Renovation. my prayer.

Is it possible? Forgiveness?
Can bitterness sleep? Can--defeatism be defeated?
Will everything indeed be overturned and reconciled
Conquered--more than conquered--the worst of things,
even irreconcilable evil--madness

torturous wanderings, Jesus
Jesus, why is your name...sweetest
pain

because I have crucified you.

Jesus, you saw it, didn't you?
--and you suffered. you suffered, too.
you didn't make us to be whole without you.
you didn't come to show us what to do.
you came to be who
would bare our brokenness
and bear our brokenness
and your grace is sufficient
for such as we are
and your power is made perfect
in such as we are
and we are all hypocrites
we are all fools
riddled with darkness
sprinkled with holes
leprous, parched for a drink
somebody hurt us God what do you think
things like this break our minds, Jesus
things like this can terrify
if the almighty won't protect us who will
but you are in it all
you were there first
and when we see it
when will we see it
see your face
because you didn't make us to be whole without you
so we are all limping
and we are all broken
and sewing our fingers between every knuckle
and wondering why we can't ever be better
but you're only telling us, come and remember
eat this bread and drink this cup
of suffering
and I am with you
with you
you are not your own
not alone
come to me
and if you fall
fall on me

Throes of Precluded Glory (20th century rubbish)

emotion crawled like a wormy caterpillar across the page.
sadly
insufficient
dead. dead. dead. dead. dead. beats. thrums. hums.
headache in my head
this is a thermal avenue of change, thermal avenue of change
which witch wish I wish it was Monday evening and free
go to bed and get up and get up and get up and it's really never free
mind it's bloody never free from chains in dark choking prisms
prisms too color-coded for light, too many-colored for guidance
too many-angled for sight
tonight it's express and then garbage, tomorrow little better than nothing
changes
tomorrow we will revolutionize, recycle our selves into what they were yesterday.
emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. emotion. em
ot
io
n
dripped like a sodden three-week-old wash rag, sour-grey, and dissipated
the page clock-stopped at 4:48 PM, Saturday, December 8.

"what does that mean?"
"it doesn't."