This is the first thing I've been proud of in days:
The imperfection of worship-
Cracking voices and out of tune guitars,
Heartbeats that overtake the
Tempo by a timid half-step

And that sole audience member
That is shameless in singing,

His arms outstretched and his feet,
Dancing for You
And the Whatever Remains of this broken church
Following suit,
Singing and singing and singing
With timbres soft, loud, high, low,
Shattering glass and
Letting go,

Still vastly outnumbered by
The skipped beats and fumbled notes
But ****** if they aren't gonna try to keep up!

God,
This is the first thing I've been proud of in days:

Brothers and sisters that do not yield
To the emptiness and the void
That comes with worshipping You!

You,
Who would too, alone sing for the return
Of your own children,
Who would close your eyes
And weep in silence with a resounding "Yes!"
At the sight of your sons returning,
Your daughters returning,

Your chosen ones responding,
"I'm coming home tonight!"

Weeping for joy with a resounding, "Yes!

"I'm finally coming Home."

Some days,
I'll be waiting outside
On the street corners

Carrying nothing but
An umbrella and wearing
Nothing but the toughest,
Driest, warmest clothes
I have.

And only on those days
When I am ready for the
Rain to fall

Does the rising, shrouded sun
In all her yellow-white
Glory decide to come out
And smile.

Sometimes you close your eyes,
Hoping for Nirvana

But then you realize
Kurt Cobain shot himself twice:
Once with ******,
Once with a shotgun.

You figure that if
Buddha can't save you,
Who will?

Is there a name for the gaps
In between your grimy fingers?

For that moment's pause
Before the beginning of a prayer?

Is there a word for the spaces
In between atoms?

For the gaps in image and in mind,
Little lapses in the great cycle called
Something

Bleak, vast, full of budding stars
And pieces of rock,
As big as they are small?

Is there a label for those words
That seem to skip a beat,
Dancing across the tip of your tongue
Faster than you can spit them?

Is there a word for that
Moment where your lungs fold into
Your stomach

As the people around you become amber-
Riddled flies?

Is there a word for Dear Nothing
Who reaches out and puts her arm
Around you,

Whispering everything you need to hear,
Without actually moving her lips?

I find myself staring
At this little girl in the aisle,
Tottering through
A city of sweets.

With small, outstretched fingers
She waddles hastily
Towards this huge pack
Of chocolates
Giggling silently,
Eyes a bright ruddy brown.

Her mother catches her and laughs,
Puts the chocolates just out her of reach.
Her chubby hands strain
To reach it but to no avail.
Instead they find her mother's long,
Graceful fingers and
Her knowing smile:
Deep brown eyes lit up like one of those
Chocolate bars,
Even sweeter.

Out in the willow
a caged bird
sings

wound up slowly
by metallic
strings

drunkenly stumbling and
twirling about

hopping clumsily
on a branch.

Out in the willow
a caged bird
sings

chirping mechanically
about nonsensical things

drunkenly stumbling
and twirling about

perched precariously
on a lance.

Out in the willow
a caged bird
cries

spiraling towards
an untimely demise

drunkenly stumbling and
twirling about

groggily swelling, his breast
full of doubt

out in the willow
a caged bird
Falls.

Outside on the park bench, her heart skips a beat- a shadow's passed by.

The crickets have thawed.
They continue to stretch their chuckling bones.

There is a key in the dark,
A woman fearing to leave the light.
Her purse has five hundred dollars.

Her car snores softly beside the sidewalks on which runners nonchalantly run, and walkers nonchalantly walk.

It is not fear that immobilizes her,
But its trailing shadow:
The fact that it left without so much as a glance,

Without so much a trace,
As if she wasn't worth threatening.