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