I started building my house when I was five

Copying the words some pastor told me to say

I already had the foundation laid for me

But that was when it turned to concrete

Or so I thought



Slowly but surely the walls rose,

But they were built of twisted metal

Firm at first

But slowly it crumbles.



The roof is built, supposed to feel safe

But at this point it smothers me

In a house that is not my own

It is full of lies and deceit

It does not feel safe.



Then somewhere along the time,  

The hammers building turn to sledgehammers

Ripping down my walls

Revealing the carnage through the haze

I walk out, and walk away.



The freedom feels strange.

New words on my lips,

Ones I shudder to think of now.

I knew it wouldn’t last

But I wasn’t ready to return



But then music.

A single album, two friends.

Help lead me back down the path to the wreckage of my house

I know it is not all bad.

An intact siding here, a piece of tile there.

I collect the pieces I can still use

And I move to another spot.

I start to rebuild.



I still have questions about my faith, I’ll admit.

Sometimes I forget I’m not the only one I can depend on anymore.

But that’s normal.

I’m learning.

And I have people with me,

Visiting me and helping me rebuild.

I won’t lie and say it wasn’t hard.

But I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

In my journey of faith.

There once was a spirit-filled pastor
Who fasted like Jesus, his master:
     For forty days lasted
     A fast that he fasted
While wanting the fast to go faster.

There she goes

Girls file into line
Three by three
Knee length skirts

Down the aisle

Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine
Prayers morning, noon, and night
Careful now, They're prepared to smite

Up the Stairs

Now we dine
And then off to bed
One "lucky" girl gets to practice head

The tallest tower

She's had too much sacramental wine
Hands touched and caressed
And she felt far from blessed

Down she jumps

Touched by filthy swine
"what a horrible disaster"
Her eulogy given by that same pastor

The Devil moves on

If they talk they talk after one
But all the nails in his socket were gone
And though our pastor could not outrun
The secret remains of Babylon

i don't believe in religion.
but if you believe that jesus
was resurrected.
that eve was created in
adam's image.
that moses parted the red sea.

that a woman cannot love a woman
without sinning.

then i will not bother you
with my love.

does that make me a sin?
or a temptation?

you say that religion is a blessing.
but for me

it's a ******* curse.

Do you realize 
the impact you have
on those around you? 

The smile you gave
that waitress filling coffee
changed her perspective.

The young boy
that looks up to you
shapes his life after yours. 

The pastor who watched 
you grow up 
finds purpose.

The friend you met
at summer camp
smiles remembering. 

The song you wrote
alone in your room
is someone's anthem. 

That speech you gave
for extra credit
broke someone's addiction.

The time you prayed
for an impartation
empowered her to speak.

You don't realize
the effect you have
on everyone around you. 

Don't dare 
give up
on them.

He came.
Wielding Neosporin. & hot chocolate, Housed in a thermos, safe
Temperature keeping of course.
Snacks too, always
Sweet.
Honeybuns maybe, or a cake, itself
Housed in plastic, the cellphane type.
Undoubtedly he had read
Somewhere that we
Love sweets, they help us
Thru the absence of what we really
Crave.
So here he came, in a
Glorious naivety, an
Ignorant hope.  He
Found me while I was distracted, busy
Inhaling summertime on a
Paper plate.
Bland burgers,  burnt hot dogs, Watered-down soda, and
Soggy chips, these the
Staples of a barbecue.
I don't know whether it's the
Charcoal or the
Vitamin D, but somehow that
Flimsy plate full of food is the best Thing you've
Ever had,
Delicious,  tasting of smiles and
Tan lines,
Green grass and flip-flops,
Fun and relaxation.
As I took it in, he
Approached,  sidekick in tow,
Of course, carrying a book,
That book, the one none of us
Wanted to see or touch, much less
Read.
I thought about running, knew I could.  But, my
Blissful escape on paper had been
Provided by the neighborhood
Church.  My
Mother had instilled enough
Manners in me to know that in
Exchange for this happy memory Inducing
Food, the
Least I could do was listen to his
Spiel.
I did listen, then I
Excused myself. He,
One more person
Met and forgotten in moments.
Except he came
Back
Again and again,
Praying and talking
With all of us,
Bringing with him snacks:
Honeybuns frosted with an icing that left the aftertaste of
Hope, hot chocolate  
Accessorized with
Faith marshmallows. Neosporin to Heal
Scars, result of
Needles and of memories.
He kept coming,
Wouldn't give up; probably he
Couldn't.
Kept trying ,
Trying to penetrate the
Fog, we've all aquire. Fog of
Protection,
Fabulous fog keeping everything at a
Distance, slightly
Blurry, too
Distorted to
Hurt.
To get thru that fog, to make it
Dissapate, would be nothing short of a
Miracle. One that he
Wouldn't be able to
Produce.
We'd all sit
Politely, listen to him,
Wishing we could
Hear him,
Knowing we
Couldn't.  Because he
Wasn't human to us.
Too perfect,  too saintly,  too
Godly.
Unreal.
The equivalent of the
Mall Santa:
Visible, touchable sure, but that didn't make him any more
Real.
Until that day,
That day we talked
Hair.  
1 self-deprecating joke & I learned he
Wanted better hair,  the
Patrick Dempsey kind,
Thick, flowing. His
Desire for that meant he was
Vain,
Insecure,
Human.
Human meant I
Heard, meant the
Fog was still there, but he was
In it,
With me,
Willing to wait for it lift.
He willing to wait, I willing to
Hear.
He came,
Wielding neosporin, hot chocolate,  
Honeybuns. And
Glorious naivety with a side of
Ignorant hope, the
Best kind of hope, really the
Only kind.
Naivety and hope. That
I inhaled, like
Summertime on a
Paper plate.