His blood speaks of worth.
His blood is heavy and pungent,
mixed with incense
and flecks of myrrh.
Heavy red mercury,
spilling, swirling down the artery.
Trickling down a trail,
like acid down the Veil.
Magic soaks His spine.
Tingling indigo bruise–
standing to the side,
Sweet iron-smelling blood,
thorns raking head of dingy, sweaty curls.
Dark eyes dim,
sparkling sweet with roguish undefeat.
Drum snaps:
undead! undread!
Bass pushes forth,
rips and blooms in music.
That incessant blood, insouciant,
slippery unkillable medicine;
heavy pulsing music,
flute-soft blood breaking metal diamond scorn.


In the dark night,
tempestuous with spirits tossed,
it is not my mind that tells.
Tonight, to You, I whispered:
“My heart knows You,
my heart knows You”
and some Spirit leapt within.
It has always known You.
Before I spoke a Name,
I spoke in groanings ever deepened–
deep calling to deep.
So You washed over me,
till You broke me into beauty,
till I learned to come up leaning.


I wait for You at twilight,
filled with pooled bits of knowing
that are weighted down with passion
and quieted with mourning.
Long after You’ve arrived (You arrived at Always),
I cling with darkened eyes and angry mercury tears.
I know This One Here, and should not be afraid;
but feel abandonment from generations and a mutiny of ages.
Did You feel the same in that dim garden,
tempestuous with spirits tossed?
Your mind brimming with untelling;
releasing howling desire into a thin night air which burned and sparkled at Your touch.
You threw Your body on a rock,
crying out to One You knew would close His ears to You,
and gathered such passion in Your eyes that it spilled over–
and the wind knew it, and saw it:
bits of blood flecking down onto Your holy, grief-emptied hands.


Pale paper cheek turned
dry-wrinkled from tears.
My angry will
pitted ‘gainst Yours
I come here often
I come here often.
“Everything is possible for You”
yet this cup never passes
I am weary of knowing.
Forever incomplete in the quest for understanding.
So if You would,
please take the time
unclasp my fingers,
bend my knee.
Bend my will to the curve of Your own,
so that “Not my will, but Yours be done”


As You see my
little cub face
with silken ears
and matted paw,
troubled maw;
so much seen–
(can it be unseen?)
I scratch at my wounds
and growl, as fiercely
as I can muster.
So You laugh to Yourself for a moment,
then the saddest look
comes etched across Your Big Bear face,
which with all its holy sullenness
weaves the strongest invisible cords around my
weak heart.
Then reaching out a single paw
with softest fur
and strongest claw–
You beckon, with clear brown eyes.
Out You stretch,
in You draw,
near You pull me,
into the safest, warmest shadow,
where You feed me milk
and honey
and lick my crusted wounds
till they are wonderfully clean
and I am suddenly
(over a span of time)
a Little Bear–
having become not quite exactly,
but very much
like You.


We Pharisees,
we laugh at what is different.
We, all the same.
But today, I have not come for that.
I have come to be a child.
To dip my wondering hands
in cool, red milk
slightly sticky to the touch
and sickly to my untrained heart.
I have come to be a child,
asking a thousand questions,
while burying my answered head
under a pool of calming mother’s milk.
I have come to be a child,
sweeping slow arms
in ever-widening circles,
knowing more and more
of a greater Love.
I have come to be a child,
trading whimpering anger
for a simple tub,
filled with the most extravagant Love.
You broke your Lover’s body
to leak your Lover’s blood,
and I will never understand,
yet now will never be unLoved.

The Beginning

At first I thought I saw Him
only in glimpses–
in the curve of a smile,
at the edge of a paperback book,
in the slanting afternoon sunlight.
But then I began to see Him everywhere,
slipping out for a moment around corners and busy city sidewalks,
or smiling to me while He handed me my coffee,
or turning up in a breath by my side while my eyes marveled at the colors of a forest landscape.

Where did He come from?
Who was He?
Why did He hold so much power over me already?
Was He a He at all?
I knew His name, but I did not know his Name.

The things I read about Him were
newspaper articles,
cold // black and white // still // dead
(it made Him seem Still Dead)
but when I felt him around the penumbra of my mind,
He was sparkling, bright colored light
and oh so full of joy.
When He smiled, the whole earth rose up to meet Him,
the whole earth’s heart leapt within.

This was just the beginning;
this was just the start of my Jesus.