iron

i thought i would be perfect before i found you.

in my head, it would all be laid out in front of me and i would never look back. i would be calm and collected and the temper that had burned within me would be stilled. there would be no harsh words flung from its flames.

but then fire met fire and iron met iron. you were cold when you were alone just like i was. the facade rarely gave way and we both thought we were opaque.

i remember the night you first saw me. it was dark in the room and the moonlight shone in and i hid my face from you while i cried because i hated to cry.

there have been years of words and nights with tears. i never wanted to grieve but you fought me for it, and i met you with everything you threw. you dared me to fight back and i remembered that life had not killed me yet and i always come back from a fall. i showed you that fighting was so close to dancing and you learned to pull your punches when i lost control.

that's how it was.

i'll never beat you, and we'll never give in. but as we mend the wounds the day comes and we remember why we were made to fight, why we never surrender. i'll stand with my back to yours and i'll never fear what's behind me again.

i can see us and the fires are cooling though we still try to be opaque. we will keep trading strength for strength until we are old and gray - then the temper will be tamed and i won't be afraid to weep. you'll still hold me at night and we'll whisper our dreams as we watch each other sleep.

slowly we trade the fight for the dance. the perfect is beginning to look shallow as lines form and gray begins in your beard. i am young and old. you are old and young. when our bones rust i will still laugh when no one knows why and you will still tell me horrible jokes.

and the sharp iron will lay cool by the fire.

sing, sang, sung

the rain on the plain ground in the plain town grows no trees, for plain grows nothing. the water just floods and washes away as there's nowhere to seep in hard clay.

the oddity of a seed ripping itself open to display its soul to the earth and then grow a tree came from a need to be free, to reach past the soil to the sky, and so the very small things become shelter and shade.

the breaking inside me will wound me, but i will try to reach for the sun and stretch out my branches and soak up the water in the earth and grow leaves till i die.

a mournful drinking song

Oh, the reaper’s gone a’courtin’
And he’ll dance away the night
Yes, the reaper’s gone a’courtin’
And he’ll dance away yer life.

His favorite song is a mourning dearth
And he always loves a wake
He rises early to catch you quick
And he always stays up late.

He loves to sit and philosophize
While sippin’ fruity wine
And he’ll be the first to tell you
that he’s never not on time.

Oh, the reaper’s gone a’courtin’
And he’ll dance away the night
Yes, the reaper’s gone a’courtin’
And he’ll dance away yer life.

My mother caught the reaper’s eye
And has teased him ever since
But she’ll never let him in her bed
Cause,

“you c’ain’t never love a man who gets mud in the sheets.”

My father loved the reaper long
And played his mournful keys
And when daddy breathed his very last
The reaper laughed at me.

Oh, the reaper’s gone a’courtin’
And he’ll dance away the night
Yes, the reaper’s gone a’courtin’
And he’ll dance away yer life.

I almost let him take me
In the middle of my car
And a dared him still to tempt my hand
But he left only a scar.

So if you spot him through a window
Or in the bottom of yer glass
Don’t sing all his catchy tunes
Or you’ll be fertilizin’ grass.

Oh, the reaper’s gone a’courtin’
And he’ll dance away the night
Yes, the reaper’s gone a’courtin’
And he’ll dance away yer life.

untitled

it is iniquity that drives us to make sense & understand
age sets into recognition and there we see a broader stance
death comes to the window and we gaze at truth at last.

i am a preacher-man's only child -
he wanted a son, but got a daughter
he made me stone then hit me hard to find the water.

i have stared down the ages that he left for me to wander
when the pain became too great and he cried out at last
"heal me, Lord, for i have sinned" and he broke upon his past.

i looked and was sure i saw his face
until i blinked and saw my own.
blood proved strong a tie though i could not keep his name.

i am a preacher-man's only child -
he wanted to believe, but broke his altar
the vision proved strong a hold though he never would remember.

i looked again, and saw the winter
the cold seeped in and the blessed numbness was my shelter
i never wished for warmer weather

i saw the days, i saw the age, i watched the death
i dreamed of rain and took his pen and drank his wine
his music started off key but soon a strong chord took hold.

here lies a dead man, poor child never knew better
i heard he wandered away one day and came home a preacher
but he never found the words to break the spell.

and then

i have no words to name the season.
the ink well has run dry and i can suck no more water from it... i am afraid to let my hands fall from my grip on today. on the now. i hold it so close because i have lost so many nows, thinking only of that-one-time's and when-i-was's and back-in-the-day's. i try to hold now so close and not let it slip away, for it is the slipperiest of times and loves to run out while i stare into space.

i wish i could yell at now, and have it hear me. but it always looks away.

she'll be riding round the mountain

the race to extend freedom saps the life out of us all. and yet we keep the pace… never slack behind, never fall back. for the monsters at our heels will bite you in the foot.

who knows if understanding will ever come our way? we may stand at the corner of the gravel road as it crosses the dirt path and wonder if our search was meaningful, or if our wandering was in vain. and we may not find the key we swear was sitting on the table by the door when we left, where it unfailingly lays.

i may not find reason or rhyme for the time that came before. i may be stuck between fiction and lore, with no references to build the appendix of my very real life. if i'm not real i'd like to be a cowperson, in a land with no cows. where the sunset stretches on endlessly and i can always keep up as i ride off… the light will never completely fade.

i'll ride out west on the frictionless train. in an instant i'll arrive at my new land i won't own and i'll give the coat off my back just to roam, just to unfocus my eyes for awhile. the sun hurts them so.

i may jump from the train and then put on my hat and hide my eyes from your stare. and you'll never know it was me. but i'd soon give in to your easy smile and quick laugh, and we'd be off on our adventure 'round the world in a day.

who knew you'd come home while running away?

the waiting game

So they just did a study which I'm sure many of you have heard about ranking life expectancy by region within the United States. Tennessee came in 45th.

Combine that with a 41st ranking in smartness and a 52 out of 69 ranking in average commute time for the Nashville/Davidson country area, we get to spend much of our relatively short and stupid lives in a car.

Maybe we should just start recycling cars as coffins and be done with it.

mother

i pray that when you sing, you can touch the rain you dream
i pray that when the night falls, youll breathe your last in sleep

i see you. you aren't hidden.

i know you wish you could give back the years that brought death.

but if dreams are for the dying, only them that see the light
then who lives behind in mourning, when the day becomes the night?
who can wish away the autumn, who can beg the snow to sleep?
when the sun will fall to pieces, then i will rest in peace.

take away the blindfold; it will still be a surprise
the time you won't remember fades away as years expire
learn to laugh now, learn to live now, for we never know the hour
when our day will hold its breath, and we all will learn to die.

he will outlive you, and will never know your tears.
i pray that as you love him, you can lay to rest your fears.

i am not oppressed.

I am in the process of coming full circle back to my activist roots. For a long time I struggled with the same crisis that every idealist faces at one point or another: what the hell can I do to make a difference?

I am facing the realization now that I am in the perfect point in history to be an individual making a realistic contribution to the issues at large. Micro business, grassroots efforts, and viral marketing are just some of the tools and methods at the disposal of those of us who have this crazy need to make a difference in the world. We are only going to become more and more connected, and understanding this reality and utilizing the potential of the current state of technology and the mindset of the people all around the world is not just a boon to big business. Initiatives need organization, for sure, but that organization doesn't always need to come through a larger footprint.

We are truly in a time where conviction is the best place to start. Realize the issues facing our society, understand the realistic impact you can make, and have the courage to step out and do something. We can harbor no illusions that the solutions to things like poverty and slavery and war will be simple. But we have to believe they are obtainable. If a crappy movie with a silly title can sweep the nation with a clever viral marketing scheme (you know who I'm talking about, Samuel L. Jackson, you snake you) the only issue standing in the way of the public at large being connected to the realities facing us all is communication. Which has always been an issue.

But if you're reading this, you right now are connected to a network that can do much more than provide you with the latest entertainment news or offer another forum for my ranting. The global worldview is real. When we can completely let go of the mindset that what goes on around the world has no affect on our lives because they're so far away and realize that we are connected, both through the "information highway" and the very real impact that every decision we make causes as citizens of a global superpower, we can make a difference. Not a difference initiated by "we who have more money and therefore know the answer to all of your problems", but rather a difference made by individuals who understand the effect their existence is really making on the rest of the world and using that existence intentionally.

20% of the world uses 80% of it's resources. I am part of that 20%. I am making a huge impact on the world, though it's not always in the form I would want, when I don't consciously consider the repercussions. The greatest American freedom is choice. If you don't see that as valuable, you don't understand the reality the rest of the world faces. The reality that many within our own borders face for reasons that could be surmounted. We are not facing an impossible situation.

I heard a horrifying statistic yesterday. 75% of American charitable giving is from the church, to the church. And America contributes a lot to the developing world in with its donations (if someone could find statistics for how we stack up in charitable giving to those outside our own country compared to the rest of the world, you'll get kudos from me).

My point with this really long post is this. If you believe you cannot make a real difference and that keeps you from giving your money, time, or whatever else you have to give, you're bullshitting yourself. The resources are there. The network is there. So where are the idealists who will step up and take the stage?

And income level is certainly no reason, either. Busy or not, poor or not, creative or not, it boils down to this: we are not starving. We are not slaves. We are not oppressed. And we do exist, and leave a footprint from that existence.

Make yours intentional.

plink.

i slobbered words in my sleep. sometimes i think i distract myself with my own soliloquy - i forgot you were listening the whole time, to my poem that didn't rhyme.

i hate boxy closed in trains of thought that litter my otherwise messy closet.

toes to the end of the blue line - i ignored the lettering proclaiming that i should stand there, and not here. i caught your eye as they stared us down, and we winked at our certain demise. when we blow this joint, let's take a lollipop break and stare at the clouds and pretend they are rain.

too much of this, so little the same... but i'll skip along the riverbank and we'll catch a train to the unknown place between the earth and the sky. yeah, the horizon, that's it. we'll fly with the wind as we stand on our train and then land where we are when we stop. my name will be fruitfly, you can be bat. all of our world won't know where we're at.

towards evening, i say we sit with a bottle of gin and wander our way home, while discussing the ins and outs of the science of art, and the art of life, and good cereal box reading. you'll put your hand in mine when we come to the river, and i'll look up at you in the moonlight, and as you lean down to tickle my sides i'll laugh at our prosaic-ness. you never knew i had a romantic side.

who would have thought, really, that we'd find ourselves here? i haven't written about death for nearly a year. or dying at least. for nearly a week. i still find myself in awe of the final sleep, watching and wondering at the breathing-in-and-out note that's sustained until one day, it fades, or ends with an out-of-key bang. which will it be? i'd say i'll take melody, and you fill in the rest, but i'll change my mind halfway through. let's just close our eyes and dance.

step one, step two. you're resting in my arms, and i enjoy that you cause my side to fall asleep. i held my tounge when the words came to whip the moment to threads... i was quiet when i decided i'd say "i just want to run, when you are too close". i even looked you in the eye when you reminded me that i love you.

i think it's progress. plink, plink.

place names

it was like this.

poor man sought to attain new riches. he searched long and hard to earn enough to buy himself a house and a car and make an inheritance for his children beyond poverty... and in so became greedy, and drank away all he had. but, now without a family, he had no reason to pass along material wealth when he met his maker, so he drank on. he was last seen on the corner by the rich side, pretending to be blind.

i was gonna move to the city
and build me a name out
of nothing
and find me an actor
who wanted the same
who'd help me pretend i'd left the small life
from my small town
they all knew me, and saw my fall
and though i was young i knew that was all it would take
to drive them away
and so i'd make me a name
a strong one
a rich one
a proud one
built it lofty high, to hide from my shame.

that's how it was.

you'd think they'd long left me broken but nary a
tear would fall from my eyes that i felt.
i saw what i was supposed to and did what i was told.

it was like this.
the day we turned the soil to cover your remains i did not touch the shovel, i did not speak your name
death became me well.
but all of that does not belie the truth that i am my father's daughter.
my blood runs south
as deep as the bayou
do not be fooled, my nature is a
divided one.
even in my family
there is a black and white side
those drifting in between are
defined by "more or less"
i myself am a lighter hue
but none of us have a true name. we fit our mold
to best suit our ambition, and yet we
still crawl in the gutters.
the mud and grime and swampy water
soak deep into the skin. and when someone
questions you, you say "yes, ma'am" and
"no, sir" and you lower your eyes... never
look up. you might see something you want that you cannot have.
the days are drying up with the receding tide.

i became a writer to shield my existence from my own insecurities.
to pretend i could not hear when they called me names i would seem to be lost in thought, discovering a phrase. but then i quite accidentally found, while attaining shallow (insight? reflection?) that i truly sought to find a story to tell... and the very things that made believe i was lost made me find myself as i truly am. my stories come from true things, though they are not always factual. but i don't write statistics, i write people.

crazy? i was crazy once. they put me in a room.

i search for the perfect words to articulate my sight as i lust after forbidden fruit - my yearning cannot be quenched. such is my original sin... self-seeking... i look within me to see without me... my drive to attain knowledge and awareness makes me blind to what i see, as in passion i forget all in yearning for release.

blindly stabbing at the words
i fall short of my eloquent ideals
but they haphazardly fall into
place so i'll drive the anthem on.

there once was a day, and it was long. and the shadows slowly stretched, and the wind barely moved, and the sun beat hot and dry. i drank my water. my thirst was assuaged and i found myself slowly drifting to dreams.

this is a pauper's story.
the anthem has struck me deep
i made no name
but my words have constructed
a semblance of the dream
that i dreamt in my waking hours.

that's how it was.

knots

you'd think if you're tired of running, you would stop.
i feel as if my insides are tangled
like a necklace that knots itself as you wear it
and as you ponder the knot that occured without tying
you become increasingly agitated when it won't come out.

stupid necklace. never liked the damn thing anyway.

and so here again we are running in circles
lighter and softer, but still the same dance.
i might just remember to pause and consider
if you would remind me, and give me a chance.

tomorrow i'll sit on the windowsill and dip my brush
in the hue that i mixed with colors and water and
hope for a sight that often eludes me, and perhaps
my attempt will turn phrases and rhyme into meaning.

sometimes i feel as if i'm doodling, while the world begins
to end. and yet without craving the light that i'm tasting i see
no reason to breathe.

porridge

you always think you're going to notice when everything changes. the sun should have a different hue, or the birds a different tune, or the ocean a different blue, like in the movies. maybe all your memories should be in sepia, so you know they're too far behind to recapture.

i don't think there will be a stop here next time. i think the station will decay and the track will fade away. but maybe we'll find each other in that place we've always thought we would go, but never have.

aged

i saw him one last time before i left.

you'd think he had never spent a day in the sun. the light from the incandescent bulb dangling outside his cell cast shadows that made him seem haunted and illuminated his skin with an eerie glow by turns. all i desired to do was to hear his voice, to have him once again speak calming words that would make my fears fade away as they did when i was a small child. but his voice was cracked from underuse, and i could barely hear him. that scared me more than anything, i think.

"you have everything you need, child."

"i tried to bring water, master. but they took it from me and spilled it to the earth." this is the thought that had broken me. that the water that could save his life was now turning the dust on the floor to paste and my master was nearly dead.

"have no more thoughts of me," he croaked. "save your stength to face your enemy. he is a brutal beast, but he is a dumb one. never forget that."

"i cannot fight a beast! i can run errands, and make coffee, and bring you your glasses when you cannot see. that is all i am good for. i can't even use a weapon, how can i possibly defeat anything as brutal as a dragon?"

his eyes cleared at that moment, as if his cataracts faded away and i could again see into him as i could before. his countenance changed. i saw then the master of my youth, whom i had followed like a shadow and begged of him to give me shelter. he took me in, and even though i lived as a slave, i had a good master, so it was no matter. his riches were gone now, fed to the fat bureaucrats who no longer believed in such foolishness as dragons. but he was still my master.

"i was going to leave you my wealth, child. but you should learn sooner rather than later that all of the world's wealth is foolish. so i will give you all i have left. come closer, child."

his voice was growing faint.

he leaned in close to me, and through the bars he cupped my cheek as if i was still small. he pressed his forehead to mine and closed his eyes and in his last breath i heard his whisper.

"there is always... hope."

my inheritance faded away as if i had never heard his words. wiping my face i stood and went to the front desk.

"you are the only survivor?"

"yes. everything should be there in the papers he left. may i take his body to be buried?"

the guard reached into a drawer and pulled out an old box. he carelessly pushed it across to me. "your master was a traitor. if you have his inheritance, then here it is. this box, and your master's fate. you have gone from slave to exile."

"and what of my master?"

"he will be burned. he always wanted to face a dragon - he will get his last wish and die by fire. damned myth-men never will be a part of the rest of us... they only live in the shadows of the ignorance we've left behind."

i had no concept of life without my master.
i took his box and walked out of the building. i would be chased by the dogs through the borders if i didn't go quickly, so i used the shadow-hiding i had learned by following his every move. it couldn't hide me from the nose of a dog, but no human would see me leave unless they still believed in myth.

there is one good thing about being a myth-follower. the "enlighted" are still afraid of the forests. the prison was at the edge of the lighted world. they wouldn't even send their beasts in here. apparently ignorance can stalk in the night and snatch trespassers in the forest away never again to be seen.

i sat on a log and opened the box. i had cleaned it many, many times before. the temptation to open it had grown with everytime i touched it. the insides of the box glowed, so i knew it held a wish.

the enlightened ones wished by stars and wished with coins thrown in the fountains in their lighted world, but the myth-men knew a different way. we know that wishes could warm you, could seep into your being - which is why wishes must be handled with great caution. wishes and greed are not far removed, in myth.

i sat with my heart clear and let my master's wish fill my soul.

all is not somber

Q: How many Zen masters does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A: A tree in a golden forest.


Q: How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?

A: Two, one to hold the giraffe, and the other to fill the bathtub with brightly colored machine tools.


Q: How many Bush Administration officials does it take to screw in a
light bulb?

A: None. There is nothing wrong with the light bulb; it's condition is
improving every day. Any reports of it's lack of incandescence are
totally unfounded, and the result of delusional "spin" assaults from the
fanatic, elitist, liberal media. That light bulb has served honorably,
and anything you say undermines the lighting effect and dims it's ego.
Why do you hate freedom?

sha`ah

stop and gaze as the sacred edifice crumbles. should one pause in thought, or cease to pray? should mourning overweigh the joy of death bringing life? should we stop and throw stones as the mighty fall?

i desire to gaze into the crumbled remains of a haughty idol built in the image of an emperor and see the memory of the days before.

are graven images built in the name of christ?

i remember what i have never learned.
i seek that which was torn from our grasp.
but i am brave because of the one giving defence
who seeks not war, but peace.
who welcomes hatred, and turns the cheek.

if all words were lost, we still have the seed.

the morning light has shone.
the noon has past
evening dawns
the long night draws near.
if you may, send moonlight
as fires burn
and forests end
and melodies haunt
and the earth is rend
give light to us to find the dawn
so still our walk may continue on
so still our time may linger on

and if the moonlight should be lost
then all the dreams the world has dreamt
will open eyes, and their purpose met
and all the dreamers willing dust
to rise and ashes give way to breath
the foretold offerings will not lose way
and still the night will turn to day.

grace

last night we were at church. at some point in the beginning of the service, justin said that the scripture that says "let the little children come to me" popped in his head, but then he didn't think anything of it. we started out having a fairly normal service. sang songs, people gave testimonies, someone preached. but then at the end, we started worship again. we sang for a while, and then out of no where there was a long moment of silence. i love those moments, when a whole group of people sits and reflects on what just happened, and not because someone said to. someone explained that what was happening was a selah, a moment of silence where God does not stop moving but we do, to reflect on what has happened.

justin had selah come and sit in his lap during this time, as childcare was over. selah sat quietly for a moment and then looked up at justin and asked, "is God and Jesus in my heart, daddy?" justin told him that they would be if he wanted them to be, and he just had to ask. so selah closed his eyes and sat quietly for a moment, and then said "they're in my heart, daddy. i can feel them." we have never made him pray or read the bible... we wanted him to have a chance to observe and ask questions and make a choice at his own pace.

i was four when i asked for Jesus to be in my heart. i walked a long road to being truly free. an uphill barefoot in the snow kind of road. but God has taught me so much through it. he has reminded me that i don't need to be afraid to be a parent. he reminded me that the things i experienced as a child were not from him, but rather the consequences of my parents choices. he has taught me that i have to understand and recognize that there were people that made decisions that hurt me, as you can't forgive anyone until you can say what they did.

and beyond that, he has truly restored me as if those things never happened. i've been tempered, for sure. and i remember the past and still have the scars. but they don't hurt anymore.

i have told selah about my father. i've told him that he was a sad and angry man, who was mean sometimes because his daddy was a sad and angry man who was mean. i told him how my mom and i prayed for my father, and how before he died he asked for forgiveness and i saw then who he was supposed to be.

selah prayed with me last night. he said,

"Jesus, thank you for being my mommy's daddy when her daddy couldn't do it. Say that mommy."

"Jesus, thank you for helping my mommy not be sad. Say that mommy."

"Jesus, thank you for taking her daddy to heaven. Say that mommy."

i'm still scared of being a mom. but if Jesus can help me when i was a little girl who didn't know love learn to understand who he is, then i think i might be okay. i just have to remember to let God be God, and just work on being a decent Audra.

it helps that my son prays for me.

cause i'm up

and even though i'm protesting myspace, i still got stuck reading everyone's sites for like 2 hours. thanks for the country song tav

and some days i'd rather be a pirate...

stephen colbert

here's a link to the torrent of stephen colbert ripping into lots of people... at the white house correspondants dinner. it's been pulled from just about everywhere on the net. but you have to witness this. whatever you think of the current administration, he stood there and the establishment what just about everyone (even half of conservatives, according to the polls) has thought at one point or another. maybe 10 feet from president bush.

http://seedler.org/en/html/info/539676