The Croc has been hacked by her little croc brother...

Don't worry, I have nothing to say.
I'm throwing up blood anyway.

I'm hungry, lost, broke.  Whatever, happy.

I don't have time to care that you look down.
I don't have time for my excuses.
It's okay that neither of us understands.

I am so loved and so lonely,
so lonely and so loved. Both.

I'm not running anymore.  Not dying of thirst anymore.

I write to be known. I am known: me, by Jesus, we've been traveling.
Call me crazy,
okay.

Don't worry, I have nothing to say. I'm listening.

Do you miss me like I miss you?  
Do I miss you like you miss me?

I’m standing on the edge of a broken porch in New Jersey,
pink 3 AM clouds around a bowl of stars.
This jacket’s been warm for nine years.

Yes,
I still despair sometimes.
But I am learning to claw out of it by writing it.

Also, Jesus.

Tonight on this porch I’m thinking
what are symbols of happiness, what is
happiness, experience of it, etc.

I think of:
driving an overpass into the city tonight
all that color like spilled Christmas lights
like driving up into the sky.

--Think of:
7th grade boy with an earring and soft eyes.  
Angelo.  His name is.
Translating the story into Spanish for his friend.

--Of:
The blue, the green.  Of the reef.
Pacific silence.  Coconut cathedral.

Of: The Avett Brothers song, The Perfect Space.
Of friends who are like that.

: Africa, all seasons.


Also,
Jesus

My mind is a little street beggar boy
covered in scars and sores,
freezing by a bus stop,
no blanket nor expecting any.

                 …Tell me:
if you could remove
pain or fear
from your life
which would you choose?

Mind is a little beggar boy.
In a street market.
In a riot.
Not pretending
that a life of despair
is good enough for him
when it isn't,

more free,
more free,
so far surviving
slum and street,
decorated
with scars,
just as he is

meant to be

we gotta watch
this movie.

you are the main character.

except that
you don't have

scissors
for hands

that's the only difference

Crowds of weary people
shuffle from life to life

in the bellies of subways
claws of escalators

past booths of seven-dollar coffees
taking off shoes and jackets

as a voice in the roof says that
the flight to Mumbai,

or wherever, is now boarding.
All of it disappears

because--after these many years--
your face

(I shrug off
my backpack)

your voice
in my ears

The road has taught me
so much about universal
fragility.

With enough time and chances
almost anyone
can end up almost anywhere;

guard yourself
but be kind
to the unguarded.

It's been ten million miles.
Few, and blessed,
the undefiled.

Christ mourns
with me as we
walk down rainy street

towards caged and crying child