like a stone in your throat

It feels like dying, this new life you gave,

this roughskinned seed of faith. I'm like a stone

caught in your throat. You said you'd save

sinners, not the righteous. Your name tastes

burned and bitter in my mouth.

You said you wouldn't leave us, here, alone.

 

Your blood's dried sticky, bitter on my teeth--

the hot salt lump of meat caught in my throat.

I gulp and choke. It's not meat my body needs,

not this raw gore. I wanted bread and wine.

You said this is my body: take and eat.

 

I take you into myself. My stomach turns

outside itself, revolts. I'd throw you up 

like the beast revolted Jonah onto the earth,

to preach your gospel to some shithole shanty town

poor enough to pray for your new birth.

 

I drink you like gold ash: precious, poison.

Crawl like a fly, tasting the burned dirt with my feet

to crystal streams, where praise warps into noise,

salt in my ears.

I hate it here.

 

I hate it here.

And you, still, say Come. Say,

Take and eat.

faith

 Lord, what a wandering season

circling about you

stones in my shoes.

Lord, what a weary season:

I go out and come back

not finding

those streams, 

those quick and laughing streams.

The memory plays about these dusty days

like music.

Once when I was young,

creek wading in springtime,

the banks flushed and full

all the pebbles gleamed and shone

in the quick water,

the brown ordinary bumps transformed

to brilliance.

Manna, I think

must taste like the white wafers

at church: hardly a remembering

of bread, stale,

hard to swallow without wine.

Easy to grow weary of such food.

I hold out my hand for the white disk again

and again,

I go in and come back,

I return to you, searching.

I remember the press of brightness,

whiter than white, bluer than blue,

enough to crush me

into silence, a weight and light

to fill up heaven

to press into the earth

to fill up every fold of it.

I could not hold --

Oh Holy --

I would go on dying forever there

in that whiteness, 

but one does not hold glory

as one might hold a stone.

One goes on walking, in and out

returning, hoping.

letter to our children

 You are already clean.

Don't be afraid

of how beautiful you are becoming.

One day

you will look out and see 

the glory shining out of our skin

like light

spilling out of a cup.

One day

the angels will look at you and shout

in all the colors we cannot see.

Don't forget to notice

how beautiful this world is.

Don't forget

how to call shit, shit.

Cherish the beetles 

and the sweat.

Don't forget

this world is worthy

of your beauty

all of it.

Don't forget

how to be angry,

how to hope.

We are all made for beauty. 

One day the angels

will hide their eyes

at the light of it. 

You are already clean.

It is already shining out of you,

luminous in your blood,

your bone,

your skin and sweat.

Don't be afraid

of how beautiful you are becoming.

You are already clean.

a little song

 Today we work. Today we weep. 

With God's help, tonight we sleep

The sleep of God's beloved.

We mourn with hope. We grieve with joy.

We pray steadfastly, though we cry,

For we know God is love.

This little while seems long; the years

since Christ was born are centuries,

And yet we feel God's love,

We do not cease to work and weep,

And when we can, we rest and sleep--

All shall be well, for in God's keep

We all are held in love.

Jesus reigns

 You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge

When men oppress the least of these, the ones you made--

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

When nations rest at ease, feast on fat meat, sit

on the bones of these, the ones you made,

and say "peace! peace!", knowing the bones

beneath them cannot speak--

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

When the little, brittle birds limp, untended,

shiftless, and spend our pennies on their sins--

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

When proud men preen, and vomit lies, and call it truth,

and fools leap up like dogs to lick up what they spewed--

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

When greedy priests would weave another veil

between your spirit's power, and their flocks,

Or teach their sheep to heap self righteousness 

around their shame like dragon hoards,

or walk in judgment, blinded by the white boards

of painted over shame they cannot, dare not see--

You see, you hear, you reign, and you will judge.

And when still we go on stepping on our children's backs

to keep our ease, to keep our ease, to keep our ease:

You hear, you see, you reign, and you will judge.

The marriage of the Lamb has come; his bride has made herself ready

We sell our souls for privilege and power;

the church is no less guilty. An hour,

an age, God curse it. God have mercy,

we're worse than we believe. The curse we

bear we carry in our bones. We can't 

unknit it from our breath, it's printed

in the wrinkles of our brains. Stains

like commandments, God-engraved.

Our bread is poison--we consented

to eat, we called it sweet. How pure

the saints shine forth, unstained--

how full of shit. We eat the shit

the world sells, call it sanctified.

Was it for this our Lord was crucified?

When will the earth, revolted, spit

us out? We've sold the cure

for our disease for "peace," for princes,

for appointments. There's no salve

to stop this rot, this bleed. We need 

amputation. Christ, will this branch

that bore me burn? 

When will you, awful God, return

to judge your church?

God curse it, God have mercy,

who will pay for this unfaithfulness,

when your bride's idols splinter? 

Will you, in mercy, burn them

in our bones? Burn in the midst of us?

When will we tear out our eyes

that make us sin, that cannot see

past lies that were our parents'

inheritance? or are these lies

as old as Eve? When do we grieve?

Oh my mother, my brothers, 

when will you grieve?

 

angry

God help us
it were better to have drowned

than to come before your throne
and be found
wearing chains that we hammered

hammered and bound
around our hearts and our children's

nailed to our doorposts
nailed to our gates
nailed to our foreheads
nailed to our feet

You told us good news:
we made dead gold copies
of the gospel
and wore it like crowns

Made chains out of grace
God
help us--
it were better to have drowned

economics 2

2.
In God's kingdom we all
make the same trade

can't refuse His demand: All

so we bring our hands full
what we made

of ourselves
What could we have saved?

so many handsful of trash
shredded and stinking

keeping back nothing

not the hate, not the scars
not the sick, not the dark

Come, said the Master
Come as you are

Come with all you have to offer
all you should have been

all the truth you scoffed at
all you're still too sick to see

Come make the trade.
Receive

All you need.
Paid in full.
 
Oh we fools! Clever monkeys
we cherish our reckoning

each with her bank book.
How much thanksgiving

is correct? Is this living:
pay our debts, tally dues

count up who's an honor
to the Kingdom? Do you

hold a list and check it
to watch your sister's credit

is she really repenting
enough to earn her pardon?

He said it was finished
Paid in full

this terrible measure:
for every sin

just recompense
And the Lord has laid on Him

the iniquity
of us ALL

Dear monkeys, little sheep,
let us wash off this filthy reckoning

This sister pitted and deformed by sin
receives more mercy, more cherishing

And you, so tender to the law's demands
are fitter to be treated as a man

The one who's been most crushed, who's been most cruel,
who's toiling out of filthy, monstrous places--

will we deny him one scrap of grace
whom God gave All?

No: let us grant more modesty, more grace
to one who brings more shame

and lays it at the Cross:
God for us

Leave off this reek, this tallying
what I brought and what you bring

and have the mind of Christ

Let us breathe and speak and live this trade:
each ALL receives ENOUGH
 
we cannot reckon up the way of Love.

economics 1

1.

I have a house in God's Kingdom,
a good house
well-built, modest--well
within my means. I pay
on the mortgage monthly: three fifty,
more when I can spare

I keep it nice, too: fresh paint yearly, dusted daily,
every corner clean--

Then she comes knocking, wanting
sugar (who doesn't have sugar?)
for cookies or something
Her kids eat too much sugar anyway, it's not good for them
and watch way too much TV--

It's almost midnight
and she comes with her cup

and she says guess what Jesus--

Oh do you know Him? I say

Oh yes, she says Jesus
gave me a mansion

Oh did he I say
a mansion
How expensive
and how do you keep it clean?
I suppose you want to borrow my vacuum cleaner as well I say

Oh yes, she says, he did--
he said it's free

stones

"Blessed are you when others revile you & persecute you & utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven--for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you."


We have Christ's mind. Shut it up in a box.
Made a test for the rest.
Is their doctrine pure?

Do we even understand what it means any more--
or what do we think the traditions are for?

We preached the whole counsel
but we slid over James
an epistle of straw
watch him go up in flames--

We didn't want to listen.
We didn't like weeping.
So we hugged our own selves
and called ourselves suffering

kissed our own boo boos
Sat still in our pews
and lived quiet lives

Unbearable Love,
the world hated you.
It casts stones at us too.

Are the stones true?

sticks

God draws straight lines with crooked sticks:
it doesn't get much more twisted than this,
halt leg limping, sin dragging my ankles,
trying to keep my eyes on my Righteousness--

Old sin casts long shadows. It's dark in this heart.
There are times I feel blind, stumbling in darkness
tripping over old loves I thought I'd left behind,
stealing kisses. Oh, you children of light!

Walking through the valley of the shadow of hesitation--
can't feel Your Spirit with me when I hear that temptation:
A little sleep, a little slumber, fold my hands up to rest: 
You can stop and rest a while here, in Unworthiness.
It's a quiet town, everyone keeps to himself.

There's a house to lie down in. Pull my knees up. Say
I'm an unworthy servant. I'd better stay
by the roadside, silent, and not harm the witness.
A little time to lie down, let my weak knees rest.

Boards over the windows. Count the specks in my eyes.
Lie down in the darkness to listen to lies.
Lullaby, sleep now, close your eyes
on goodness and glory-- they burn like poison--

There's a crack around the frame though,
a crack around the door
it lights up my eyelids in crimson and gold.
If I wait till You straighten me out all the way
I will stick here mud musing till the last day.

Halfhearted, make me faithful--stick my feet to this way--
So the old man's got my ankles. I was made for daylight.
Don't let me turn backward, or twist to the side.
You can use a bent stick, Lord, to make a straight line.

You broke up stone with a stick and frustration
and gave sweet water to a desperate nation.
You hung, Atonement, on a tree and some nails
Your promise: sin and death shall not prevail.
You are making me holy. I must walk down this track

and love your Church, imperfect:
I cannot hold back.

birthday

In spring you shared good news--
two babies! Due November --
like a plate of freshbaked cookies.
New life is sweet in the mouth,
brown sugar and vanilla.
A taste to savor--
God is good
Taste, unseen, eyes built,
fingers unfolding,
the knitting of new bodies with new souls

Summer brought figs and wasps.
Untwinned, too, one twin
One sister, to be born
half of a pair--
What memory of sister cells long melted?
What redseamed and burning loss
sewn up in every stitch of joy?
May I beside you drop my tears
for these dear twins
Purl tears, still, for that pearl
that little lump of cells
they took--
unfingered still, and unfarewelled--
in glass
away--

The birthday--Ruby Mae!
Born in November
in a cold far place,
a white gray winter
To know you hold, at last, the small bright crown
to nine months' long ring of grief and hope
Touch her fingers.
Hold her curled into your shoulder--
We unwrap your news like early Christmas
bright with red ribbons.
Is God not good? 
The tears we paid seem guarantee
of days and years thick with sweet memories--

Till an imperfect heart's small raveling
surgeon stitched, still opens
and opens, and opens
its unstoppable switch: breath
to emptiness.
We watch ribbons spin and shred in a black sea.
Was one not enough?
Something beside you--faroff
in my own gray home
I share the indignities:
mucus, tears, acid
puncturing the days with its
unbearable taste--
 
Dear friend,
Let me sit down with you
at this bitter plate.
To weep
and hope
and pray.
God is good --
To believe, together,
that promise,
that unshakeable one day.

boxes

does God sort people into boxes,
saving them--

I guess He would need a whole room full of
separate
boxes just for the States of
american christians

the patriotic ones, for sure, go mostly in this box
waving their flags and their constitutions and their godly heritage
their ikons of pigtailed founding fathers

these ones are wearing bluejeans, they will lift up their hands,
they have free and beloved tattooed on their wrists and their shoulders
their box is blinking blueviolet
bass throbbing
over the praise chorus phrases
the phrases and phrases and phrases
that box contains a real worship experience,
they agree
some of them aren't solid on Who
does it matter

a box for the working class whites
much worn down around the corners
warped and speckled with grease stains and sweat stains
prickling, resentful
(what happens to the anomalies
who decide to go for doctrine
do they get a new box
or do they get thrown in with the middle class Presbyterians
and the wealthy Baptists,
with their skirts and their suits and their $400 youth camps and their
nice
christian
safe
expensive
white
church schools)

you would think the liberal box would be pretty big
with ample space for thinking
but mostly they just fill the room up with
pinkhearted sobs and hugs
in between their
(can we say it in God's room?)
social justice work

Boxes for the white ones
the brown ones 
the black ones
a few for the ones who want to be mixed up

the psalm singers
the amen shouters
the babblers and fainters

i feel like maybe i should slip into the box He keeps
shoved under the bed
the one with all the broken pieces--

Our stories get us most of us tangled
so maybe He (metaphorically) asks us
where we want to go do this whole
"one another" thing,
which other we feel will be the least
well
other

in heaven do we get to switch churches if we
get that "outsider" feeling?

labor (spoken word)

I am a man

unleisured, unlettered, i am heir
to as much of sky: i too partake
in 15minute nicotine drenched midnight breaks
of stars flung no less wide
thronged no less deep

than you
Sleeping in your mattress in its solid wood frame
in your 5 bedroom 3 1/2 bathroom
woodfloored wifecleaned roachless yardmowed
House

Look at you reaping
the fruits of your labor
casting bread on the water
did the debt snowball
you're the good Christian version
of american dreaming:
save and amass, one day you'll pay cash
for a palace like Dave Ramsey
till your taxes go to benefit
men
like me

(second shift third shift
shiftless

what does it profit
a man
if he gain)

My name
is no less heavy
in God's hand
because it's on those documents of shame
(I have a name:)

wal mart employee
delinquent rent
stacked up infractions
unpaid child support
benefits
godforbid food stamps
haven of the shiftless unprincipled

Do you know my name? 
Your granddad called my dad
worse than a n-------
How do you figure the worth of a
broke
image

white trash
no class
Back then at least he had his white skin
not at the bottom if there's someone less than

Human
My sin
is no less grave than yours.
Your sin
My sin
For the same damn wages

And the rate of my redemption is not one drop less
of God's own blood.
I am a man

It is a much diminished thing to be a man
We lost sight of justice
we love our private school educations
   family vacations
   college savings
   club cards
   Chik Fil A (my kids eat free lunch and PB&J)
more than the rawscrape shape of love
and mercy

it is better to walk proud
in our righteous bootstraps
our heads so full of prudence up on those clouds
american dreaming
oh holy nation of white middle class self made
men

You want to work 9 to 5
and eat the fruit of that righteous toil
and eat, and eat
the little thistle prickles make it sweeter

A day will come
(it won't be my day)
when we at last go home
Work the earth together like we were made to

and you, with your Protestant work ethic, your prudence, your priorities
your middle class opportunities
You will own not one inch of it
that sweet black soil, wormrich and warm beneath your hands

Beside you I will weep
barehanded, bury deep this angry pride
This bitter seed, humiliation
I will reap humility

We will receive the same wages

How does the sky blue

Why does the sky blue, beyond its deep crawling clouds?
Blue, today, a sweet and sobbing trumpet song
Each note royal, brilliant, purpling
Into the next crisp reverberating tone.
Footbone, shinbone: feel the green hill roar
Its echo--blue and gold in its deep
Rocks, its secret bones, beneath its green--
Slow earth echo rings its rocks and pockets
Hums and thrills in ear, in fingerbones,
In ankle, clavicle, in old skull seams--
The hills ringing gold cannot still
Or hold this joy
Outswelling from Your bought, forgiven saints.

Made deep with grief released, with sweet true grief

That swelling sobbing thanks 

Presses their blood against their skin.

Is sung. Unsung, bursts out in fountains. 

Stains the sky:

Purple and crimson, dearly bought--

And flushing pink as cherished as a bride--

And blue! Deep, boundless blue

Spills up, and out. Blue spouts and shouts and flows--
Joy stains the wide sky with its overflow.

Eager, tender, urgent, bold

Presses every fold of space

And spangles stars in it.
Wondering, starkissed, lovestruck--heaven
Trembles. Rings with the glorious meek song.

And see! How beautiful Your chosen bride--

How radiant unveiled. Her loved face shines

And grateful tears--like gems, like stars--

Catch and reflect Your love in sparks of light--
Like stars that sing among the boundless night.

body

i am not good at loving--

i prefer
deserving
serving
(disappearing

which i can't, here,
sitting in frayed jeans and no lipstick
in these pews)

so:
here

among the jcpenneys
jcrews
the high heeled shoes

the collared shirts
the sportcoats
tasteful ties:
here

i will
sit, not raising hands
green joy imploding

not weeping

seeping like cutrate meat
(picked up/abandoned
 by some SNAP mama whose
unmannered and undaddied kids
tear into their unpurchased candy bribes)
seeping, and stinking
in the clean packaged ranks
of skinless freerange chicken breast
Offensive!

(offended) --
Bleeding,
here

i sit, i consider
myself
(i am not good at loving)--

i am
beside
among
together --

oneanothering with these
cleaner, other
souls of Yours