to strike the third, the fourth time.

So it had to be burned, all of it had to blackened into ash and soot.

Mourning.

Sleepless regret.

But, at this instant.

I hear an old song from my youth. Childhoods treasure.

I feel it come shining through my skin when I'm in the forest.

It smells like apples and soap.

Every spring has been grey. Winter passed though the air into my mind. I've wanted to free myself from how senseless death seemed. Ive wanted to bond myself to how precious life is. To have that spirit that pulled through darkness, over the enemies expectations, into a higher place.

I see a strong tree of good wood standing on my hill. It is blooming. King's initial intention. 

Thats his judgement for me.

You may not understand, but then again

you are not judge.

God is Judge.