Your Pinky’s Bend
Am I suppose to promise to climb or swim somewhere
To capture and store your heart in a box so it can be
As safe as a virgin at the Playboy mansion?
Am I supposed to promise my life to your pinky’s bend?
Is it enough to stay true like I would to any girl that I care this much about?
I’ll be honest.
You aren’t that special but you are to me.
I’ll be up-front.
I will tell you when I fall short of my expectations or myself.
You may tell me a vow sometime, but you are still my friend.
I may be angry, but you are still closer and dearer than any other is.
Who you are I may not know, but I will know you so well when I meet you.
Produce
I yearn to not just intake, but produce.
Yet there is so much production.
I am afraid, terrified, of producing junk
Like the stuff I intake.
Wishing
When I am 30, I hope I’m not wishing
I’d do something and instead have done something
Which means I would have had to have done something in my twenties.
It’s Christmas time!
There are people present in the first few pews.
Must be Christmas, maybe Easter.
I think its Santa’s day, not the bunny’s.
Muffled Christmas carols resonate throughout the church.
The smell of cocoa dust is stuffy and coats the nostril hairs.
I await 22 children to complain that the steaming Styrofoam cups are too hot as they gnaw on chocolate dipped marshmallows and stir them with sticky peppermint sticks.
Twenty bags brimming with candy (oh yeah and there’s an apple and an orange in there, too!) await sacking by little fingers.
The candy anxiously awaits "smear-age."
It’s Christmas time!
Sugar cookies
Never hiding their ingredients
like oatmeal cookies.
Honest:
your partner pulling you aside,
the sermon growing guilt.
Sugar:
the leather chair.
the stereo, the limo and the stock market.
If left to self
feeds bacteria on its hell-bent way
to the center of our teeth.
Nothing but blood
My heart jiggles with Jell-O
in an uncareful kid’s grasp I was tore
but still never on the Discovery Channel.
Sighing ellipses, crying for hesitant criers
dissecting pixilated sludge emptying into living rooms.
Glamour and desire disco downtown
diagramming devotion’s chalk lines.
No pain ? nothing broken ? nothing left ?
shot and killed for MTV’s "Real World."
Skin ripping, revealing our atrophic pericardium:
Nothing but blood (flowing, oh so, ficklely fluid!)
Splashing on strobe lights stimulating our night,
spackling hearts and hotel floors
up and down, in and away: a locomotive.
Loca. Loco. Locos.
My Momma always Said. . . .
God, make me dumb as Forrest Gump.
So I can fly far, far above this heap of dirt.
Let me trust the people around me.
Give me the courage to stand up for my friends,
Let me be committed to loving people faithfully
And be able to stand by my friend as her world crumbles,
even if she doesn’t deserve it.
I want to be meek enough to give my
Congressional Medal of Honor away as a token of my love
to an anti-war hippie,
Let me keep my promises no matter what lies ahead.
Give me the courage to rescue my platoon
From napalm annihilation never thinking about my life.
I want to give hope to the faithless drunk
That not everyone sleeps with prostitutes.
I want to be innocent and pure.
Oh yeah, and have a nice day.
The world is my house
The world is my house. The world is our house.
No matter how much I dust, It recollects.
If the furniture is moved
Someone still stubs his toe.
People pile their stuff atop their desks
and throw their laundry and dishes in the wash.
Every week we atone for our faults:
Cleaning our private bedrooms and our public living rooms.
Should we clean our plate if loaded with sweets
Or take out our trash and set it all so that all can see
and take it to the dump to be forgotten.
Is your house empty? Alone?
Has everyone gone to kill their fatted cow?
We are family. Family is the beginning.
A door that doesn’t creak
Give me a door that doesn’t creak in the back of the church-house
So we can come and go not fearing 72 stares staring.
Your zipper’s undone. Broccoli’s on your teeth.
Give me a door that doesn’t creak in the front of the church-house
So the hurt can come kneel at the altar, do an about face
and not face jeers at past trespasses (as His prayer says).
Give me a door that doesn’t creak in the back of the church-house
So we aren’t afraid to come?the people that would rather stay home,
Not go at all, than be 5 min. late and hear two hinges creak.
Because some of the members forget to ask
"Why weren’t you at church" in 7 days and not in an hour.
So in love
Was it in your planning to give me a desire
to accomplish more than I can alone?
You just want to be close, don’t you?
You charm me until we are alone
(even if surrounded by 1000 singing).
I feel only you now
like I’m better than everyone else
but you still tell me that I’m lowly.
Where ever I am I’m so in love.