...you don't know what's going on.
Shh. Quiet now. Let me bring you there.
I once promised you that I wouldn't publish poetry on Sunday. This was a day to sermonize. To guide and council. This was my day to be an angel.
But I am not interested in Puritanical angels. They bore me and rarely leave evidence of their passing. Plus, if the stain glass windows are right, they're all very, very white, and baby, last time I checked, I was more cinnamon than driven snow.
Tonight, stars spinning above me, clouds fast across this open desert so bracing cold... tonight, surrounded by brush and cactus and night time creatures that can find me so much easier than my human handlers... tonight, with my player shuffling the same five songs... tonight, I am caught, captured and held by you. I am alone with my Christ and whispers of divinity, falling like stardust.
The roaring riffs
of sweet salvation
in cascading
tumble-tight lyrics
that carry me to
another place and
wash over me like
baptism, like
rain showers like
storms in the air
around me
inside me
lifting me up
taking me down
... oh dear God
I just described
how I feel
when you touch me.
Christ Almighty, you placed us here. You laid us here in the double helix of who we are and what we can be to each other. What cell holds gentleness? They have mapped the one that holds song. Where in my muscles does this desire for you slumber then jump, alert, alive, aching when I look into your eyes? Sweet Christ, this is how you have made us. This is how you have spun still matter into flesh, bone and thought all wrapped around twenty-one grams of soul. You have made us able to write words erotic, romantic, touching, inciting. You have made us able to touch so softly we trace fingerprints, or to possess so fully we are shaken and left shaking.
In my celebration of you, I celebrate this body. In my honoring of you, I honor this body. To deny my heart is to deny you and I will never deny you. Lord? I am shouting from mountain tops. I rejoice to find you... find myself... find us together.
You are born
of sound, my
music made flesh
of beat and bass
the bright
sharp brilliant
edge of you
beneath my
praying tongue.
You are born
of the ocean
the cresting
waves calling
whispering
shouting my
name throughout
the cold night
meeting
the cool dawn
burning in
your arms.
I promised you only poetry on Thursdays. Sermons on Sunday. But there are some messages that can only be given in verse. There are some promises that can only be exchanged in touch. Sometimes we must embrace the truth that there is a time and a medium and a reason for everything. It is written into our genetic scripture. It is coded and expressed, activated and mutated just for me, just for you, just for this love that beats between us, Christ. There are times when the educated sentence fails us. It only confines. Free form, freefall, is the only way.
Christ coded our genome. Christ coded this universe. If you think you know, you don't. If you think you're right, you're wrong. It is all a mystery. It is all a hundred times more than our wildest discovery.
There are at least ten thousand ways to love somebody.
And I
have never
loved you more.
For your strength
for your fire
for your constance.
And I
sometimes
know so very
little, but only
that I love you.
That I would do
anything for you.
That I could be
that I will be
that I am
anything that
you need.
EJ
