the Zuckerberg Zion you will never find.

With every pixeled thought I share, my fingers type a step forward into the web-filled space between the peaks of aliens and kin. Caught in the heat of hesitation; amidst the push and the pull-- the intellectual innertia of wanting to be the all-knowing unknown traps my marrow in the valley of intimate strangers. Ambling unguided through this Infernal canto I, like 500 million, strain to subvert the human condition. "I will now feel less lonely. These words will bring closeness. These likes will make me liked. Here, I am understood." We want to be the object of another's wasted time; the update that gives us status. To (be)friend(ed) has taken the place of handshakesmilenod, though everyone is now the author (albeit abridged) of their own best-sold story. No Barnes&(expensive, and not so) Noble, no-- this book fills up the li(e)brary of every face you've never known. It is the book of refreshed quick looks. The book that will always be spark-noted/plot summaried/ back-covered/ever-referenced. The book of the current past and the twice passed-over. The book that is often read aloud but could never allow our hearts to be read.

And we walk through this valley looking up at formidable peaks.

But suddenly, it dawns upon me: I don't need to write a face to find my way, nor do I need to read one.


For I (we are) am already completely known.

I promise you are not alone.

2 Corinthians 12:9 "no really, I'm fine."

too good for grace, too broken to accept it

I balance in this uncharted limbo of unreachable middleness.

To be me is to attempt the unremarkable--

fly under the radar in a doubtful act of "sacrifice" as if God's love might run out soon

(and they need it more than me)

with their

drinkingdruggingsexingkillingrapingstealingcheatinglyinggivinggratuitytotheirboyfriends (oh shit, that was me)

They are obviously broken.

(No parentheses to hide their inadequacy)

No really, go ahead.

Fix them.

(please don't peel back this face)

I'll be fine.

Lord knows they need it more than me.

(please let me escape the same stories)

I'm fine.

But then again, maybe thats why I did it.

(I want to need it too)

oh wait.

thats right.

You already know;

"I do."

Window pa(i)nes of Hope's Hornets

I've watched the hornet's nest outside my window grow to a beautiful size over the past month. Actually, I haven't really seen the entire transformation, as I've been looking out other windows and observing other risks. But perhaps the gap is even more fitting. It marks the truth of things seen and long ignored. It makes me wonder, as I sometimes do, the paradox of our delicately balanced lives. How it is, exactly, that safety for some means danger for others. How sting after sting of pain over time builds up our tolerance to the fact that we hurt. How one can be closer to danger than ever, yet never feel farther from harm. How I can see the most of truth when looking through the lens of a foe. How even the so-called "threats" develop walls of protection against the winds their wings are too fragile to weather.

How two months of a lifetime for me is barely a memory to those who've been battered into the preservative of forgetfulness.

The way I can pass a world everyday and completely ignore the fact that it's real--until it starts to block my way and alter my view; begging more for attention than money.

I wonder why the nest of tiny not-even-spiders with their mysterious goings-on and paper thin walls causes me to change my route and keep my unscreened left window tightly shut.

It is times like this, on the border of pacific rain in the comfort of something warm--be it my bed or a fleece-lined coat-- that I question my ability to see the world as it deserves to be seen.

They, like me (?), are alive. But there is a giant glass window of little girls fears that kept the alive from being real; a window that has shattered, but will never repair.

Elohim has spent eternity and forever + 19years10monthsandcounting breaking this glass. I have (been) cut by the pieces of process, stung back to agony by shards that I have developed the habit of trying to ignore. But between blood and the view I have been cornered into His arms. When the last pa(i)ne falls, He will be there to make mosaics from the scattered pieces of all our mistakes.

Still just fragments, mine is a tale told in excerpts, poems, stanzas and vignettes in pursuit of the truth with the fear of regret. Yet between the pieces, there is always El Shaddai.

He taught me that healing comes to the broken places first.

***

These thoughts are the wings that fly out(in)side my room. They bridge the gap between my before and my after in a tangible (but don't try to touch it!) orb of circular truth.

This nest reveals the layers of glass. Their wings are a new perspective. Now we both see what is on the other side.

(Let's not pretend otherwise.)

icebox song

She said it felt like her heart was split in two.

I told her a split heart isn't broken--

it just beats in cut time

(like all good songs do)

there's more than one way to share a reeses.

I saw my dad unwrap a peanut butter cup for his best friend.
I'd given him shit about his love for them the day before,
when there where mounds of wrappers littering the kitchen.
He smiled and snickered and blamed it on mom.

I thought it would always be the same story.

But tonight was different.
I saw my dad unwrap a peanut butter cup for his best friend.
I cried but he smiled at their confectionary communion
and stowed the fragile wrapper in his pocket.

It isn't much, but in the scheme of life
every scrap helps
(to keep the shared memories they'll always have)

i forgot that the sun is a star.

didn't catch the meteor shower.

but i saw a sun rise.

(just past beakon hill)

so maybe God knew that i needed some single star stability
more than glimmering wishes of history's highspeed highlights.

are we there yet?

HEY GESS WAT?
today imma be a liddle kid.

weesa gonna paint wid fingur paints

nd eat icecreeem nd wach ants crall

imma pick flowers and dreenk koolaid

nd weesa gonna bear foots

cuz god likes liddle kids lots.

the self-convincing mantra of a brick wall (coming down)

not that bad; it's alright.
I'm ok, I'm ok.