setting bones.

I see him-

your Loneliness.

I've watched him cripple you

as he does the strongest

the bravest, courageous

independent men,

kings, daughters.

I am not excluded-

I am human, as are you;

that we've learned in our hours

(late, many, special, forgettable),

that we've learned about our Human Condition.

      There is no shame in that.

But if you follow him-

your Loneliness

(and men and kings and daughters do),

know that weary legs, heavy legs
are harder to heal than broken ones.

Indian Summers and Funeral Pyres

We revisited it

again and again
just to see what it would taste like.

How could we forget?

The blood from my chewed lip,

the watermelon that wasn't quite ripe,

the time you cheated on your math test
in Mrs Reynolds class

but got away with it,

and that pesto dish we cooked for your mom

the summer before she died.

        The tastes are so short lived.

The mix of saltiness, your sister's piano recital,

and the 4th of July fireworks get confused quickly

with the time we drove until the sun rose, Thanksgiving alone,

and the bay leaves I added because the chicken was boring.

We couldn't help but take another bite

wondering if it was as good as we remembered

or maybe as good as we imagined.  

What's in my Name?

I didn't have to linger long

before he picked me up

and put me in his lap.

When he stares at me I feels small:
I am a grain of sand looking out to the Atlantic
I am a lit match shining my brightest against the Pleiades

I am a lamb lost in the grandeur of the Tetons.

He smiled.
“I have a question.”
He knows when I have questions,

He always knows when I have questions.
He knows I always have questions.

“What does my name mean?

The baby books tell me it is Greek

and websites tell me that it means healer,

but I am neither;

What's my real name? My new one?

The one you made just for me, gave me,

that says you know me,

have known me, and will know me.

The name that says you know my character,

that you created and then changed me.
I want to know it as it's called again.

“You once named a deceitful man Israel because he wrestled with you,
and a mighty nation and King rose from it.
And You changed the names of a whore's children

and intimately loved them as 'pitied' and 'my people.'
Finally you renamed a righteous and confident man 'small'

and now the world reads his letters.

Will you use me? What is my new name?
I want to know it as it's called again

because I know that you've corrected it.”

Gimp handed poem

this is whar a porm written witha splinted
left hand looks like. the fingers are denired
their natural ranfge of motion, stoppied by a piece
of metal anfd foam that looks klike a surf wave.
typos mount and patience ebbs away with the
slloth-likr process. A promise not to use
the other haand or edit seems unwise at this point.
the one hand can obly reach so many digits
and the shift button at the same time
to acapitalize at the beginning of each sentence.
the clunjky device rakes down the keyboard,
holding the ctrl key when unneeded, and stripping off
the key between x and v. that'ss the last straw
and this expriment is done.

I found this from when I had my face busted and my arm hurt from that bike wreck. I don't know why I didn't publish it, I'm fairly amused by it. -Jason

Sleeping in Parking Lots

In my dream I drove to Chicago.
It’s a beautiful city, but I’ve been there before.
I’m not really sure what I was hoping for
maybe to find you there
maybe to forget you there
maybe I just wanted to drive.

On the way I was singing
Better is one day in Your courts
Better is one day in Your house
Better is one day in Your courts
than the thousand mistakes I’ve made.
And I remembered what Grace felt like.

When your Cadillac goes 91mph.

That’s the problem
with naming children after towns,
those ones that you put on your bucket list
but have never been to;
You’re going to have to bury them.
They will be fun and wonderful and romanticized and
they’ll die long before their time:
before their first birthday cake and third Christmas
before they stumble through the awkwardness of adolescence
even before you get to smell their wisps of hair
the supposed new born smell I’ve never experienced.
You should never have to bury your own kids,
but there they go RIP Florence
sometimes in quick succession RIP Bordeaux
and if you’re lucky RIP Hamilton
all at once.

I know that I didn’t die.
I’ve got the time to watch the clouds
to see these cities
to try and catch up with my ever growing list.
I’ve got the hours and the days and weeks
to rewrite all the verbs and nouns we were so proud of.
And one day I’ll stop naming kids
by putting pins in an oversized map.
One day I’ll meet Sade,
watch Micah eat his first birthday cake and help hang ornaments,
hold Mollie’s hand through boys and breakups,
smell Ezra’s wisps of hair.
And one day Talitha will push my boat out to sea.

Fickle Hearts

You are not just a footnote
in someone else’s book.
You have a story.
A story of your own.
A story I have written for you,
write for you,
and will write for you.
You will make big mistakes.
You will make bad decisions.
And there will be consequences.
But do not fear, for everything you do
has been sifted
through My sovereign hands.
I will work for the good of you who love Me.