Grapefruit Jams

"Everybody knows that you break your neck to keep your chin up." -Copeland, Chin Up

It's another beautiful day, even though it is cold.  The sky is grey as most things are turning out to be.  All of it just seems to be this vast work of art, and I cannot get my mind around it all, and the mystery is that I never will.  No matter how hard I think on all these things, or how long, I never get my mind around it.  We're made to miss something.  Be it in the fabric of our thought process, or in the fabric of our lives, missing someone, or missing something, missing the idea, or missing the formula.  We end up missing one thing or another, but in truth, missing many things altogether.

In this fabric of our conscious and subconscious, we'll always be missing someone.  This is our state.  We are merely stuck in one place in time and space, yet our mind goes elsewhere, knowing we are not in that other place with this other person or that other person.  We are here, missing all the people we do not even know yet that we will come across in our future, however long that will be.  We don't always feel this weight of the people we've yet to meet, and yet to miss, but we will find them in our time, and miss them just as much.

Maybe we just take for granted everything we've ever had.  Maybe we aren't taking anything for granted, but are so overwhelmed with what we do have, we don't feel good enough to live with what we've been given.  

Maybe my life was never meant to be about me.  Maybe your life was never meant to be about you.

Maybe our lives were meant to be bigger than this bubble that surrounds us with our own thoughts about ourselves, and we're really meant ot get outside that bubble and love on others around us.

Maybe there is more to love than we think.  maybe our ideas of love are broken as we've been broken continually around every corner.  But maybe, this shattered vision of love is something we can throw out with the trash because it was never really love to begin with.  Maybe we can get outside ourselves and love others, and its really what we've ben looking for.  I don't know.  Maybe we're content, not looking for a single thing and our lives are already full and complete and we need no one else inside it because we are like a stone, strong and cold, and collecting dust, and sneezing because we have dust allergies and soon we will swell up like a balloon and because we needed no one else, there IS no one else to take us to the emergency room, and there we will lie, colder than we were before with no one to find us...cold.

At any rate, we can still love, and stop being selfish brats about our existence.

Grapefruit makes the day better, too.

Unless you're allergic to grapefruit....

Reality Check

I'm no better than anyone else.

We are all the same.

In 1984, we'd find that this is the lower classes chant and phrase.

Regina tells us, "People are just people"

And they are just like you,

And we all are just people,

No better, no worse,

Yet we rank and judge and curse,

Our neighbors flesh,

The riotous breed

To conquer, we must conquer something,

To be someone,

To merely be.

But we conquer everything else,

Because the hardest task is ourselves,

To conquer and to know our hearts

That we've ripped out

Dust collected on the shelves.

You are not better than me,

But I need to remind myself,

I'm not better than you.

We always find a reason,

To claim kingship of what everyone else can do,

And to make ourselves better in some way,

We play these games.

But reality, stop nagging me,

Check to see if we're still flesh,

Still blood, still bone,

Still beating, still warm,

Still thinking, still breathing,

Still dreaming,

Always dreaming, crafting,

Being selfish, giving,

We are still people,

In need of love...

An abused word, as we are abused.

Pulse.

 I seem to not understand how all these things come together.

Timing worries me, yet I'm not worried.

The words move and I move,

And I stand still, standing strong,

Yet, strength is not mine,

As I cannot stand still in my own strength,

Scattered, traveling from word to word.

Never quite fully here,

Always in some way, somewhere else.

Scattered like the shattered glass,

Of mirrors shattered long ago,

From hating the eyes staring back,

Never knowing whose they were.

And I fall into my thoughts and disappear,

And I am disappearing for awhile,

To my heart to see what's going on,

Because from this distance, I'm unknowing

And as so much is happening and moving and being dug up,

I'm fighting the crowds of voices to hear the quiet

Beating inside my chest,

Beneath the ground, undead,

Only put away awhile

Dust collected, coughing, sneezing,

Opening the boxes of unrested thought.

Thoughts just pulsing, volume turned down,

Now the mute bond is breaking,

And there is some sorting to do.

There is some honesty to be had.

So I will step in front of the mirror,

And we will have a long talk,

The long avoided,

Long put off,

The conversation,

And my nerves are raw,

I hear my pulse in the deep of my throat

And I wonder if the eyes looking back at me,

Are as nervous as I am.

Disappearing

We take a drag on the cigarettes we hold,

Silently noting what we share and what we don't as moments pass that I would not trade.

Its like I want you to know everything about me.

I want to be selfish with our time.

I want you to know everything.

As much as I've hidden about myself

As much as I've not known,

As much as I've wanted to blurt out everything about me,

I want to be selfish in the time we've only begun to have.

I want to be selfish and take the time until I've had enough.

I've been a user.

A selfish breed because I've wanted.

And at some points I've wanted in vain.

I've made myself to expect nothing.

I expected nothing.

And now I don't know what to do,

Don't know how to get a hold of myself.

As you puff on your cigarette,

Puffing away your thoughts like pieces of trash on the floor,

Only to be thrown away later.

Too clouded to think past the next few hours,

Maybe even the next few moments,

All the while, aching while I'm away

Because I want to steal you away and know everything about you.

The lack of your presence has ben too long.

Even in the distance, I understand a few things,

It blows my mind, and I see your eyes,

And I know too many thoughts,

Wondering about the ones I don't know.

Another long drag, and another flood of memories.

Our present and past seem to swirl all too fast.

The smoke filling my lungs was the only constant,

And in some ways, the disappearing smoke still is.

In the lack of knowing myself, I am sad I changed my hair color

Because I want you to know the real me.

Not any type of projection.

The scariest part is that in far too many ways, you know me 

better than I do.

The Hours Moved. The Minutes Came. The Seconds Passed Away.

Our breath is being held.

Honesty is like fresh air to our lungs.

We spend our time burning.

We'd rather burn.

Our lies build us castles,

Nicely adorned with moats.

Cold stone floors,

Cold stoned windowless windows.

We are the damsel in distress,

And dragons rush to enslave us,

Keeping us where we are,

Scorching us with their breathed fire.

We long to hold the fire,

So we hold our breath

We hold dishonesty a close friend.

As long as we believe the lies,

We can still be the victims

Claiming pity

Claiming attention until we've had enough,

When the real aches of us are probably more serious still,

Pathological Liars

To play our own games because it started out as a game,

This life, this fire-playing.

We'd rather burn.

So well held is the fire, we can breathe it,

Even though we don't know what breathing is,

Yet, as we lie her breathless,

We realize, to play with fire, we need oxygen,

But that doesn't work when we stop breathing,

And the blue face worn,

Is shock and disbelief,

The victim is down

The selfish victim is down

And no one was there to hear the final cry

Because there was no crying.

No crying and crying out, as there was no breath left.

The fire burned.

We all know fire absorbs sound.

And leaves a forest, fired to the ground,

And nothing remains.

Anything within miles was consumed by the overwhelming blaze.

Exit Signs

I've got all these questions.

Some simple.

Some too complex to bring to light.

Too many things swirling like different storms

Coming to the front of the door

Dropping the wind current

Knock me down.

To be surrounded,

I am surrounded,

And they always seem to surround us with their words.

Negative in existence,

The pessimism drips forth like venom on the tongue

Wicked words finding their way to the surface,

And it makes me never want to know any deeper,

Skin deep is enough for me from you.

I can only take so much,

And your skin deep cuts like a razor blade to the chest,

Making patterns as if we were drawing pictures

With our crayons on a cream colored paper

Smearing the color as if it were paint.

You were always a fan of finger painting.

And the chest finds a way to swell with colder air

As the lungs constrict and restrict my words,

And I restrict your words letting you know my ears are full.

My heart is full of your words,

Yet I make you think I did not hear a word,

Because if you knew how deep this cut,

You would know how hard it would be to recover.

Ripping open old wounds with words not well thought out,

Your insensitivity has done you in.

You've been shown the exit sign, and have been left in the dark.

Reality

Marvel at the ways

Count the leaves like corn flakes

In the mornings cereal

Surreal in the complexities

Real in the Reality

The reality that seems like a dream.

Knowing

Did you ever know what you were doing

I never did know what I was doing

And now I keep on moving

Solving nothing

Without the soothing melodies

Of heart and rhyme in rhythmic melody sublime

Without the doors opening to hear the going.

Oh, I keep going.

And I am losing.

And I am choosing what I should never have chosen

I am broken

I am opened in a way that leaves me

Ready to be sore

Ready to be laid upon the tourniquet

"She's bleeding

Yes, she's breathing too deeply

And her heart is slowing beating

Its repeating, repeating repeat

Re...peat no more"

Tell me the score

I'm losing my mind

I'm losing the time

But what's lost will be mine

I will find

I will find

What I've been looking for

Tell me the score

Are we competing

I won't play games with you

I couldn't if I wanted to

I've never been explained the rules

Don't worry, love, it will be over soon

The agonies inside that burn

Turning over in your bed,

The sugar plum fairies far away

I don't know if I should stay

I don't know if I should

I don't know many things

I know there's water everywhere,

I know there is no drop to drink,

I know I'm thirsting for more than I can handle

Oh, I know

I know, but I don't.

If I knew the spelling, I would spell it out for you,

But since I've never been a good speller,

The phonetics of the matter won't be known.

Twenty One Years

Twenty one years of emotions bent
Twisted beneath the surface of my skin
A thin layer holding the rivers in
The flooded season of doubt and wonder
The flooded season
Opening doors can be a bad idea on a crowded room
The layers so thick
Yet the layers so thin
Between cracking
Between leaking and pouring.
Shouting and whispering the heart to mean
Whatever was meant
Twenty one years worth of meanings
For your forty years of meaning
And I always wonder what you mean
As I'm finding out meaning
Meaning what exactly
Churning and ebbing within,
Fountains fresh and stuck
As the ice makes us stuck
And the quick sand makes us sink
Twenty one years.

The Sound of Coming Again

Tell me all your secrets,

I'll tell you mine.

I'm tired of this wasting of time.

We all know how it slips through our fingertips,

But if you don't know, you soon will,

I am spilling

All the paint

All the water

All the oil

All the spoils

Whisper your secrets

I'll whisper mine,

We can breathe life

We can breathe

I don't know if you were breathing.

I know at many a moment, I really wasn't.

It still seems hard to breathe.

And the sounds are raindrops on the windows

And the sounds are tears flooding into

Something of a river of things never flowed

Unanswered

Answered

Undercurrent trying still

Still trying

Still

You know me all too well.

Yet sometimes I don't know myself at all.

Secrets on the wind

Coming again.

Come again

Rivers

The feelings are odd as something waited for for a short lifetime look as if moments could close themselves to what has been waited for. So long waited for. But there are still questions, there is still doubt, even now, and its hard not to run for a bag to hyperventilate in. There is an unusual stirring, and I cannot even imagine how the other side is breathing.

I'm at a loss for words, and at a loss for emotion because I cannot always seem to feel what I am feeling. When I look into the river of my emotions I am overwhelmed by the current that has built up for years and could overtake and swallow me whole. Some of these feelings might not even be bad feelings, but they are still just as overwhelming as I have held myself at arms length from this ongoing river of emotion....Not feeling all that I should, because back then it was so overwhelming, I don't even want to know what it has become now.

States

Sometimes the focus is so much on the self that we are scrambling to fix ourselves with everything we have and we step on so many people along the way. We are so fixed on our brokenness that we are stuck in yesterdays problems that when we realize the problems that were building up today, today has ceased, and tomorrow is yesterday and into last year.

Our eyes are so far focused backwards that we are running into the things we don't see as we still walk forwards, our feet not able to hold the capability of turning around and turning back time. We keep watching the film that has been of our lives, and watch and watch and watch to see if we did something different in our past, to see if the next viewing of our tragic tale has a different story, but the film remains unchanged because it has already passed, and we're wishing for a different story, but we can't quite change was has been.

Our eyes seem to focus on the wrong things as we miss the story as it is happening. We miss out on participating on our own lives, making terrible mistakes because we want to feel loved by all the people around us, and to feel acknowledged and wanted and worthy, when really, all along, we want to acknowledge our Father above, but we can't because we can accept human love so much more than we can even begin to accept the knowledge that we truly are loved by our Heavenly Father.

We want to see, but we can't because our past is all too colorful or dull to leave it behind us, where it belongs. Our future is always another story, and is always a guessing game at fiction, and is, quite possibly, another large waste of our time. Our focus seems to be very limited to what we see in these present moments, and in this constant moment that we are stuck in. We seem to never quite know what to do with it, or how to use this clicking that goes on so passionately in front of our true eyes. We live in our world of thoughts. Where are our thoughts lined out? Upon the railroad tracks, we can see in front of us, and behind us, but miss our scenery, and miss the people, and miss the ride we are riding, and the cotton candy we are tasting because our hearts are fixed on dead things.

A state of death, when all we ever really wanted was life.
Staring in the bitter glass can become a waste of time.

The Centaur

The Centaur sings her jazz.
Smooth and soft,
moving through the bass strings like water
water rippling through the soul,
washing it clean,
mixing its thoughts for moments.
Sacred moments through soul pouring
Pouring of the soul,
Smooth to float on the water like oil,
Soaking the heart in healthy movements,
Smearing paint with a thumb,
Sometimes cold to the touch,
Sometimes blue, but always warm,
Luke-warm was never an option.
Songs pour out as she walks the side walks,
Her legs not quite human, her pace contemplating.
She is a rarity of kinds,
Her mind spins with the movements,
Her natures always at war,
Her heart always pouring jazz through the holes made by crooked hands,
Crooked smiles, crooked intentions,
Human.
The sounds pour out through the holes,
Soothing, smoothing out aches by the color blue.
Blue smeared here and there,
The walk is always noble,
A great capacity for ferociousness,
A great capacity to rise above crookedness,
Crooked sites on a gun,
Never hitting what they are aiming for.
Capacity for two extremes,
Jazz pours out her mouth like a sea.
Glad I learned how to swim.

All that and a bag of Spinach Leaves.

Praise God for friends. The people that are there to lift us up in prayer, to speak truth into our lives when all we're doing is believing lies.
I like to believe lies more often than not because sometimes, the reality of my own weakness makes me sick. I want to be super strong and be able to handle things on my own. I find myself falling captive to thinking that I am better than other people, thinking I am worth more, thinking straight out of the dungeon of pride that seems to enslave me. I get so lost within myself, within my thoughts, my dreams, things I'm hearing, things I'm seeing, that I have a hard time to just, be.

We know we are not meant to just, exist...but the real troubles fall into what we are supposed to do instead of MERELY exist. I find myself merely existing all too frequently, even when I believe I am at the center of God's will. Is this me making a harder time for myself? Maybe. But maybe I'm not yielding to God in such a way that I can surrender, submit, and grow into something more that he is calling me to be, instead of trying to impress people with this something that I am, that I frequently think I brought myself to be. All the flawed parts, yes, I brought those to the table, but I would not be anywhere without the grace of God.

It is hard to be obedient.
It is hard to stay in the same place and not run.
Running is a thing I'm so good at.
My heart is aching to get out,
Because circumstances before my first breath wanted to run out,
And indeed, they ran.
Why shouldn't I run then,
When things get hard, and seasons change?
Why shouldn't I run?
Am I believing that the grass is greener,
Or that the lemons are more yellow?
Do I believe the bitterness will recede when I am no longer in this spot for more than a minute?
Will I find my answers?
Will my answers be revealed to me?
Did I stop fighting a long time ago?
When did mysticism become the reality
Is it reality.
To stay in these spots.
To wear these spots.
To be.
Not to be.
Existing.
Merely.
Purely?
Purity was never the question or answer.

Language tapes

Its like I'm in serious need of some creamer.
But I'm not like in serious need. I am in need.
Like I'm in need of a lot of things.
But really they are not serious needs, but serious wants.
More like wanting some creamer is moreover just serious want.
And I ache at my insecurities.
I ache at things that make me ache that I don't realize
Once realized, tend to overcome.
I'm seeing and I'm being overcome, and I don't quite know how to respond.
I don't know how to respond.
My feelings fall into a line of profane words, though the words themselves are just adjectives that are not really what they mean anyway, so say what you mean.
Say what you mean.
Pleasing people makes me ache
Because I do it too
Words for you might be for me
Hidden, but true,
And its hard when you're not in line
As it seems I've not quite been in line
And obliviousness falls on my head
And then I feel the heat
And I see I've been on the fringe of burning.
On the fringe.
Listening to language tapes
All she hears, is birds.

Misconstrewd

Red ran out a month ago
Couldn't paint.
Thought I'd use indigo
But no one really bleeds indigo.
Too bad we're nothing without oxygen tanks
We like our oxygen like we like our water
Enough of it to sustain our life
We think we're about life
But we put on death
Like a mars black paint,
We've got plenty left
As Picasso thought he was being wise
If I don't have red, use blue
He forgot that the red being blue is not true
Red being blue is not true
Red being blue is not you,
It so does not look good on you,
The lines on your face, blue not red
Leaves me wondering why you're There and not Here
Stuck in your world of bluish tears.
Red ran out a month ago
Couldn't Paint.
Thought to use a substitute
But could I really substitute lie for Truth?
Where is your misconception?

Degrees of Hot and Cold

Degrees
Only a matter of degrees

Only a matter of words from my mouth between the degrees of your happiness and your sadness.
Only a matter of words between your love and your hate
Only a matter of words between your forgiving and unforgiving heart
Who gave you the right not to forgive when you're forgiven
Permanent stains washed clean.
Permanent death, made free
Breath of life, breathed
Only a matter of words can mean
The world to you or me,
Only a matter of sound degrees.

Mud

There is a door shut in my face
The door bears your name
And I've given you the locks
I've locked you out as well.
It's been a one sided wishing well,
Sometimes I'm never doing well,
I shut you out a long time ago, and, well...
Pride needs to be swallowed like dirt in the water.
Muddy water is not clearly seen through,
And I can't quite see you
Its true.
I've given you pain because I myself am a tortured being,
Not being means for an excuse to be a sadist
And forgiveness from you might be a nice thing to have,
But being sorry is what I can give.
What you do is your release
You are not licensed for what you do
You can hang on, let go, or go,
You do what you please.
You please yourself, you please no one.
We are our own worst critic,
Nothing worth striving for.
I've always wondered who you would be if you could be anyone.
Sometimes I wonder if you would want to be yourself,
Because you are the coolest person you know.
I don't really know you,
But I know me,
I know I'm sorry.
I know I'd rather not have hurt you,
I'm not as heartless
As stone cold as you think.

Boats and Birds and Stray Dogs

Itching in the back of my throat
lets me know again the things that have passed are passing again.
With speed and curiosity the changes move
Quickly going without questions
Without warnings,
And I forgot to clean up
And I forgot to prepare
And the sky blackens
New storms arise.
Roots go down deep as they always have
But the changes of color,
I was never ready for it.
I was never ready for the changes.
I am never ready for the changes
And surprise is a face I often wear.
The sky is the limit but it is too cold for ice cream
Too cold for cold
And coats become a thing of today
Fashion becomes irrelevant as the biting jaws gnash their teeth
And the thickest, the layers cover,
And the warmth is something to be captured
And I am captured curling up next to my movements to get blood flowing
To get the heat going.

And I'm still cold.
But warm in heart.
Because it is a new change.
And one I'm not accustomed to.
But fresh hope, fresh things held inside
A greenhouse sits in my soul where it did not sit before
And death has fallen away as the leaves fall away
And as snow makes its way
There are the things hidden in a greenhouse
Things that will grow. Are growing. Have grown.
The sign reads,
"This is a place of life."

There is still surprise at this new revelation founded by the graphic designer getting paid too little to care about what the sign actually says.