That Western Skyline

On the day he woke me up

I stumbled out of my father's head

Squinting and stretching

It seems my shadow's grown taller

Than I last remembered

And so I ran

Chasing it's answers

Through headphones

Through libraries

I wanted to find the difference

Between the love of a brothel

And the love of a sunset

Can I find a way to give the people

Uniforms with buttons shined

And still escape from

The folds of bodies

Humming and twisting

In convulsed obedience

Solutions so hard to find

After years of being buried

Under old photographs

Yet I hear the ascending choir

Marching through

The death of my sins

I'm walking now

Walking into my diaspora

And stumbling upon a fallen sunrise

Grandfather, Gentle Soul, You'll Fly

Today, my grandfather is going into surgery for his third knee replacement. It might sound like a common place thing, but today is a moment where the world holds its breath as one of its greatest adventurers makes one final attempt, one final excursion over war-torn water, through blood-stained skies. I've never seen John Ficklen as a man to simply accept something. For him to achieve or receive anything it must be through a crucible of unsurmountable distress. He was the Indiana Jones of my childhood. He's the archetypal symbol of undomesticated vitality and raw creativity.

I'm not sure if this disease is something that God has designed for my hero, or if it is something that my grandfather must decide to go through in order to see His face with sparkling clarity. He could easily have chosen to not get this surgery and just have that leg immobilized. Because if this surgery isn't successful, he will lose the leg. But you continue to grit your teeth, Papa. And the beauty of it all is that soon none of us will need legs to stand.

A boy threw a ball into the air

With all urgency and strength

He was not there

When it came down

If it came down

Concern never tripped him

As he walked back to the house

All he ever wanted

Was the chicken noodle soup

That his mother stirred

In her warm, red kitchen

What good is a ball in chicken noodle soup, anyway?

Is That Marionette Real Enough Yet?

If numbers were to go to a dinner party, what would they talk about? "Remember that time we teamed up and multiplied ourselves to 1,125? Man, those were the good ole days." Or perhaps it' more similar to, "I just don't understand the youth anymore. All they do now is play with logarithms, related rates, and other frivolous stuff. Where's the respect these days? No one cares for basic arithmetic anymore."

Honestly, I don't understand math. I wish I did. I sit in class, pupils dilated, trying to absorb the information. But all I can picture is this dinner party. What if I'm supposed to go to this dinner party and introduce the numbers to words. How might they be received? As long, over-stated necessities that never solve problems in life, but, rather, they encourage and complicate issues? What might the words see in the numbers? That they're just simplified cop-outs dumbing down the world's keys to prosperity and vitality? Aren't they just drones leaving vagrant footprints in a world they believe to black and white?

Amidst the bickering and heated tension, I'd like to drop an autumn leaf. Nothing crafty, nothing complex. Just a leaf. Do you think they'd stop jabbering and chewing? Do you think they'd swarm with a realization of shared pain and fleeting mortality?

I'd like to, then, go outside and lean against the creaking oak tree as we silently watch the reunion of two old souls.

With Just Our Flashlights and Our Love We Must Plunge

A smile is on the way

Seen through the window

Reflected in the asphalt

Long nights stretched by

In a strobed fashion

But the crescent moon rises

Spilling laughter on the city

All winter, a picture of it

Was held in front of my face

Showing nothing more than a memory

The photo falls and is forgotten

Because a smile is on the way

It's funny how a picture of a fire

Is quickly consumed in the flames

The Velocity of Saul at the Time of His Conversion

Sway on, my shattered pendulum

Let your hands rest

Weighted and anchored

They're safe in your pockets

The world doesn't need to see the scars

Let fall your story

Its darkness has draped you for too long

Let Love capsize and overflow

He can preserve

He can sustain

Life of real merit

The life of Stephen in his rock-shredded speech

The life of Job in his shattered and shaven praise

Warm hands around the room

Mend out of instinct, out of love

Flowing with time

Synchronized in meter and song

I, too, am a pendulum

I, too, am loved