Three Goats

I was standing in our shop. The yard was full of trucks coming and going with the excitement of harvest. I walked to the edge of the open shop door and looked out to the south, to the field and the gravel road. There was a man that had crossed the road onto our yard, pushing three goats, black and white towards the shop. I could not see the man's face as his head was angled downward beneath his fedora. After the goats were on their way towards me, the man took his leave. They walked in a tight cluster, the three of them, with baby horns and flitting ears, yellow eyes and noisy hooves. The goats appeared malignant in their curiosity, walking right into the shop where I had been alone with my written thoughts. Standing in the middle of the shop was a table with an open notebook; my notebook containing all my thoughts, dreams, and revelations. I didn't want them to look, but still they sifted through the pages. I backed slowly to the front door of the shop, their unified gaze turning intermittently from the notebook to me. I ran out the front door to the house. I was frantic, trying to lock all the doors to keep them from finding a way into the house. In my panic, I could not shake their gaze as it burned in my mind's eye.

"Three Goats, black and white
Sifting pages in the night.

Six yellow eyes

Locked on their prize.

With baby horns
One mother mourns.

For under guise, still telling lies
Whose father cries?"

Three Goats, black and white,
Breaking in, absent of light.

Sunrise

I was sitting in the grass facing west, outside of a house near the school. I was calm, peaceful, tranquil. I stood up, turned east towards the sunrise and walked into the house. I was with a colleague and my mother was present as well. We were gathering what we wanted out of this transitioning home. This house The morning had come and with it a opportunity to move on; to move out and begin a new life with the sun that lifted the darkness.

Breath of air
 Exhaled slowly
See the sun
 Watch it rise
Pack your things
 Time to go

I Played a Game

Dreams are crazy. Even crazier are those nights when you seem to drift in and out of a half-sleep, never really waking up, but seemingly having full consciousness, making decisions, thinking about your dreams, even writing in your head.

Last night I had a strange dream, one of those ethereal scenarios where every interaction seems glazed over. I was in my elementary school, in the kitchen specifically. It was night time and here were a lot of people milling around the building playing some sort of game, the specifics of which I do not know, as it seems I was removed from the game, not really present. There was another individual with me in the kitchen, we were just standing there in the glow of the exit sign staring at each other.

What happened next is difficult to explain. We both looked up as a phenomenon was occurring overhead. The ceiling was dissipated, as if it was irrelevant. From the corner of the room, above and behind my head something began turning, revealing previously unseen cobwebs, laced with dried up flies and other prey. The web was spinning, churning towards a central point, above and behind my head, that was sucking it in, drawing it in towards itself to keep. The individual and I kept our heads lifted, amazed at the exposing of the cobwebs, and at whatever was drawing it in.

How long had the cobwebs been above and behind my head?
What had sparked the invisible machine, revealing and churning away the cobwebs filled with insects?
Plenty of parallels here, I am certain the revelations I drew from this dream are clear.

I half-awoke from this dream. As usual, I wanted to remember the dream by writing lines in my head to describe what happened. Almost without thinking, these lines were formed:

"I played a game with my past
Recoiling the invisible web
Twisting it inside out
To catch dried flies and alibis"

I kept telling myself to get up and write it down, but I never fully awoke to do such a thing. Instead, in my half stupor I recited the lines over and over, falling deep into sleep, half waking up again and reciting them again. I woke up and had them memorized and could recount what the dream had been about. It made for a strange night, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Also, I was up until midnight hacking out my bronchitis, ended up soused on cough syrup before my head hit the pillow for good. Gotta love those nights, and I gotta love drawing meaning from anything I can.

Second Set

Beneath mine eyes
     a second set
That peers incessantly
     seeing what I see.

Its gaze unmatching
     No blinks refresh.
A thought ahead, a look,
     Turns only feigned focus.

To break this gaze
     a secret held
Who then is able?
     Not me. Not these eyes.

Bird

From shrouded perch
     a figure; a lurch.

His eyes insist;
     caterwauling discs

Held in feathered frame
     Concealing his name.

'Til abysmal beak
     Turns to speak:  

"Cast your cares,
    Protect said heirs."

His edict expelled
    and duty upheld.

His flight again taken
     Leaves subject soundly shaken.
  
For chirps and chimes
     Render broken paradigms.

Snake

this dream occurred the night of October 18th, 2010. 

I was standing on a houseboat with a group of friends. We were fishermen. I went on my own in a smaller boat to catch some fish. I pulled up the bulging net from the right side of the boat. The net, nearly tearing because of the weight, was filled with numerous plump red fish. I made my way back to the shore towards the houseboat. As I trolled along the shoreline, I saw many faces from the past, pleasantly interacting and engaging in conversation in the green grass; they did not sense my presence. When I arrived at the houseboat and looked in the net again, there was but one plump fish left. Had the others disappeared? Had they really been there? I took the fish into my hand and looked at it. Before my eyes the fish transformed into a vengeful snake. I tried to control it, to handle it with my own hands, but could not. It struck out, sinking its fangs into my hand. I gripped the wounded hand with the other, not understanding how such an event had happened.

Marginal Man

I woke up at 6 a.m. after this dream. I put on a pot of coffee and wrote this out by hand in the dim light of my desk light soon after to record as much detail as I could remember. 

I was in college yet, the evening before graduation I believe. I was driving home from some activity with a friend (Graham). I could feel myself getting lazy on the turns, and on one curve, I could not control the car. As it flew off into the ditch I blacked out pleading for my life.

I woke up in a field. It was boggy and full of grazing cows. I could see the road to the south and wondered if I was still alive. I walked to an embankment and could see the mangled red car surrounded by flashing lights.

A group of friends was suddenly around me, among them Bri. I became aware by watching the scene that Graham was okay. I saw them pulling him from the car, injured, but okay.

Bri then told me that they had made the decision to kill me because the injuries were too extensive. Bri held my hands and prayed. When she finished we heard a noise come from the car. She broke into a smile and commented on how prayer changes things, squeezed my hand, and she and the rest walked past me and were gone.

I understood that they had then moved my body to a hospital, but I did not know how long I had. It was starting to get dark. I walked from the swampy, boggy area towards the wrecked car. As I did, the area changed.

I was walking towards a lake beach that somehow transitioned into a house, right into the living room. It became apparent that I had lived here for a spell, though in the past or present I don't know.

I had many belongings and I began going through them. On the beach I had a treasure chest full of memories. I picked out a medallion that Matt had given me and held it in my hand.

I eventually walked up the beach to the living room. I found a shirt and tie that I had picked out with my mother and she had bought for me to wear for graduation. I put it on a hanger and put it on the door. I wanted them to have me wear it for my funeral.

My mood was somber as I continued to sift through my belongings. I was attempting to get them gathered and moved out of the house, which seemed to be a small cottage in a rural area, homey and comfortable.

I was going through clothes when I heard a key jingle in the locked door. I walked to the front room and saw Shin-Hee walk through.

I was surprised to see her and we exchanged conversation. I explained that I had used the house for two weeks over interterm, had brought more stuff than was needed for that time and had never cleared it out, which is what I had been doing.

I followed her to the kitchen. I walked past several glass cabinets, and as we passed each one I saw Shin-Hee's reflection pass, then I saw spirits, ghosts, something of the sort, moving past the glass frame when I passed.

She explained that everyone who has stayed in the house has seen ghosts every once in awhile. She was preparing lunch. I turned the water on to soak a pan for her and said, "Shin-Hee, I think I am dead."

She gave a comfortable smile and nodded, "Yes, I think so."

I stood and watched for a bit as she finished in the kitchen.


Analysis that I wrote right after finishing the transcription:
This freaked me out when I first woke up. My immediate thoughts went to fearing this as foreshadowing for me not graduating from grad. school by an early death. It was a vivid dream, and seemed to have a cloudy film cast over it, playing like a movie. It felt real though. When the car was flying off the road I remember thinking, "It's only a dream, I'm not going to die." And the dream continued... All in all another one to put in the annals of cryptic, terrifying, hopefully non-prophetic dream category.

He Thanks You

i will probably come back and edit this one. wrote it in a flow this evening and am done looking at it. a look at overindulgence in metaphor.


Where portly hands gather,
     may the trap be set.

To ensnare bulging fingers,
     bloated with greed.

Waiting, your predicted taste
     Gives your smell away.


                    He thanks you.


See the eyes, see the claws
    Tinged in red.

Discard your prize to waste,
     Collect your scattered parts.

Flee in fatuous folly
    Revive bones caked in apathy.


                     He thanks you.


Alas, your  retired legs, atrophied,
     Cannot outrun malice jaws.

Weighted steps signal imminence;
     Your lungs expiring.

Choke on your stertor.
     Crumble in your lust for air.

                      He thanks you.

Putrid breath upon your neck
     Triggers only basting.

Precious flesh is ripped aside
    What plangent pounds will save you?

Teeth grip a sloven heart,

     Releasing blood you never earned.


                       He thanks you.


Glaze your eyes with nothing,
   Roll them back inside your brain.

Gutted and groped,
     Filleted and forgotten.

Snarling corpulence, victorious,
    Digests ironically.


                       He thanks you.

                       Thank you.

Addict

Waking up at 4:45 a.m. gives one plenty of time to ponder. In addition, basking in the cool morning air, slurping some french roast and donning an impressive plaid shirt, there's not much else to do but enter one's thoughts and expound on what comes to mind.

I was thinking of addictive personalities, how some people express being prone to alcoholism, drugs, or another medium. While watching The Biggest Loser (yes, I watch it), a contestant told his story of having a father who abused alcohol. He focused so hard on not becoming addicted to alcohol, which he felt he was apt to do given an "addictive personality". He was able to keep his distance from alcohol, but instead abused food.

Can we coin the term "addictive personality" when there are so many opportunities for individuals in this country to find an addiction with? Alcohol, food, pornography, drugs, cleaning, self-abuse, control, denial, work, self-sabotage, etc. The list could be endless for things we can addicted in.

We live in a country where a comfortable life is the standard. Tragic, given that tragedy abounds at one point or another in all of our lives. The majority of contestants on The Biggest Loser all have stories of tragedy, of death striking someone close to them, of abusive relationships, of childhood trauma, and food happened to be what they found comfort in. Food could easily be substituted for anything else, alcohol, drugs, self-abuse, Jesus.

A standard of "comfortable living" should never be expected. A standard of knowing who and what to rely on when life's travesties strikes is in order. It's not a question of if something unexpected and trying happens, it's a question of when.

At the root of human nature there is a need to be affirmed, to understand that I am worth something and that I have something to contribute to the world around me. At the root of human nature, there is a need to be affirmed by the one true source, the source who is pure, who does not disappoint, and who gives us exactly what we need whether we understand it or not.

The only 'addictive personality' that exists within man's soul is an addiction to substitute the love of Christ for something tangible and instantaneous. The contestants on The Biggest Loser have nothing to hide as their substitutions are brutally manifested in physical form for the world to see.

Their failures are as vivid and daunting as the sun shining in our eyes. They can see their mistakes, but they can also see their sustained victory as they put for the required work.

It takes desire, it takes time, it takes effort to allow your soul to become addicted to Christ and the love he offers.

Tangled Mess

O, what a tangled mess my feet have found. One step. Two steps. Three steps and it has begun.

For amidst the mire laced with string, their tread has slumped. My feet, stifled and silenced, are overcome by rampant sinews whose compelling grip cannot be reconciled with. They are unable to cry out for justice to intervene, sinking further into the cruel sludge.

Emitting a cloud of perfidy, the tangled mess confounds my trusting eyes. Lecherous and malicious, it has blinded my already empty sight. Giving way, my body slouches forward. Hands seeking effrontery thrust forward, only to find the enervating entanglement.

The tangled mess envelopes the parts of me too foolish to realize their imminent end. My knees buckle, releasing to viscous strings that smell their victory, surrounding what parts of flesh and clothing that remain unspoiled.

O, what a tangled mess my feet have found. One step. Two steps. Three steps and it has begun.

started this one a few weeks ago, needed something to do so came back and finished it tonight. 

Little Good-bye

The seasons are changing again. As the end of summer approaches so must several relationships I have fostered for over a year. A few of the boys I work with will be moving on from Prairie View and myself, thankfully because of stabilization and growth of strong foundations in their lives. I will be saying good-bye to a 5-year-old whom I have spent the most time with of all my boys in the last year. I saw him for two hours on Monday mornings to begin my week and again on Friday morning for another two hours to end my week. It has blown my mind how much has changed in his life in a year. Last fall/winter his life was characterized by chaos. The boy was so unsettled, unfocused, and hyperactive, making it difficult for him to process and express his emotions and feelings of what was going on in his life.

There was one Monday morning when I went to pick him up. Forty minutes later we were driving away as he refused to leave the house, screaming and crying that he didn't want to go. What we have stressed with parents is sticking to their guns, if they give in to the child then a pattern has been established. His mother stuck to it and gave him a chance to make a positive choice to leave with me on his own, instead she had to carry him out to the vehicle herself. Amidst the screaming and crying, she was finally able to step away and go back into the house. At times, this boy struggled immensely with separation from his family; understandable considering his father works in a town hours away to support the family, providing the boy with anxieties and fears centering around being left. We were able to drive around and as soon as the car pulled away from the house he was able to calm and wanted to do additional activities.

Skipping ahead to the spring. The same unsettled, unfocused, hyperactive boy hit his stride in preschool once he became accustomed to the safety of structure. Repetition and effort by his parents on reinforcing what Prairie View, his therapist, and myself had been instilling him was able to provide him with the support he needs. His family now is moving down to where his father works so the boy won't need to wait to see his family a few times a month.

Not enough can be said about how proud I am of this little guy.

And I suppose, vice versa. He has made it abundantly clear that he appreciates me as well, judging by how many invites I get from him to "sleep over at his house" or compliments he gives me. While swimming I handed a ball back to a little girl, which he saw and said, "That was nice of you." The fact that he was able to recognize positive behavior is proof enough he will be successful if his support system continues at home. We will have two more session together. On our last visit when I dropped him off at his home, he ran back from his house to catch up with me before I got to my pickup. He picked up a stick from the yard and handed it to me. His "walking stick" was thrust into my hand as he said I could use it to help me walk. Not sure how old he thinks I am or if I am appearing to have a limp, but the gesture was well-received. The 'walking stick' currently sits on my desk.

Come August Come

As soon as August hits, an experiment will begin. I'm going to attempt a month without television, and if it goes well, more. I originally wanted to pledge a year without it, but figured I will start small and see what benefits it will produce. I cannot remember the amount, but there is a statistic that reports how much more an individual will spend in ratio to how many hours of television they watch in a day. Sitting in front of the box, lifeless and brain-dead, we exist there only to soak in influential dribble while we are convince we are not cool enough, good-looking enough, in-shape enough, rich enough, so on and so on. What if I can go an extended period of time without a messed-up pop culture shaping me into someone who cannot find happiness? What alternate activities will consume my time? I'm thankful that I already spend very little time watching television as there is little on that is worth my time (Good-bye LOST), but cutting that bit of my evening out will surely only benefit me. For awhile, I have desired to live in a time when all that would concern me is that I had bread for my stomach. Forget everything about our culture that needs to look good on the outside to feel anything. Give me a stick, a line, and a lure and let me catch a single fish for a day's meal and I will be content. I would at least feel alive. Eagerly awaiting August.

Green Grass

Green grass withered with ease, upon the neglect of weary hands.

God, it seems to beg with plea's, to richly meet your strong demands.

It tries and tries so faithfully, but brown becomes its color depleted.

For under nature's spell so devilishly, hope's bright hues have only retreated.

Now the grass turned brown and cold, will die with each passing night.

For who shall render with hands so bold, a reversal of nature through arduous might.

It is I who gather the grass in hand, and whisper sweetly what words I know.

But my flesh, icy and callous-bland, cannot convince the grass to grow.

So gone is green as brown ensues, reaching towards its unfit rest.

And it is I who pay the required dues, as decay consumes what has been left.

My

not really sure if any of these flow together. i wrote them all on separate occasions with the same basic premise, only with different directions. perhaps more will follow.

My head is cool but my hands remain unsteady; testament of betrayal. My inconsistent tendencies will soon by my end. I do not wish to delay the coming of unparalleled beauty, but the weight of strings retracts misinformed steps. Let it be. My head is cool, my hands are steady, but my heart will not comply.

My silent heart waited anxiously for a reply, as if implying I was somehow worthy of such enlightenment. What does it take for a man to comprehend his place, both in this world and within himself? A separation, a tear from Providence. My silent heart received its reply, when at last it knew its place.

My feet shuffle forward despite a reluctance that resides deep within them. They do not understand what they have been burdened with or why; it is merely enough for one foot to be ahead of the other. A weighted step remains a step. Perhaps someday they will find rest from their toil; albeit the heart passes with assured confidence.

Sunburn

The skin on my shoulder is peeling. A layer of skin, fresh and raw, has surfaced amidst the shedding of what has been burned and destroyed. It's preceding layer gave the best it could, holding out with its well-intentioned failings, withstanding the barrage of strikes it could not turn back. Who has left this vulnerable organ to such disarray? Who, with disregard for one of its members, has turned its back to passive aggressors? It is the one who must guard the newborn layer with precaution, as the seasoned veteran has left under his disregard. A second chance, with remembrance, will intend to alter his altercations, preserving the skin he has left.

I was bored and felt like typing something. The rolls of skin coming off my shoulder was all I had to write about apparently. Been a slow day maybe?

The Corner

A corner withholding, a man to start

Will open his eyes, his soul and heart

With glass reflecting a compromised gaze

“Stay inside,” it says, “And count your days.”

Panes ill-equipped will provide still light

Turning his eyes, a diverted fight.

They rest silent, aging upon his shoulder

For through them, behind him, eyes grow older.

That candle-lit corner, aglow with earnest ardor,

Awakens recessed blood, now thicker than water.

His grasp encompasses boiling lead,

Fulfilling panes through words unsaid.

With pen he'll purge what tongue cannot,

Expelling sprites no longer sought.

And where page and print have merged to one,

His fingers unveil what hands have done.

The window again addresses soulful eyes,

“Venture out,” it says, “And lift absconded skies.”

With catalyst enlisted, his gaze turns out,

For his corner has retired, paired with his doubt.

And now that corner, empty of his wanderings

Awaits sure corrosion and failings.

For he is absent, carried out by purposed feet

And inch by storied inch, his steps outrun defeat.

O Barren Tree

O Barren Tree

O Barren Tree,

With nothing underneath

Your branches bare

No one to care

Yet upright you stand

And somehow demand

The eyes of a man

Who believes you can.

O Barren Tree,

His eyes can free.

As you stand these days,

Can you match his gaze?

Though with rotted stump,

His gaze may jump,

To boughs deserving

Of his relearning.

O Barren Tree,

Too dry to be.

Your limbs will burn,

That you may learn.

And perhaps one day,

His eyes ne'er away,

Will shed a tear,

And quell your fear.

O Barren Tree,

Can you now see?

Through ashes you rise,

By his watching eyes.

Polar Fours

On Fridays I have one client that I see: a four-year-old boy whose life is okay, but far from ideal. His dad was laid off about a year ago and took a job in a city 4 hours away in another state. This boy sees his dad maybe a few times a month, and his dad hasn't quite grasped how important his role is in his son's life, unfortunately. His home in chaotic and stability is something he knows little of, as his older sister went to live with their grandmother for her severe behaviors. He also struggles sleeping alone at night, which is the subject of why I am writing about him today. He often speaks of death, mostly because he has been surrounded by it: numerous pets that he was heavily attached to, as well as relatives he had close relationships with. Yesterday while in the car I inquired how he slept last night. He informed me that he had nightmares and didn't really sleep because "the dead skeletons were trying to pull me down". He continued to say something to the effect of the dead skeletons ripping either his or their own skin off. My heart was heavy listening to a child so young tell something so horrific. I wish that life didn't have to be that way from him. I thought at that moment, if I could somehow take what he has to deal with and put it on myself, I would do it in a heartbeat. There is just no way that someone so young should have to be scared of such things.

The other four-year-old that I see had received good news. He and his two siblings went to a court date to see if their father in California would receive custody of them (they had been with their mother when SRS took custody from her for neglect). I saw him as his case manager for the (hopefully) last time on Thursday. I took him out to get ice cream and then dropped him off at school. We talked about how warm it would be in California and how good it was that he would be flying in a plane for the first time and going to live with his father. I got out of the car and as I opened his door he looked at me and said, "I will miss you." Simple words from a child can reach deep. I told him that I will miss him too and told him that I enjoyed all the fun we had together. I walked with him to his school door and he walked in without looking back.

Just another week in case management. Good news, disturbing news, it all runs together and life goes on. I hope and pray that the next four years for both these boys are nowhere near as difficult as their first four years have been.

"A Childish Prank"

This past weekend I was browsing with some friends at a local Barnes & Noble. One a shelf with staff recommendations there was a book of poems entitled "Crow" by Ted Hughes. I picked it up and was astounded at the depth and imagery Hughes used in his writing. This short collection, though made up of a few dozen poems, reads as a collective effort, evolving the character of crow as something opposite of God, but all the while a creature you want to read about and understand how he became the way he is. Hughes expressions of mankind's relation to God, good and evil, and human nature are interesting. Consider this, my favorite poem in the book so far.

"A Childish Prank"

Man's and woman's bodies lay without souls,

Dully gaping, foolishly staring, inert

On the flower of Eden.

God pondered.

The problem was so great, it dragged him asleep.

Crow laughed.

He bit the Worm, God's only son,

Into two writhing halves.

He stuffed into man the tail half

With the wounded end hanging out.

He stuffed the head half headfirst into woman

And it crept in deeper and up

To peer out through her eyes

Calling it's tail-half to join up quickly, quickly

Because O it was painful.

Man awoke being dragged across the grass.

Woman awoke to see him coming.

Neither knew what had happened.

God went on sleeping.

Crow went on laughing.

Hmm. Interesting, is it not? And as clarification, as I post certain things that may seem "contrary" to Christian values, it is only because I feel it pertinent to not only be aware of other's perspectives, but to know them inside and out to understand why a person attaches to that belief. Only when one understand's another's perspective can they help them. What good does it serve to cater only to your own perspective, besides fostering a sense of...well...you get the picture. Understand others, help others. Understand yourself, help yourself.

Now that that's out of the way, I welcome any interpretations or reactions to the above piece.

Tiny Flower

scribblings while sitting in church, it was relevant to the sermon...i WAS listening. promise.

Fail not, tiny flower. Your beauty, unparalleled, gives you no argument for the shortcomings you have sought as reason. For too long have your petals fallen with the weight that accompanies your doubt. No longer is there cause for your eyes to drown. Lift yourself with confidence to see the sun that loves so brilliantly. As you accept the warmth of his rays such doubt dissipates, shying away to recesses irrelevant. Let your petals grow strong. Let your roots reach deep. Raise your eyes upwards to declare what has saved you.

Beyond the Pane

just a little something that started with an image in my head...probably something i will come back to and expound on and expand.

Please let it be. Let me see what lies beyond the pane. My silent world unattainable as it was when I first stepped forth. For years have I stared, watching and breathing with little else to distract me from where I desire to walk.

Yet it is I, burdened behind the glass, whose wistful eyes glaze in yearning at the rolling drifts. They align with nature’s pattern, frozen beautifully to capture the stillness of human absence. What eyes can see, feet can only covet as fabricated sensations are forced to suffice.

Years of stagnancy expire as my lungs expel a tired sigh; perhaps my feet were never meant to tread among the bitter clouds. The threshold, clouded with angst, disallows my passage as it has for ages. I will never cross to where comfort does not lie.