summary

it is finished:
the watering down
of living water

it is finished:
the piling on of conditions
for unconditional love

it is finished:
the shameless apologetics
of the gospel of guilt

it is finished:
the hanging of pricetags
on what cannot be purchased

it is finished:
the mindset of slavery
in an emancipated people

it is finished:
finding shame in salvation
because it cannot be earned

it is finished:
the well-meaning error
that grace can be cheapened

it is finished:
the myopic insistence
on a personal savior

it is finished:
every us and them distinction
every if / then equation
every withholding
of any good thing

nothing I say
can pronounce again
the guilty verdict

nothing you do
will rehammer the nails
in those blameless limbs

nothing we are
in our finite
dogmatic
vengeful
shadows of the glory we are
can negate the miracle
of that bloody
intentional
substitution
or render the flow of grace
from that terrible tree
one iota less
than universal
and infinite

our sickness
does not belittle the cure
our sin
does not recreate
the crucifixion
our falling
is a living testament
to our fallenness
a knowing nod
to our glaring need
for which grace is
a glaring provision

the playing field leveled
the curtain torn
the wall demolished
the law unbound
the way revealed

it is finished
it is decided
it is restored
it is free
it is here
now

September 07

voice

one of many ironies
of the human psyche
is a sense of birthright
a gutlevel knowledge
that inward lies
a budding, latent
fantastic work
premised on as yet unknown
but prodigious talent
waiting
to be fixed in some medium
a masterstroke
a great novel
a genre-defining artwork
a new school of thought
a gasp-inducing feat
engineering architectural
medical psychological
musical dramatic athletic
a public delight
born of uncanny private vision
it is a plucky innate truth
that the best
is always ahead

but as we know
birthrights can be squandered
sold, misplaced
or worse, doubted

so too for me
product of fine parents
midwestern mores
sturdy suburban structures
timidly poking a toe
in the swirling wordless waters
of adolescence
frustrated delighted frightened
by the tyranny
of teenage emotions
and the futility
of controlling them
simply capturing them
describing them
now and then would do

and Ohio!
with its ordinary oration
its diction devoid
—to me—
of all dialectal interest
no disarming twang
no charming coastal slant
no nasal northeast tones
no faint wisps of colonialism
no surf slang
no urban rhythm
no particular patois
to breathe life
into my perspective
just baseline American
boring, banal, lifeless, artless
not the stuff of literature
vocational at best

worse yet
no wisdom to impart!
setting aside
the curious lack of words
to carry them
or a lingual vehicle
to add horsepower
resigned to impatient waiting
for life lessons
for everyman a-ha moments
for inner gems to crystallize
for some confirmation
of something worth passing on
fearing an uninteresting fate
increasingly wary
of the stark likeness of peers
increasingly doubting
the likelihood of
simmering genius
finding instead
confidence withering
and a proclivity for paralysis
fearing a life
condemned to commonplace
just one more melodramatic soul
facing garden variety problems
disappointingly normal
in short:
absolutely ordinary
unable to say
the nothing I had to say
in a meaningful way

but still the internal hum
the unshakeable ache
and happy discoveries
to keep the idea of hope,
if not hope itself, alive:
a random facility with words
an occasional astonishing phrase
an idea that refused to be stepped over
music inside
and something tapping to it
slowly but surely gaining tempo
getting louder, clearer
a wisp of a dream unforgotten
a small mental tunnel
inside it a faint beckoning glow
“come in, already—yes, YOU”

no knowledge of transformation
simply of being transformed
something baptismal happening
in the quiet, earnest
wrestling of the soul
a descending dove
resonance

my ruby red slippers
there all along
I spent 33 years
a messiah’s lifetime
clearing my throat

after decades
agonizing
over articulation
stumbling
over syntax
despairing
a dearth of inspiration
testing the wind
and postponing flights
picking at the skin
I should be reveling in
funny to learn
how freeing it was
to stop thinking
before I speak
how easy to live
what I care about
by not caring
about being wrong
even if I sound
like everyone
I don’t have to sound
like anything

wings!
words!
weightless!
freedom to dance
to wordplay
to whisper stutter scream sing
freedom to be utterly me
freedom to create
a work of art
or simply to be one
it is common and unique
it mumbles
it quivers
it is pitch perfect
and happily off-key
it is hoarse and booming
it is boring, soaringly so
it is buoyed
by every good bad and neutral
that has passed through
my life and mind and limbs
the sounder of my soundest thoughts
the revealer of every contradiction
I hold so dear
my betrayer
my beloved
at long glorious last
my birthright!
my blessing!
my voice!

September 07

funereal

common theme
common thread
common questions
(this is a relief, I think)
what is enough
is happiness ever
a worthwhile aim
or ever more than fleeting
can I decide I have enough
bastante
can I turn off the search lights
can I simply live
and live simply
(does this oversimplify)
is ambition admirable
or just an acceptable alibi
for amassing
I’m taking stock
of this strategy
of stockpiling
soberly considering
selling off
all my shares
could I see with new eyes
with my God-given eyes
with the eyes of God
could I learn to love
selflessly
otherfully
openly
could I shed every shard
of sarcasm
smooth wit’s edges
tame this tiger of a tongue
until it purrs personably
could I
once and for all
shake loose
the familiar, numbing embrace
of escape
in all its shapes
bed bottle plate ad nausea
and explore the exotic idea
of being completely in
the skin
the moment
the place
the now
and see how
that all shakes out
could I bid farewell
to fear
and forget its paralyzing pull
could I trade shame
and an endless capacity
for embarrassment
for an unfeigned
unarrogant
eyes wide open
plea to see me
for who I really am
and am becoming

I am alive
gloriously so
and such being
is through no doing
of my own
until I die
I choose not to be dead
and I will bury
zealously
every decaying matter
I will strip off
these graveclothes
and be naked
once more
and finally.

September 07

inlet

we always return:
low on gas
thick with unvoiced expectations:
rest
relaxation
perspective
good food
laughs and drinks
pleasant time standstill
series of spontaneous joys
each seamlessly
giving way to the next
then homeward
with at least several days’ tan left
the swell of the ocean
enveloping sound and smell
tiny sand grains
finding their way
into onto
everything we own

something to this impossible lifestyle
implicit in the landscape
like the fact that weather
breaks down fast
everything that touches
this rarified air
something here
woos the leisured mind
plied with drinks
we’d never resort to this early
in the rigid four walls
of home

how to freeze this scene?
how to crystallize
and preserve this
crazy notion
of living at the beach
short of retirement
or an unlikely
pre-midlife windfall
or simply being from here
and never having left

how to pick up and go
and stay?

thumb through ubiquitous
real estate rags
free at every turn
boasting properties
more affordable than I think
—which I doubt—
what sea changes
what tectonic shifts
must present themselves
to accommodate
no less than a complete
change in lifestyle
not to mention mind?

could I stand
the inevitable watering down
of such a universally accepted
definition of paradise?
would this fine moment
possibly last?
doubt lingers
even as I hopefully
—yet incredulously—
crunch numbers
(as we always have, and do)
numbers I know
will not
cannot
add up
to this scenario

I wonder if we,
as we silently suspect
are most afraid
of getting exactly what we want
and fear the crushing normalcy
that would ensue

maybe better
to shake the sand loose
(as much as we can)
pick up our things
return to our mortgage
and our bed
and resume
the more routine dreams
that mark a life well spent

but then again. . .

September 07