My Goddess I will catch your tears,
Lady Athena sits among the people
In the middle of the street and
She mourns them, she dawns the sackcloth,
Beats her chest, and wails to the heavens.
She is in an eternal state of grieving,
Unable to forgive, to heal, to forget, or accept
The brokenness of the shadows on that
Crowded street, the apparitions bump against each other,
“I beg your pardon” they say as they tip their hats.
But my Goddess they do not see, no,
They are otherworldly, how can they behold
The sweet girl holding tight the
Hand of her giant teddy bear?

She is mourning the living, grieving the earth,
The land is dying and the stink rises to the heavens,
Noxious vapors that form clouds and burst
the tears of maggots and corpses. And even
The sky knows that she is widowed.
And the joke remains that the living call themselves alive.
These zombies claw their way out of their beds
Shared with strangers from strange places and strange drinks.
They rise from the sheets like the grave,
The dirt and grime covering their innermost parts,
And they put lipstick on their dead lips and blow kisses,
That land like Medusa's gaze and they do not,
They do not know that this is not living.

A funeral is in order, to let them live in peace.
Wrap them all in white as the children they are.
Children who have never known affectionate touch
And children for whom affection has become a curse,
Touched not just once but too much, enraged and shamed.
Yes lust is amongst us as a pestilence, a disease.
It lingers in our midst like flies we cannot swat away.
And none is fair, none is right, none is just.
So a funeral is in order, a tear-stained chant,
Rising like incense from the pyre because
The drama of mankind is a tragedy.

We seek catharsis like a savior, we need purging,
Tears that roll like rivers of justice and streams of healing.
Living water that comes from dead flesh.
The saltiness returning to the salt and the oceans refilled.
And let your ragged breath, tired from the night,
Dry from the bawling and midnight confessions, let it fall.
Let it hang thick and reside fully as you sigh,
“this world is not as it should be, it is not enough.”
In fact it is not as it was intended, it has been forged.
Emerson and Wordsworth have praised our false Mona Lisa.
But what else can they do? How else could they know?
So let lose the dam beneath your eyes,
Make way to the tomb and roll back the stone,
And mourn your wounded hearts, peel away wrath
And scorn, refute shame and guilt. Just cry.
For though you live, your heart has died,
And it is not your fault, no not your fault,
So let the tears run wild and be free, be free
And live truly once more.

I'm trying to see God everywhere
But these days I can't help but suspect
That my eyes are faulty, I require Holy Spirit -
tinted glasses to see between the lines of atoms
Because it's hard to find God in these eyes
These eyes that have beheld my mother's tears,
That behold brokenness like beaches hold sand,
These eyes trained and conditioned by the media,
That shapes these eyes to be blind to God.
These pupils dance with delight at the sight of
Jerry Springer and Jersey Shore, they search for
Victoria's Secret and Waldo with the same roaming eagerness
Surely God does not reside there.
These eyes have been scarred with the
burning image of forsakeness and shame
I have seen the naked forms of sons and daughters,
Shameless as the day they walked in Eden,
but the shame resides in my eyes as I,
perched on the branches above like Satan, have lusted.
These eyes that have seen children exposed,
Vulnerable, abused, violated, and forgotten.
These eyes that have seen things they can't unsee
But God is not among them.

But these eyes, these eyes, are all we have.
Shannon, your eyes are beacons on this foggy night.
Their cat-like allure is my desert mirage,
I know they glow because of the God you see.
But Shannon, this world hates your eyes,
Hates them for their widening awe at seeing miracles,
And blessings, at seeing love and grace.
Hates the dew that kisses your Irises as
You lament and mourn broken hearts about you.
Hates your furrowed brow in the face of injustice,
This world that hates the hope that hides
In the corner of your eye, the residue of dreams,
From the night before, it wants to wipe the dust away.
But most of all Shannon, this world hates your eyes
Because they are beautiful.

They are beautiful to see, beautiful to behold,
With them beauty is seen and by them beauty is made.
Because if my eyes are trying to see God everywhere,
Your eyes, Shannon, are succeeding.
Your eyes that have not beheld His crowned silhouette,
Or mountains moved or fire on tongues,
But you have sat on benches and watched children play.
The drooping sun ornamenting the playground,
And blowing purple and red kisses on their cheeks.
Your eyes have watched them like cherubim.
Singing sweet serenades and tapping the children's halos.
Tap Tap Chime, Tap Tap Chime, like the seasons they play.
And all the while Shannon, your eyes see Holy.
They see immaculate in every conception,
Your eyes see miracle and grace in every cell.
And that is beautiful Shannon.

Beautiful like the hallway wallflowers,
The abandoned convict and triumphant gangster,
Beautiful like the stay-at-home dad,
The single mother, the middle child, beautiful.
All of them beautiful with beautiful eyes,
Eyes like yours that capture brokenness like cameras.
The same eyes that see Sacred in every shade,
Hallowed in every ground, Divinity in every breath
That kisses windows and reflections and mirrors
All folded within these eyes.

So Shannon I'm looking for God everywhere,
Simply in every glance, every frame, every shot.
Looking for God like you've found him,
I am jealous for your eyes, those rare gems.
I am jealous like the world is jealous.
But I do not hate your eyes like they do.
For Shannon, you are a prophetess,
Speaking God into being, painting him with your eyes
That see through this maggoty flesh,
And begin to mold my soul into something beautiful,
Because of your beautiful eyes, Shannon,
I can begin to believe that I am beautiful.
That somehow you see God in me with those eyes,
Those sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet eyes,
They do not see what the world sees in me.
They do not see what my shame see, what my past sees,
No they see God in me, and that is beautiful.

Crick crack click clap snip snap on the concrete
The city is on the move and to stand would be
The slapstick comedy of stopping a treadmill.
Acceleration animation gravitation from the rotation
Apathetic friction that is devil-may-care like your heart
Dragged down on the gym floor and the sweaty men laugh.
Tick tock nonstop the clock hops and bops away the time
Of the day and eternity seems like a fairy tale
Because this era is neverneverland faith, we are young.
And getting younger, we plan to die naked as we came,
Lounging in retirement, the summer that knows no end.

But sighing the dying are crying relying upon our move
And we move past, this blur of momentum that the city has become,
Because stillness is for the hippies and the natives and we are neither.
Capitalistic colonial conquering captains of industry we charge
Credit or debit because it isn't ours anyways and the bank is moving.
Down the street in the heat can't beat the beat of the sweet treat
That the homeless remember the memory of the taste of mercy.
Like dogs in heat they pant and beg and we shake them off our pantleg
Because it is designer and the label buys manhood cheap and sells it high.

We split hit and quit and never commit because we spit words like blessing
Out when we wash our mouths out every night and every morning
Because it is the only way to get the taste out of your mouth when you wake up.
As if the jacket I wear can't clothe a man from the cold or sell for more
And my closet is lined with the clothes I don't remember to forget about wearing.
It is not hate that congregates or abates the rate the weight is pulling me down,
But fear of the immensity of impossibility colliding with reality inevitably,
Because one man's sacrifice will suffice to pay the price of my vice.

Yessir hearts are racing toward the first heart, we are collaborating.
That the dying need not remain the dead but know life to the fullest.
The poor and the sore need not abhor or war with the rush of the city.
Because saints and saviors are not just bedtime stories as long as my life
Has the power, no the will, no just the faith, all it needs is faith.
The sick have been tricked that their wick runs quick
Like crick crack click clack snip snap on the concrete
These hearts are moving this city on a hill.

I tried God,
I tried to be your little boy,
Your altar boy, the tin soldier for you,
Because it was easier when life was a toy.
I have genuflected just to be patted on the head.
I do not cuss, drink, smoke, or gamble,
Aren't you proud of me God? Aren't I good?

It was not easy, becoming a nice guy.
I had to trade in words like passion and faith
For words like duty, responsibility, obligation.
Because I do not love you or your children,
No, I am obligated to them, held accountable.

God my heart feels captive and not captivating,
It feels as though it has sold out and not been purchased
With blood by your Son, the first living Man,
My destiny is one of a Pharisee and not a Savior.

But God make me wild
Because this penance has left the man in me chained
And lets the good little boy, the nice guy, wander.
But set me lose upon this world,
And I will roar as the Lion of Judah!

Let my love run rampant like a wildfire,
Let passion rush from me like a waterfall,
Because nice guys are scented candles,
And good little boys are bubbling brooks,
But your Son was a hurricane

Walk through fire with me, into the Lion's Den,
Silence the voices of kings before me,
Lead me to preach to pirates and live with lepers,
Because the heart of adventure lies in your heart,
And the battle of a lifetime is your lifetime,
And my beauty to rescue is your Bride.

Let me seek your heart and once sheltered there
I'll discover that mine was made after it.

God, keep my eyes raw
That I never get used to grace
Let me bow my knees every time
As I did the first time
Make my heartfelt plea for mercy
Be the same each night as it was at the altar
Let me never become accustom to your presence

I want to recognize my sin and brokenness daily
Not for the sake of shame but so that
My requirement, my need, no my desperation,
My insane, insatiable drive is to be near you.
That the scent of the light that kissed your face
Is all I need to ease the stir of my heart.

God never let me become comfortable with you.
That each time I worship is our first date,
Let me pray each time as though I don't know how,
Let nothing be routine, nothing be ritual,
And that my pursuit each day to keep alive the altar's flame,
Be the quest I make daily to follow you.

We sit in the wake of destruction,
Of the greatest tidal wave this world has known,
For nothing is left, this realm is ruined,
A torrent of love has swept through the land,
And the foundations of every home are lifted,
A tsunami of mercy has left mother earth
Shaking with pain, tearing the veil, rolling the stone,

We are refugees of a dead way of life,
A hurricane of righteousness blows us away,
We are left on our knees dumbfounded,
The remains of our lives left crumbling in our hands,
It is devastation incarnate, for nothing is spared,
No dark corner of the world shelters sin,
To the depths of Hades victory rings,
And we are forced to leave this way behind,
In the face of His glorious aftermath.

The Lord is my vending machine,
I shall not be in want,
He makes me to lie down on king size beds,
He leads me beside new swimming pools,
He restores my wallet.
He guides me on paths of self-righteousness,
For my name's sake.

Even though I walk,
Through the ghetto of Silicon Valley,
I will feel no discomfort.
For you are with me,
In my new Ferrari and mace spray,
They comfort me.

You prepare a table before me,
In the presence of my Outback Steakhouse.
You anoint my bread with garlic,
My champagne overflows.
Surely goodness and love will follow me,
All the days of my life,
and I dwell in my three story house,
Until I get a bigger one.