my family and i, we call it moving mountains.  these are the things we can do with faith.  not knowing just what it is we’re moving but trusting and being able to actually feel the power in the movement.  faith can be so big that God would even allow a person to see a glimpse of what they’re really doing.  i’m not there but my imagine runs wild.  with my faith i am free to dream.  ~


[from now]

could have been something you thought of,

could be deja-vu.

finally, it took so fast

getting it all out of you. ~

[slightly acidic]

strange astringent,
a blink of an eye; the water bleeds and the light,
dry as a bone,
ragged and wrung
appears clean, serene, and alive.~


ironing out the inevitable,

the heaviness of metals, like led,

(i can still hear)

sleek chilled water
washes over black coal in the night;

it ebbs, and lets
in the light.

improving the aperture,

the dilution of ink as it bled.

(can’t be far now; so i try my joints:)

i can still feel.~


hands against the surfaces of stone:

the dryness seems fit for the polish of the grip,

as i carry my weight up over the cliff and peer down at the height of my climb.

at some point this must align

with an idea God had in His mind.

this must be what its like to come into ones own;

having full faith that the drift, the down, angled calves, the slide of mud, the catch of my step as i bare down down down …

will not be nearly as trecherous as the lift, the push on angled calves, the slide of mud, the catch of step as i push my weight up over the cliff and peer out at the site of my dreams.

reaching into the depth of fear in my knees, the water up to my hips, i drift with the clutch of a stick;

the dryness in my feet seems fit for the polish of the grip of stone, i chance across a fast-moving water, against the current of time and i think to myself:

at some point this must align with an idea God had in His mind.~


honor for the elder;
honor lost to law and lines on contracts
and facts.

an attic scent like damp wood and dusty boxes of pictures; things to help her remember who she is.
despite her demeanor (she claws at the strangers),
she is adorable. and scared.

left here unprepared,

she waits by the door;

waiting to be honored or be spared.~

[rose red]

Approaching the line which isn’t a line afterall,
Water meets dawn,
Still grasping to the deep and turbid why.
If I can understand,
I could get by.
If, …I’d get by.
Surfacing on floating ice,
The difference melts; light reflects
The significance of her cry;
But once its hoped; it saves in notes
Bottles and waves to shore.
Approaching the line; this infinite sky;
Approaching the light; the dawn of a beautiful life.~