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.