Yes, memories of a circle
That we kept in
Grand laughter, game board days
And probably small talks
With a depth
A refinement
Assuring my bruises
That high school
Was over

But Time
Time is a funny thing though
A factor
It pushes the gaps
Makes space
For rumors, For drifting apart
For false promises
For straight line barriers
Cutting across an open space
Across a familiar
Probably play room

Imagination made room
No, deception did
For a friend
That was his best
Now, means nothing
But an empty couch
In front of a TV
Near action figures
And snakes and ladders

In his basement
His hideaway;
Something has died in there
Ghosts of the toy soldiers
Who loved to die
For our alliance
Against the **** carpet
World

Circles, now an oval
Then two circles
Separated
Attempted osmosis

I was definetely a part
Now
I play, We have played
Apart

Listening is relative.
Reading together is shallow.
Love is biased.
Reaching out is a myth.
Worship is noise.
Giving is a habit.
Church is a party.
Church is a half-way house.
Clapping is stepping on the cross.
Sitting is sin of omission.
Fellowship is exclusive.
The Cross is a decoration.

But God is still God.
Jesus
From Heaven or From Men?

The dead, great and small, will all stand before the throne
And before the book of life.
It is here that they will be judged by the Maker, the all-seeing One,

And every knee will bow down,
And each of us will account for our lives.
God cannot be fooled; no silver tongue can escape the truth.

To those who sought glory, honor and eternal life,
He will give eternal life.
As for the wicked and selfish, who were blind to the truth,
He will strike them dead and destroy them.

He is the one who searches mind and heart,
And he will give to each of us according to what we’d done,
For God shows no partiality;
He is the same, now and forever
The beginning of all things, and the final word in history.

The self I saw in you
Was at the start an album
Of smiles next to
Expecting eyes
I was in constant
Flow
To try and reach
My open arms towards
You, A Fun Time
Shining in your white dress
Me in my hip pants
We cross the street
Like we know
Each others steps
The world among us
Is not the best
We both fear, cringe
But friend, you chose to love
Me, in my midnights
In my last songs
You gave me you
In every dance
Like the moments never ending
Time never said goodbye yet
Because my hand folds into yours
My Sister in a friend

Marceline

This magic keeps me alive
Its just you
and me--
The wreakage of the world


I'm afraid
You're going to lose me,
Yet I need to save you
but who's going to save
Me?

And I know you're going
To need me
here
with you
but I'm losing myself
I can feel myself
Slipping away
And its making me crazy

I remember that—
what it made me say
but I'm losing myself
I saw you frown
I swear,
it wasn't me.
It was the crown.

Please forgive me
For whatever I do
when I don't remember
You

This must be
So confusing
For a little girl

This magic keeps me alive

you pitiful old man.
You're so annoying,
you find me,
and start
hanging around
but you're really
really
really nuts
Just another lame excuse
to see me.

Man, It's getting me down.
I'd like to help you,
but I don't know if I can.
Every time I move, eventually,
I thought you were nuts,
You know, I'm actually glad..
. to see you.
Maybe
I'm the one
who's
Nuts.

He was fat in the corner.
The walls stood straight to crest the ceiling in place.
The boy’s arches were eroded enough to roll him out his created abode.
But it stuck between the sharpness of its lines pin cushioned on his body.
It blocked its concrete sound.
It nailed his waist into the water of floor as if it was holding buoyancy.
The floor which was like an ocean hung his body to only sit and stay.  
This is where he would sit.
This is where he viewed his world.
With his Cable T.V., he viewed the world.
He became them in a sense of what they know.
Sometimes he was the sailor man saving the gal in the red turtleneck.
Sometimes he just wanted more than ****** snacks.
It was the static that came into it and the tremor of the popguns and bicycle punches.
His costume was the hand that drove into his pocket for yellow spheres of his personal favorite.

His fingers would unwrap the same world over and over again.
No matter how many copies.
They were in wrappers.
They were in silver lings of the stuff in what was known to stick and to sit on my palm like reflected sunsets.
These were in forgotten little notes to the odes of what was the turn of his tongue. He loved being sweet.
He loved to chew it ever so darling.
He crunched.
His mouth builds a castle.
To the eyes arrived in clouded visions coming from within.
As the teeth gnash off to the nectars and nips of sugar, butter, milk in *****, the crystals vanish.
They dazzled the eyes with images from the inside.
It was the way it took into him.
His cheeks became lambent as they were sagging off his face.  
In the motion was a peripheral point of the lips.
It would drag him into crave.
No more of waiting for it to melt.

The time was hung out to see the beat of his little heart.
He could have no more candy.
20 years later, he should have nothing more.
It was enough to make the scale rotate against zero.
But no one measured his content.
No one measured the happy in his heart.  
No one knew that what he wanted was just to taste the good.
He just wanted the tip of the tongue
To take him beyond a state of sitting and standing without really moving.
He wanted to walk on ice but float above its glass.
But he was going to die.
He would. He would eventually. They would say. Mother said.
Mother said this in her prim voice with all the promises of chocolate coated crisps in the world. He will choose to smile.
But here he is. He is still alive.
He is still rolling into the rears of his rounds.
He still loves what he is.
He still loves what he ate.
The choice of change is in his grip and so are his pockets.
They are still full of his old favorites.
He will take them when God takes him into his pockets.
He will be sweet.
He will be his own butterball.
He will be wrapped in what is 25 years.

100 pounds. And Mommy wants to raise me
She takes my plate
It floats from her hand
And falls down
Three drumsticks
Splat
It was all on the floor

Her voice
And I kept looking past her head
Because my eyes couldn’t face
Rage

So, no longer could I cook
To her, I needed discipline
One rod to set me off
To the sky and push my head against the ground
The fact was I am
Fat

Every supper, she took the bread.
The flour is mute in the edges. Its texture is soft on the tongue
There were always blue dolphins in my glass.
They wish to swim within an ocean
And I set them free
Because I didn’t want my stomach to be
Empty