We Should See Other Blogs

When the storms gather around,
like enemies on all sides.
In the shadow of a doubt,
when you’re gone from my sight.

Lord, can you hear my cry?
Am I wasting my time?
Your still, small voice replies,
“Child, you are still mine.”

And I am, I am, I am safe in your hands.
I am, I am, I am safe in your plan.

You have seen the worst in me,
all the other loves that I chase.
Like a prisoner set free
running back to fasten his chains.

Like a moth to a flame
I am burned time after time,
but you love me just the same,
you say, “Child, you are still mine.”

And I am, I am, I am safe in your hands.
I am, I am, I am safe in your plan.

I come running back to you time after time
to the shadow of your wings,
and you say, “Child, you are mine.”

Our narratives aside, the truth is hard to hide.
It always seeks the light, to level out.
The story that I’ve got, the characters and plot,
the mortar and the blocks I’ve leveled out.

It’s complicated in retrospect to see what it’s about.
It’s hard to hate it, the means and ends, to level out.

If I could tweak the gears, an errant engineer,
the troughs would disappear and level out.
But things are meant to pass, in memory and ash,
simplified and crass, leveled out.

It’s annotated, its facts are checked. See what it’s about?
It’s hard to hate it, the means and ends, to level out.

Old song. Don’t ask. I don’t know.

Throw him in the oven. If he lives then we will love him.
And at least he’ll be sure he’s alive.
If he dies we will dissect him, from the sternum to the rectum
so we can finally understand what’s inside.

It’s a good plan. It’s a good, use the good plan. Use the good plan.

Toss him in the oil, and we’ll watch to see him boil.
if he doesn’t, we’ll let up a cheer.
If he does you get the batter, roll him up and mind the splatter,
while I crack open a couple of beers.

It’s a good plan. It’s a good, use the good plan. Use the good plan.

Old song.

In reverence and awe,
in ignorance and bliss,
you fall on your face
in front of a mirror
and call it god.

Can you recall a time
with your kinetics slack,
the agonizing cry,
the fire in your chest,
a heart attack.

Old song.

May the angel of death watch over you
on your trek to the dark side of the moon.
All of your friends have already left
with the angel of death.

Old song. Also must have been listening to Somewhere North Of Here.

There are too many days and too many long nights
between here and now and the rest of my life.
All of these songs are meant to fill the silence,
but they just remind me of your voice.

I am used to these streets that stretch between us
like telephone cords wrapped around my neck.
And the radio wire inside my heart sing signals
that you’re too damn far away.

Is there a remedy for distance, a therapy
for climbing a mountain that never seems to end?

Old song.

I can’t remember your skin.
You’re always half an hour away.
I’d sell all this stuff
if it would be enough
to convince you to stay.

Old song. Again, awful. I was having a bad night or something.

Your art is to imitate architects,
to see who can build the strongest.
As if in the penthouse of your regret
you can hold your breath the longesdt.

As if to say now that it’s said and done,
you can tie all the pages together,
hide it where no-one will ever see,
and blame it on the weather.

Old song. Awful. Ghastly. GAH. What was I thinking?

Under the floorboards, the beating hear
of all you’ve forgotten to murder.
You’ve locked all the doors, but the skeletons
are beating their fists all the harder.

If that brilliant smile if your disguise,
you’d best avoid mirrors and water.
Walking through the fire has melted it
to framework and patches of plaster.

Who told you that you were beautiful?
Who said that weakness was pitifull.
That room with no air,
you’ll be so secure there,
awaiting your burial.

Old song.

When I finally die I hope you cry for a while
and visit me when you can get away.
And when I finally meet my maker’s son
I hope he smiles and says, well done,
well done, well done.

When I finally die I hope you let my body burn
and scatter me all over the front yard.
And when the kingdom comes they gather
every atom back to say, well done,
well done, well done.

And we have a boy I hope you give him all my books,
the ones we didn’t sell to fill the fridge.
And when he reads them he will see
the Jesus of the words. Reading, well done,
well done, well done.