hamster wheel

truth be told
she's tired of you
she yawns at the thought of the same everyday everything
and the way you hurt her
by accident
in a pattern

she sees you scrape together effort
in ways that mean little
because she cares about words
and you care about
riddles

and she's bored of it

or maybe that's what happens after
anger and regret
when touch gets grey
and comfort's the only way
you let each other in

if you would break the cycle
she would
break the cycle if you would

tragic

do you remember
the touch that swallowed our hearts,
how moments so small
built all our everything,

like wheels on dry grass
and the loom of our hands
and holding your earrings?

i do.

and i have reached
further and harder than surgeons
to pull myself out of you

but I can
Not.

the flecks and pieces of me
lodged
so deep and invisible:
splinters of a shattered microchip
forever lost in you.

And this.
binding up.

Always.

of inquisitions
about
pieces of you
inside me too.


Sometimes,
when I don't want to,

I still find them.
& me.
Clutching and Pushing at this urge to give them back.

loyalty

We are the same afraid.
Branches cutting through our clear vision of one another.
Making us find the other
unrelated.

But it is not so,

as we have shared
skin
   and
song
   and
breath,

apparitions we can't hold,
but long to.

When our hands
dare
to touch again,
to summon hope
and slay
the distance,
the retraction is quicker.
Connection banished
and
poisoned forever by
photographs
of that
One electric shock.


 

Two Rivers

it was time to decorate
but her heart was still
half-thawed
and grey,
longing to bring warmth
     but Missing...
the corners
and the nooks and the wires,
the
way they could gather, 
easily around the skirts of her kitchen,
for uninterrupted
aromas
of tender meats,
sweet pecans,
and gratitude

Yes, she was missing.

Missing
The way things fit.
The way that her
eagerly chosen
evergreens
once spread their arms into every room,

and windows, not as cold and wide,
would boast of
boughs
that once
belonged
just Right.

She was careful,
to feel the sadness in that moment.
But,
without surrender,
as she 
sought new
touches, afterward
in
the Pink Flamingo.

 

Savoring

in the dark of yesterday
you kissed me like I was brand new
playing
games like kittens
inside soft blue

visions
of pretending
that we aren't meant to

you sang, dear
"coffee-stained eyes,
I hope you know my love"

and for a moment
I did(!)
and scurried
with

amnesic fingers
to thrust the
feeling of it
past the bone and blood,
to
force the truth of it
into my heart,

        Heedful
of
Tommorow's thief.
His constant tries
to steal
our specks of joy.

emancipate

This morning I asked you
to take my heart back.

I find I
slip     it
      into the
pockets of my jeans,
corners of my wallet,

but I don't want it,

It's so ugly when I keep it for myself.

i asked you for a white horse moment,
for your ax to hack away
at these thickening
entanglements

and cut me
Out,

make me free
of all these weeds

all        this          

(wintry,
rattled,
tremulous)

Me.

This morning I asked you
to take me down,
to fight me 'til I'm
only yours again.

My Story

My art journal is, at long last, mostly finished. I kept thinking I might add a bit to it, and still ponder the thought, but it seems that next chapter hasn't happened yet.

This Art Journal is basically my life story; where I've been, what I've discovered, how I've changed, where I'm going. Hope you enjoy!

 

This first page is pretty dark and sad, I know...but so was my life at this time! The passage on the right is from Ro 1:28

"Furthermore, since they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, he gave them over to a depraved mind, to do what ought not to be done. They have become filled with every kind of wickedness, evil, greed and depravity. They are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit and malice. They are gossips, slanderers, God-haters, insolent, arrogant and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey their parents; they are senseless, faithless, heartless, ruthless. Although they know God’s righteous decree that those who do such things deserve death, they not only continue to do these very things but also approve of those who practice them."

I couldn't find a good photo for my sentiments here so I thought I'd sketch one. Just a quick pencil sketch with marker outline and some pastel (not properly blended I know because the paper I used wouldn't give).

 Text here is Psalm 107:14 "He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death, and burst their bonds apart."

I was super happy with this page. I'm a messy art journaler and like an older, vintage style look vs. nice clean scrapbooky type lines. I originally had a photo of an eye from a magazine pasted on the left side but in my artistic frenzy I dribbled paint all over and had to make my own. A major accomplishment for me since I don't do realistic painting AT ALL. So there it is, my first painted eye...not bad for a beginner although I have a much greater appreciation for peoples ability to mix and deliver proper skin tone in portraits now that I've tried it myself. Wow, that's tough. Also, I still dribbled a little white paint where I didn't want it. I'll learn more precision someday.

Lots of experimentation here. I really liked the texture of a few of the papers, tried some bubble wrap painting (soooo fun!), and my first try with glitter gel...still not sure what I think of that because it takes FOREVER to dry. I suppose you could blow dry it like some art journalers do but I'm just not that into it.

 

I could NOT believe I found this awesome quote in a magazine. Matched so many Isaiah thoughts I've had. I had to play around with how I wanted to break up the statue (the way I really wanted to wouldn't fit on my page) thus the extra tears in the photos, but, like I said. I'm messy and I think that adds to it:)

This was my favorite photo, by far, but I realize I totally destroyed it. I will use Modge Podge and a credit card to smooth out a big photo like this next time. This is the first time that messy-lazy art didn't work out in my favor:( It's hard to see here but the bottom scrap spirals and stands off the page. I tried several things to get it to this point but some little crumpled paper and drip glue underneath certain parts did the trick.

 They are supposed to kind of go/flow together. The scrap scribbles are Je 18:11 "..but the vessel was spoiled...so He remade it into another vessel as it pleased the potter to make" This page is really supposed to show the pain of being reshaped and smashed. Like the Oscar Wilde quote ''How else but through a broken heart may Lord Christ enter in?''

 Ooops, I almost forgot this one! Lyrics are Ginny Owens "You Call Me Beautiful"(I think that's the title)

Last page...kind of a 'where I'm going' page (especially pertains to children).

I Still don't have my cover for this art journal and I'm not sure I need one. The strange 70's cartoon on the front is kinda cool actually;) 

To HEAR my story as spoken to a congregation of about 150 (?) you can copy and paste this link:

http://northbaychurch.org/index.php?s=gl&nid=174971

It's really hard to hear so you'll need a very quiet room, decent speakers and about 25 to 30 minutes time.

Contented

love settles
In
and Down
curling up


by a glowing fire

Chasing has a certain thrill
but security
proves
warmer

so I will light the grateful spark
behind my eyes,
inside my heart,
at the predictably
of You

always    coming      home

to Me

compromise

scrape together justice with razor blade and mirror
freedom places handcuffs on your mother, sister, friend

he's got ideas
she's got ideas
and shaming's s'posed to lead to tolerence

       would be nice,
oxygen in every crevice
      would be nice
oxygen in every tongueless mouth

but one tube's 
shy to feed us all
when a hundred pet causes
are standing on it

put explosives in your windows
 so they learn to be doors

annihilate your doors
 until they're open to the world

until you can see beyond
your own
ambitions

and overestimated ways

although
laughing
and
dancing
in late hours
with her
red dress
stirring
up jealousy
from those that saw her
            happy

she would return
alone
even while together
with him

she would awaken
with questions
in her heart
about what would be said
of her now

10 Things You May Not Know About Your 'Christian' Neighbor

Stereotyping groups is always crappy, and you especially feel it when you are one of the group being stereotyped. I grew up being stereotyped as a hub-cap stealing, ganja smoking, ignorant, illegal immigrant because of my Hispanic ethnicity, and that was only a little bit painful. As a 'Christian' I have now experienced a few more stereotypes that actually hurt even worse and I'd love to address them briefly by stating a few truths about myself and at least a few others who are brave enough to call themselves 'Christ followers' in a world that despises such people:

1. We don't all judge you. Some of us are a lot more concerned about all the crap that we don't have figured out yet and are quite preoccupied with taking care of that.

2. We don't all think that homosexuals are going to hell. While some of us still believe that same-sex behavior is not pleasing to God based on the Scriptures that define our morality, we also realize that a LOT of what we do is not pleasing to God (adultery, premarital sex, drunkenness, gossiping, etc) and we actually don't think we are any better or more deserving of heaven than anybody else. We recognize that we will all struggle with sin continually and that all of us needs forgiveness and grace. 

3.We are not all Republicans. Some of us care a lot about environmental, educational and social issues and are often torn between the two parties or even, gasp (!) vote Democratic. Some of us have even dared face the fact that Jesus wasn't a Republican or Democrat, too.

4. Most of us realize that the church is a mess. Of course it is! It's made up of flawed people from a hundred different backgrounds and perspectives and they are all trying to somehow help other people. We know that church leaders and members mess up all the time and the only thing we claim as perfect is God Himself.

5. We are not all ignorant. There are actually some really great minds in the church. I look at people like Isaac Newton, Galileo, and Copernicus who had an appreciation for the Divine. Piper, Strobel, Lennox and Ravi Zacharias are a few modern day scholars on that level who, although incredibly intelligent, still believe in God. So it is actually possible that some of us have used our brains to think things through and have still arrived at our unpopular conclusions about Christ.

6. We were not all raised in "Christian" families. Many of us come from backgrounds of drug addiction, sexual immorality, abuse, or atheism. Some of us have questioned and rejected the same philosophies as non-Christians and still come out on the believing end.

7. Not everyone who calls themselves "Christian" actually knows much about the bible or is even trying to follow Christ. Some people call themselves "Christian" because their parents are "Christian" or it makes them feel like a good person, and those people really aren't sure what they believe. So when they say or do something that offends you...don't assume that all "Christians" believe or feel the way that they do.

8. Some of us actually wish you would be friends with us because we like playing the same board game or listening to the same music. We aren't always trying to 'evangelize' rather than appreciate you but we sure love talking about what matters to us when we get the chance...probably just like you do.

9. Some of us feel equally horrified by the atrocities of the church over the centuries, from the holy wars and Andrea Yates, to the very existence of the Westboro Baptist Hate Group, etc. We have incredible faith that whatever 'god' these people are supposedly following is definitely not Jesus.

10. Not all of us listen to Christian radio and walk around saying "God bless you" and "hallelujah". Just sayin...

and this napkin

love you so much I'm split wide open
aching through the parts of me
that make you look so ugly

you were the one that sewed me up
when my stitching came undone
but my clumsy songs
just make you seem
unworthy

I want to make you look beautiful
I want to make you look like all you've been to me

I want to make you look beautiful
but I've just a broken crayon
and this napkin

fireworks

oh, dear changing season,
you have summoned a slumbering pen to wake
and find her lungs,

with your smeared explosions
of

honey-
fuschia-peach-

and
citrus-scarlet-

hot

 (as liquid crayon
bursting from scraggly brushes)

,with your
hillside all afire
but never burning up

,shouting as to Moses
about Supremacy

it means something
if it never meant
anything
to you

it means that she is not to be trusted
and that no one is

it means that fiction will always
be a wolf in realities cheap clothing

it means that
the warm tea of a memory
is nothing but sorcery

and you
and that
and he
and they
will never
surpass
the tendency
of mirage-ability

and that she should hold her heart closely
carefully
away

no matter how sweet the kiss of today 

 

Peanuts

this time
when I hugged you good-bye
I wondered as I never had before

about Final moments

Over avacodos
I laughed
at the showing off
of a jalapeno seed,
but
elsewhere
      ached
about
a Number
of days

wonder
wonder
wonder
about how many moments
left for you

to wrestle another salmon
down the bank
with felt soles and
full waders.

You spoke to the veterans
at the hotel breakfast
of a sea horse ship
buckled and bucking,
and had to wince at that briny plate.
I wanted to take it away,
keep you
an extra day.

In afternoon
the sea foam
and wet trails
pleaded my case,
that you not stay
so far away,

beggared rushes
flowing desperate
to persuade you
to love it here
with me, Sam I Am.
Hurts too much,
when you get on the plane,

especially
now
that silver sideburns
have introduced
this
smarting question

of minutes
even seconds

before padlocks clench
in ways that
I can't argue with.

Let's no more talk about our family tree.
I'll sip my coffee and coconut
and
let your
Earl Grey wisdom

infuse

the scalding waters
of
my yearning heart.

I'll never be ready to lose you.

thick

Today, you're
cottony blue, unpressed without me, sleeve
wrinkled sweetly my nose
and  reminded me

Of
          
heavy walks with young feet
           in sand dunes deep, and
           how the girls chased you.

Of

how,
           Thankfully,
           it's my silver glitter
           clinging to your whiskered cheek.

We were early daisies then,
ablaze but delicate,
thirsty for tenderness and Sun,

and This afternoon,
when you lift my blossom head,
to inhale the fragrance of us,

those nectarous memory sprinkles
           excite
small fireflies, living ever inside,
Made only stronger by the tides
we've climbed above
since then.

splinters survive

not that I wanted to
but many rotations
brought me to the
peek-a-boo places
where i saw wisps of your brown hair
on a barrista at the Coco Moon,
and the etching of your jaw
bounce by the window
on the face of
a back-pack man.

I want

to drink my coffee peacefully,
without
this

infant              ache
curled around my shoulders,
without
this
scraping hollow
gash within my chest.

the moon knows you somewhere,
and I need not think such thoughts,
but you just keep
walking out in front
of what I should have
left
behind,

pressing past
that cursed rear view
mirror,
ever weak
to keep and capture

something
such as you.

be gone
singy
same songiness

there is life for words
once they've crawled outside of crates

there is rhythm
where rhyme has ceased

and meaning
when
phrases breathe
from out of iron bars

blanket of snow
love from up above

unwind yourself

               unfold

and dare to float
unhinged
like e.e.

in his majesty

bursting            out
of
the cliche
 

sweet purging

there was that time
where, detangled she spun on
cold linoleum,

clammy hair
dripping
down porcelain,

an effort to disgorge
the cancer of you
from her ailing ribs.

her father, in the door frame,
blurred through tears and helpless there,

           his heavy shield, found weak
           against this
           glass explosion
                     within her,
           the fragments rupturing her skin,

whispering shoulder promises
that he knew she could not hear.

you are not to blame, child,
for your love of the poisoned cup,
or the inferno in her gut.

Later in dreams she would find
that she needed you
        
to drown
her

Foolish
wont for love.

where you are not king

she will sing.

You might,
With your strong arm
smash a lesser embryo

but not she.

she.
will.
sing. in your face
like a scream,
defying all the worlds
you hold in your hand

and when you press down slow
And she is aching,
her beautiful rage
will only grow
into flames
you
Can't squelch
with
Your waterless ego
or your calcium
critique

her bones flex
beneath your forceful palm-
your insignificant
Attempt at
her ruin.

Sure, she might cry once
but her heart is dry of you.

and the desert
creates a song of lace
that binds around
your
Haughty
head

simple

I would rather have

art pencils
than diamonds

worn photos
than new leather

paper scraps
than shiny shoes

coffee stains
& You

 

this Saturday

I am 30.
And I just jumped a car, myself, for the first time.
So proud
I told my hairdresser,
who waits to blow dry
so we can keep chatting.

afterward,
lost in magazines,
my heart alive
with inspiration
i forget about
16 shelves
of toys
and orange bowls
to remember
something with substance

Art.
and Me.

beauty
&
meaning

I am 30.
and so
Glad to still be growing.
so glad that I am glowing
          within

imperishable

you are

the unwanted
ephemera

the un-erasable
un-trashable
day
that I can't throw away

      it never fades,

the ticket for a ballet
wished unseen
the postcard
to a place,
                 obscene

won't you please
resist
from
tucking yourself
in the bed
of my
       
Memory
 

dream everywhere.

The potent marker is
damned
by the
continuous weight of
Real Life

becoming a dull
scratch art knife,
simply
scraping away
at a stranger's design.

Yet...
             in bathtub and hot tea moments
ink e x p a n d s within its fervent chamber,
remembering the fiber of the
pregnant point in time

Scribbles
snap
          a splash

             of meaning

amidst
a world
of monochrome

Floating sphere of joy
ever out of reach
you're a
mouthful of hope
but I'm clenching iron teeth

Braced, paced
level with the facts
That every glimpse we have
of You
will never last

Me; a craving tree
with hallow trunk
wrestling with the earthly truth-
of fading flowers

sweet cream

hungry and
haunted
gestures of love so often eluded

by fear of exposure,
And a soiled soul's
enclosure.

thorny coils choke the
cry within the throat
concealing
the famished
Dove
so aware of all her
blood-
guilt
iness
and

stains

crowbar fingers and
sweet cream of syllables
"let me love"
drenches
shredded heart tendons

and thickened layers
delicate
tumble from skies
and yearning eyes;

beneath the prickly veil
a humble
child
cries
so grateful
to know
she is
truly
alive

guns like roses

my fingers gather dust
from days without sun
sitting in a chair of tears
spinning, spiraling, a patchwork of
fears
about who you are
and where you'll go
with that leavenous message on your sleeve
with that feigned trumpet of humility
that blasts apart
the truth
with guns like roses

Guns like roses
sweetly stealing
surety

from the pockets
of starving
orphans

Food Stamps

that mother with the three kids
and the food stamps
didn't ask her husband to leave
when her
daughter was only three
months old
so I really don't appreciate
you thinking you have any right
to scold her

and when she applied for 6 jobs this week
because she's worked so hard for her degree
and they seemed impressed except
they think it's best if she starts on overnights
and weekends
       so that her kids can
       ache for their father
and now their mother too
        and so that she can pay
more than her wages
       for childcare
that she cannot find
       in a world that works from five to nine
I'm pretty sure I'd like to slap
anyone who scoffs at her for turning down
that great 'opportunity'

you think that because you can choose how to spend your days and dollars
that she has the same choice right?
except that since he left, she's been in a house that she can't pay for
with a landlord knocking on the door
and no money or credibility for a deposit
            elsewhere (
            Aston Martin tires squeal loudly in the background here)
               
The phones been turned off
and
buzzards fly overhead
making sure she stays in debt
by charging
sky-rocket interest
and locking the doors
on a car loan
that will keep her
off the roadside
with
her freezing children
and their thin coats
and
snowpants

grandpa scraped up change to buy them

So as she stands there,
trembling hands
with food stamps
barely able to glance at you...

it is           You
who is
poor,
Ugly and
Hideous.,
Self-righteously
eyeballing the ice cream in her cart
as if her kids should ever have to suffer
even more than
than your indignant eyes

Untitled

she has golden eyes
She's seen the part of you that cries
that part you never knew was broken
but she held your hand                                                     

and helped you tie your shoes,
turn your scribbles
into Somethings
write a story
With the sorrow
that she sat
through with you

Back in
slipper feet
Pajama days
we watched the world
wilt away
from our bunk-bed window
said a prayer together in the snow

and as gingerbread walls
collapsed 
By the wayside
we knew together where
To go

tear streaked
with
naked feet
dancing past
thistles
into a meadow of Once Upon a Times
we flew together
(although sometimes a part)
into the glittery
ashes of fairy tales
     discovering daily
how true they are
despite the wounds

that caused us drink them

i Know that

taciturn eyes
you taunt
when blistered hands plead to find your heart
through a soft scrape against
coarse whiskers
,you play
as if I do not belong to you
and you not to me.

I know
that
if first man had never fallen,
your love would have
grown inside of me,
tender      quick
as canna lilly
underneath my rib;

an echoing extension of you
with the very texture
and stamp of you
and you
would not laugh or cry
without awareness we are real

as it were,
as the dust has seen it,
               there is no blossom here,
just a handful of brambles
a beardful
            of apathy
and a mouthful
            of fears

why didn't you tell me

that God and religion are not the same
that first kisses
are nuclear weapons
trusted to an
impetuous enemy

that ...
sometimes doggedness
is a disease
born from a fear
of the foulest
weakness,

that everyone is capable
of breaking
themselves
and me

especially
everyone
You

angry birds

i don't write angry much
red is not my color
and blue will often do
but when red gets big enough
and hurdles right over rosy
my hand becomes its slave,
to open up the latch
and let
heart heat fly to its home,
on

pure
white paper;

bird flu capped
by the dam of my pen