Negotiation

You just... meet people.

You don't decide,
"I shall go out and meet people."
I mean, that can be done,
but I so dislike purposefully mixing statistics and literature.

You don't want to unmeet people...
but sometimes you wonder why in the world you meet the people you do,
and why people meet you?
There is no photoshop, much less general customization, of people, the way authors freely may do with fiction.  Nope!
and I depend on my Author,
but I can't see the story from His perspective.  or his.

Tomorrow

Chris Rice sings a lullaby, his voice blending with violin, cello, piano.
I hum along in the empty house full of Christmas decor and incandescent light.
Refreshing a spread of worship songs--dusty--freshly alphabetized, some newly sung.

Sorrowing that we all crowd surf so much,
socially enforcing extroversion and sociopathy.
Loneliness doesn't need a city.
Loneliness doesn't just need a friend.
A friend who is tired of God
weighs on the heart;
when they are gone, the separation is devastating.
Where the spirit is absent,
loneliness is hell.

Craving the presence of a friend
all the more desperately
for the lack of warmth across distance.
Anchored to a material world,
while dreams cloud the air.
What a desperate and bored darkness!
Scrabbling for a door that leads to tomorrow.

the rescued lamb

Silence
----confusing.
An aching heart.

Silence
----formidable
A raging heart.

Silence
----clarifying
A chastened heart.

Silence
----releasing
A guided heart.

Silence
----reconciled
a beloved heart.

Austenland

But of course--
the love you broadcast is generous
and you will remember me,
and your heart is so big,
(mine sequins and brand-new chocolate wine,
when I stare over the brink of Capulet hill
and wonder for what design are you a Montague?)
While the real Frank William Abagnale, Jr. stands up,
and his shadows still run and dodge the hounds,
the real godfather could not have played his own part!
whose portraits discover themselves and outshine the rest.
Your stage made my heart pound!
A breathless community sits ecstatic and ready to enter the better, louder, more beautiful blue kingdom of avatars,
until the lights turn brown and hands fall to gathering spent bills.
So go, .....go drimk to th-e-a-tt-r-e,
toast all the fadings of the dream.
Rush to sleep; there if you pretend you're unafraid, thus choose your destiny.
Not in basements, but on your familiar rooftop dream-sharing happens;
mountains of sacrifice all built upon earth so the highest terraces reach dream height.
Dear frand----------
Genie, ....genie----
I saved that wish
for you
(who art so much bigger than I, living the blue)

resistance

Reading,

Allowing the surroundings to settle as they will.

Reading,

I used to fly over the tablelands of an open book, grasping only landmarks, ignoring what I did not comprehend, hungry for simple happiness.

Reading,

Academia said stop.start.stop.start.make notes.ask questions.
But with no innate curiosity about the subject beyond its obvious landmarks, where was the joy?

Reading,

for pleasure.

Now, researching something of interest:
not stopping out of duty,
but because I can't read another sentence without knowing more.  Words, not new to me, yet in three decades I never learned the meaning; descriptions of artifacts and places and geographies: I will not go on without looking up so many unknowns!  On this occasion I am immensely grateful for the internet at my fingertips.

Reading,

with instant coffee, cloudy and stale.
Leaves outside wait for me to come to a good stopping place.
I vacuum autumn out of the recently shampooed carpet.
Like the tired people in my reading, I seem always to be waiting for something...

Reading, at least, purposeful.
With big eyes, along the edge of a chessboard.

Reading,
once for what I knew,
now for what I don't.

72

the flutter of the vocal chords
words I can almost understand,
and sounds that make sense.
Audio of another language I begin to love.

Is it too late?
It is 72 degrees there,
and seeing that stat gave me a moment of access
to how much I loved being there and didn't want to leave.
the final night
looking sadly in the face of the blazing moon
fluttering curtains
breathing that place,
tears.
I must relive a little in order to press on.
and
/finally, a little rain!

Writing on the wall

It's not the little guy but his brother

who lead in a whole gang

and the ostriches are bagged,

oh Lord, I am feeble in heart

as the money machines with the souls of tight-lipped or drooling demons

make batteries out of a million ants.

Help me to stop trying to save my life,

as this ship heats up.

I remember Your magnitude

because I am just a dust mote.

The sheep stone the shepherd

and they skip every direction, bleating.

I lose my interest in all this cardboard,

history of a people and its art

who sigh under squidly beaks

and laughing, laughing, drinking, sinking.

Fixed gazes, inward stares;

drink the kiss and paint the frack-well green.

a screen.

I have no sustainable resource to configure upon this stone of grace--

Help me stop trying to save my life--

my soul faints--

Oh, my beloved Shepherd.