My heart is like lava. It’s a spiritual hot that makes evil flee, but the moment it cools, it hardens in the posterity of a permanent clause, “The End”.
It’s been in a season where I feel my heart cooling down and the hardening has burrowed my eyebrows downward towards a flicker of complaint as my eyes look for a fight.
Idolatry is an increasing poison that scathes the epidermis of my conscious and pedigrees itself higher than the word of the Lord making the latter manifest onto a tablet of stone. Idolatry rewrites the history of my resurrection day as a superficial burn that emits pain but can be bandaged through an unendangered expectancy of “I’m okay”.
2016 has been the pour of concrete into a deep crevice, so that I don’t fall into the areas that are void without purpose. But I’ve poured while blindfolded, so as I open my eyes, I see tall mountains above me. There’s a deep frustration that the trajectory of the next climb is even harder because I took the mold without understanding the chemistry and made time revert to a unlikable dimension without my permission.
The lava glows teal in a blender of magical surprise. It pulsates into a rhythm and dance that are taught by the Native Hopi. It channels a light on the ground next to moss and starts flowing in a current swayed by the uncharted West. It gravitates to the elements of the One and then back to my dreams. It stops. It won’t be able to find its course as easily as it once did. The cause led to the effect and the ebb stagnates into movements that forget that the journey was already defined by the One. There I am standing and watching this dense glow fork its path next to my feet ready to swim past where pressure is less hurried.
There’s no way this ethereal sludge will make it up the mountain. But if it does, I’ll be a fool for not believing to go with the Spirit that will lead me when I listen.
It seemed to me that you were my birth place from as young as I can remember. But there was a past history- one that marked me a citizen of another nation- the phenotypes that registered light skin, black hair, and brown eyes. I was their’s and then I became your’s through my five senses, but never in document. Your neighbors on map were in possession of a soul that spent the early days of my family’s migration on the road as we canvassed 48 states in three months. I was in the back of the car mostly, sitting on my mom’s lap and they told me I was a quiet baby.
I grew up not knowing much and couldn’t remember if I spoke to more than two people in a day’s attempt to make it an adventure. Mark another page off the calendar. School was a pleasant upbringing- I harnessed the quilt of giving and taking there; I asked Marvin to be my best friend in kindergarten; that relationship didn’t last long. My dad helped me with my book reports. I was a translator of his anger because I couldn’t come up with a summary- he read with me and I fixed his grammar on the sheet that gave me trouble comprising sentences. I was a loud one through elementary school perhaps because there was not enough supportive voice around me.
I drew attention to middle school in Beverly Hills- still in your county but relevantly different in vibe and nurture. I remember masturbating for the first time and possibly made it an ongoing fascination because I was a boy still yet to be shipped my growth spurt. I was wild about holding girls’ hands and hoped to walk around school as part of girls’ talk. All the while I grew numb to my parents fighting at home and hated that I was so hungry what seemed like every 30 minutes. My mom never could get the pot off the stove in time- I was angry that I had to burn my tongue to eat away my starvation. I played 1-on-1 basketball with Mr. Toutant almost every day. He never could figure me out.
Life had a meaning and I didn’t know that I meant something to it.
To be continued…
When a verb is a word it loses its purpose to be.
I sit under the dormant street lights hearing the crackle of water diffuse from its source of higher concentration to the roof of my car. I know I should wake early tomorrow for work, but the seat of creativity flows through my capillaries. My fingers move and the fortuitous bounce of ideas row softly into the basket. Point after point, I smile at the scoreboard and sing the song of deliverance after a day decides to reset under sleepy eyes.
I wake up and I clench my abdomen through the cold of an unwritten morning. I slide past the door like mail coming in through a house. I sometimes hum the melody of the broken world and ride its discouragement until the hoof of my horse stops to gather its breath. It doesn’t want to move and understandably it wasn’t trained to wander past through green pastures and the plurality of ponds of water.
I often thought I could mimic the worship of a saint. I thought a preacher’s voice was my own if I amplified it loud enough. In the struggle of planning for age, it is a confounding nature to want to sit in biased conclusion that I have grown too old for the dreams of the young. I belong in a cohort of compatibility with a box yet unwrapped and prospectively want the study of opening that box to favor me.
But retrospectively, I was the case and He was the control. And when something as rare as a relationship is exposed, He became the verb for me to be.
The line is a coarse wavelength and a precipitous fall into prospective selection; ID’s are checked, and the eyes start moving at an unprecedented rate. It’s tracking one who isn’t taken and one who is ready to have fun. This line diverts from A to B to Z when the eyes funnel towards one that it wants and possibly doesn’t think it can get. But the eyes never loses their speck of history.
I didn’t protect her with my words. I judged and infiltrated embarrassment. It’s hard to clean the lens of another, and the fog kept her from seeing the good afterwards. When the cue ball is struck it can help others break free or it positions them in the corner of a tough shot. The line is harder to angle and the next shot can only be crafted through wisdom. But sometimes I play the guy’s way into surviving loneliness even when I have enough to play the man’s way through adversity.
The game will be in my favor and the line will be there if I want to stand in it. But fear is the sound of heels clicking through my mind- there’s a temptation to hear it here rather than hear the steps walking away. But as she walks away, I get restless to be a man and the zone invites the Advent to come near. If I walk away, it’ll be a line that draws itself in the sand and slowly disappears into the fade of wandering. Instead, would my knees buckle and my head drop to stay where I don’t want to stand because it channels the thought of failure and unwarranted hurt unto others. But in it, I’ll be enveloped with a hymn of glory that will show me a different path.