Th se wh cl ng t w rthl ss id ls f rf t th gr c th t c ld b th rs. B t , w th s ng f th nksg v ng, w ll s cr fic t y . Wh t h v v w d w ll m k g d. Salvation comes from the Lord.

Hello. This is the concept of public and private.

You are the maid?

Yes. You are the sister?

Yes. How did you know?

Bumping into china plated walls

Calling: Te echo de menos. Vuelva a casa.

Unfastening seat belts

Less Crowding in the world

VUELVA.

My, my, my. My, my, my.

The heat offered up from your body

Last night's sex stains the

Silvery bubble of shaking hands

Being alone in a rolling

Box, rectangular as metal constraints

Only, do not tell Lane.
Oh?
She wouldn't like it.

I'M HAVING A CONFLICT!

Here, I made this

You can see, You Can See

Bumbling laughs

Betwixt declaring me bad

Knowing and unknowing it

Shallow water gives a thrill

Caverns are filled and good and not good

ESTAS DE ACUERDO CONMIGO.

Maybe I should go.

To Virginia?

No. I mean, am I interrupting you?

No. I was just--cleaning.

But if the watchman sees the sword coming and does not blow the trumpet to warn the people and the sword comes and takes the life of one of them, that man will be taken away because of his sin, but I will hold the watchman accountable for his blood. -Eze. 33:6

Passage for the simple

Read it as if you were looking at a new piece of art. Read it as if you were filled with loving bias.

"Because of the Lord's great love we are

not consumed,

for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, 'The Lord is my portion;

therefore I will wait for him.'

The Lord is good to those whose hope is

in him,

to the one who seeks him;

it is good to wait quietly

for the salvation of the lord.

It is good for a man to bear the yoke

while he is young.

Let him sit alone in silence,

for the Lord has laid it on him.

Let him bury his face in the dust --

there may yet be hope.

Let him offer his cheek to one who would

strike him,

and let him be filled with disgrace.

For men are not cast off

by the Lord forever.

Though he brings grief, he will show

compassion,

so great is his unfailing love.

For he does not willingly bring affliction

or grief to the children of men.

To crush underfoot

all prisoners in the land,

to deny a man his rights

before the Most High,

to deprive a man of justice --

would not the Lord see such things?

Who can speak and have it happen

if the Lord has not decreed it?

Is it not from the mouth of the Most High

that both calamities and good things come?

Why should any living man complain

when punished for his sins?

Let us examine our ways and test them,

and let us return to the Lord."

To the dearest of dear friends:

In many ways, these images are identical.

Don't tell me my reason for living is incorrect. I would never even think to tell you the same. And remember, it's easy to say you're open-minded and tolerant, and in the same breath prove yourself wrong. Don't think of yourself as hateful? Don't promote hate. Do your own thing, don't spend your precious time trying to nullify everyone else's things.

At home being alone.

I feel at home being by myself right now. I feel completely satisfied knowing that I'm going to be worried about something tomorrow, when I'm by myself - maybe with other people. But at least I'll be fine with being by myself. It bugs me when I see people that can't be by themselves. That can't be by themselves without getting down about something, without doing something destructive, without spending the time in their lives in a forcedly adverse way. Nah, not really. It bugs me when I see people that can't be by themselves without making issues for themselves. Without creating a scenario for them to wallow in. Those people that fumble around stunted obstacles. Don't let those obstacles get real for you. They might get so real that they become embedded into your character. They could affect your relationships. Be careful, because relationships are what make life worth living.

I feel just fine. I feel pretty, mighty fine.

Time, And Life, And Their Importances.

Time, And Life, And Their Importances.

I want to write sexual poetry at 5:30 in the morning.

I want to bull rush the motor cars in the near vicinity.

I want to slap the unkind in the faces, and wake up the kind.

I want to read through endless words that may or may not be meaningful.

I want to add colors to all four of my walls.

I want to make permanence about the temporary facets connected to me.

I want to label every piece of matter with a beautiful word.

I want to smash the clocks in my mother's house and hug people tight.

I want to develop every mediocrity that's ever been announced to me.

I want to scream until I can't breathe above the water.

I want to paint a coat of glaze over every orifice of perverts' bodies.

I want to erase all sense of worry that I've ever felt creeping into the nooks of my mind and my concepts of life.

JOT.

If I just listened more carefully,

I'd learn the rhythms of her heels

As she rolls her shoulders back

And sneers all the way,

Down the lobby.

If I reached a little farther,

I would find more of the beads

That she left in her purse

The beads from her

Old friends.

I have the worst habits,

And she has them,

But we're not the same - no, we're not even close and her beads are much bigger than mine.

Mine are easier to lose,

To forget.

Poetry enjoys taking itself seriously.

Huh. Why not?

I don't ever want to read another piece of writing that is not my own again. And somehow, I feel like I can make that sound a degree or two less incredibly self-absorbed. And I'm sure the scant amount of people that actually check this stuff out might be able to understand that. I hate feeling like I've been molded by all the literature, all the recent mezcla that's tapped into my subconscious, and everyone I talk to or read from on a daily basis. It's so strange that the way we piece together our words, the way we "shape ourselves" stylistically is based around our favorite parts of the world outside of our intellect. And in a way, it's all very much contained within our own intellect - I guess we just perceive it that way. As if it was really our own.

I've been doing mildly rebellious things lately. And when I look at the things, they're really silly from the Joe perspective. It's just this fun little secretive thing I've been doing to entertain myself in one light. Mostly.

But you know I don't really want to make a list of them here, and the fact that I don't want to tell people about all these silly things just proves that I've been brainwashed into thinking I have to be a stick to honor my God. That's just it. I've been trying so hard to free myself of all nonsense, and trying to stick to the Bible more and more, and stick to the Holy Spirit like glue. Inside I know I crave the Word, and I crave the freedom to be with God on my own and not holding the hand of the church on my left, and the hand of my past experiences on my right. When I say church - don't get me wrong, I'm not referring to the real deal, Christ's GF or anything, just you know..the people. As much as it's so necessary to have relationships with the people, we shouldn't paste the words of our peers into an extended version of the Bible.

Communion Cups

Thank you God.

For the ocean.

Thank you God.

For the family.

Thank you God.

For the vehicle.

Thank you God.

For the ability to forgive.

Thank you God.

For helping me learn how to forget.

When I was a kid, about 8, before my mother got remarried, I was convinced the only reason my stepfather was placed on the earth was to make me jealous about sharing my mother. I figured it would be over after a certain amount of time, and it would be my mom and I again -- happy.

When I was a kid, about 8, and I can't stop thinking about this, my mom's boyfriend got mad at me for not wanting to bring my jack-0-lantern inside to the trash. It was rotting, but I was upset because he wanted to get rid of my work of art. I went outside, pouting and disappointed, and the door was locked when I tried to get back in. I knocked for a long time. No answer. I started to get scared - really scared. I was crying, and scared, and I was panicking.

I'm not sure if I was scared because I had no way of getting back inside on my own, because I was 8 and I never thought I'd have the problem of getting inside my own house, or because I felt like my mom and I would never be as close to each other again. I felt like my life was being intruded upon. It couldn't be natural - whatever was happening to my eight-year-old self. I mean, thinking about it, nobody - no adult, had ever acted maliciously towards me until that very moment. I still don't understand what makes people mean enough to do hateful things like that to people they love. But they're still doing it. I wonder what they think about. I wonder how they feel about it.

Thank you God.

For giving me a mom that unlocked that door, and for giving me a mom that wants to protect me from every evil.

My dad makes jokes about how I indubitably rant to all of my friends about him.

So let's be honest.

But after talking about it for so long with my charming and handsome boyfriend, we've concluded that life goes on, and neither of them - yeah, I guess, 'them' - are worth spending too much emotion on. Or any art really. So nope, you're not getting any creativity from me today. This is very normal stuff here. Very basic stuff. (Thanks, God! You're so cool, we capitalize pronouns for you all over the place.)

Crime and Punishment

I'm not sure why humans are so needlessly hypocritical, but they certainly are, and I certainly am.

I try to set these weird examples sometimes, and sometimes I don't even know that I'm doing it. And even sometimes, my friends or some acquaintance notices and shares their appreciation and I'm reminded of why I live life the way I do. Or at least try to most of the time. I wish I could be more direct about the way that I share God. I'm so bad at it, I feel like. I'm too passive. I'm stuck between being a "normal" person and being a shepherd, and being a witness.

For example, why do I feel the need to remove God's name from my poetry or writing or daily dialogue? I run circles around the subject and throw about 2,000 hints but I can't be straightforward because that would be losing my personal cool or something like that. I wish people would tell me they have the same problem.

On another note, one of my friends got baptized and I was so happy to hear that. I love it when I see God like that in my friends. The way she told it to me made me happy.

The first sentence of this entry has nothing to do with the rest of the contents of this entry.

Us, the Linen Belt

And he funnels his flames down upon us as

we forget to throw away our carvings and

wood chips and blueprints of grim faces with

odd metal piercing. And one man has a shield.

The shield is fireproof and, although the man

makes desperate attempts to aid the carpenters

of a similar stature to his own, the circumference

of the shield is merely large enough to defend

his own hairs on top of his own oiled head.

And He will know this and understand this

but will not, does not relent - for though the

carvings and the blueprints have disappeared,

like any nail biting habit, they will arise again

when the atmosphere proves to be

comfortable enough once more.

So it is unfortunate to remark: "Drought,

Famine, Sword, Drought, Famine, Sword,"

But we are clingers to our deceits and

the shield-wielding man is a clinger to his

shield, and his mercy, and his Father, of whom

requires no blueprints or metallic piercing.

But what else can He do but to refine and test,

refine and test? Yet even in those days He will

not destroy them completely, and the shielded

man will feel much better. He will indeed, feel

much better about the ragged linen belt about

his middle.

Aforementioned:

Your hair was a sweet and sugary syrup on the blank canvas of your afterthoughts

After the monster in your mouth grappled with the incense dimly lighting your tonsils,

He ended each fingertip with a salvaging dance along your cuticles

And this is the story behind the poison you injected into your pitying phrases

This is the story between the decision you made and the numbness you experienced afterwards,

While glowing glory out behind the bends of your elbows

Hey. So, uh...

Attaching the words: "God-given" to a statement does not automatically make it the pure and holy Truth above all truths.

For example:

"Preserve the Constitution's God-given right to keep and bear arms."

Hey, I'm a mentally retarded convict named Sasquatch. God gave me the right to own a gun. NO.

These unalienable rights are not meant for everyone. This is why controversy exists over this particular topic. Guns allow anyone to kill anyone, and it's really freaking easy for people to get a hold of them. That is...anyone.

No, I'm not like completely opposed to people owning guns. I know a lot of very responsible and loyal citizens that would never be casual with their firearms. I just think that people need to stop thinking just about themselves, and start remembering that there are a whole lot of other people out there - a unique and diverse array of them, and their opinions count just as much as yours...going by the whole "equality" thing we sometimes take heed of.

Stop throwing God's name around, too. Being republican, being a patriotic American, being in the military, being whatever is looked highly upon by the USA these days - does not allow you to make blasphemous statements. Don't act like you and Jesus have late-night conversations about all the right answers to American policies.

And freaking be respectful of Obama. I'm very disappointed that several God-fearing people I know think it's OK to talk crap about our president. Here's a little reason why I feel this way:

1 Peter 2:13-17.

"Therefore submit yourselves to every ordinance of man for the Lord's sake, whether to the king as supreme, or to governors, as to those who are sent by him for the punishment of evildoers and for the praise of those who do good. For this is the will of God, that by doing good you may put to silence the ignorance of foolish men-- as free, yet not using liberty as a cloak for vice, but as bondservants of God. Honor all people. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the king."

Politics are crappy enough without having to drag God down with everything else.

There's just no way around it.

There's no way I'm ready to do this, or selfless enough to go through with this. But all the same... I'm doing it.

I don't really know what to expect, so I can't say that I'm excited. But I kind of do know what to expect. I know I'm going to be listening to God, or as much as possible. But the weird thing is, I haven't been close to Him at all lately. Really weird distance. It's like not being sure if your best friend is upset with you. That kind of a feeling, I guess, if you don't know God. I don't like it at all. But I'm doing it to myself. It's always my fault, never His. That part kind of sucks, because you know you can never ever be blameless. It's sort of something I haven't entirely let go of yet.

Blameless as a baby stomping on ants.

I just looked over some of my journals from my freshman and sophomore year of high school. I was so cocky, and so stuck and stubborn, and about five hundred other negative adjectives. God, I was such the epitome of teenage girl. Sucks. It's weird that my handwriting was so much better when I was younger. Isn't that supposed to be reversed? Oh, and note this: "Aiichiwawah!" I wanted my journal to experience that sound.

Does anyone else have a problem with completing tasks?

It's weird that certain things bring us such satisfaction. We can't uphold our marital vows, but we can surely gain some frightening momentum for our worst and smallest habits.

My written journal is leagues more valuable to me than this thing. I don't like that this entry is such a journal entry. Sorry about that, by the way. I'm trying to remedy it, but I'm falling pretty quickly and steeply here. Whatever. Sometimes I wonder if I'm holding myself back too much, and then I remember some things that I promised this Guy and next I wonder if it's brainwashing.

It's not.

p

r

o c

e

ss

ed

the

x-----------------------------------------------------

Questions seem to arise like brain cells exist and we're dancing together as if we weren't locked between legs and arms and necks, and the blood flow shortens - comparable to the restriction of your tonsils when a smooth and sour toxin sludges down your esophagus, funny plays, funny plays, experimental plays, dramas and dramas - comparable to nose bleeds, insistent twitching of the eyes, and the way that they don't notice for once that small defect that you really don't care so much yourself about, And then 'tis steered directly under a bridge: very, very small, short, round - round? rounded, and soft - soft? malleable; as malleable as the mind of the creator and as fixed as the mind of the Creator.

A very special event!

Please go: It pains me when she tries to be authoritative. It's worse than when she's being passive, because then I can withstand what normally greets my lips everyday - if not, it's discomfort and squares in circles, jelly in sand.

So I hold her hand and bring her to the places she otherwise would not go. And I look at myself and she's so sweet inside my eyes, and in my chest, behind my knees. It's a cushion, and a design on top of it; dainty, directive, and daunting.

Because it's wrong, it's all all Wrong, wrong. If you say it enough...it won't make any more sense. And I can't make sense of it, although I try, and I reason with myself, forgetting her. And then,

Oh, how he makes my day: It's always embarrassing and uncomfortable when you rub their open facing tummies in broad daylight like this. He doesn't want it, and it's worse than when he's being miserable. It's, I guess it's normal.

And the smiles, they come and what he wants - it isn't as if you care, but it's just okay because it's making you a little bit happier, you're actually becoming more comfortable. He smiles for comfort sake, and so do you, and we're very comfortable with each other.

Congratulations to all, myself included.

Un titulo

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

,Unsuccess?

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Among other things:

I've discovered that Ozark folklore is some of the most amusing stuff you will ever hear or read.

Don't let them things creep up on ya and gitcha down.

"Ponder the path of your feet, and let all your ways be established."

I feel like this week is eating me up, and bottling me up, and washing and wishing me along, down to the place where I don't do my laundry, up to the full breadth of my stomach, across, against, against.

Back and forth as I sing along, wear my happy face, my insensitivity up my shirt - it always tingles up my neck and makes my face uncomfortable; it throws me into battles where I conquer conversations and throw my body onto each person I know better than "hello."

The days they remind me of everything missing, and I'm anxious about things never to be, soon approaching discomfort to be; I shriek and submit, claw and submit, and sink soothingly, I've convinced myself.

The tables, the chairs they hold me captive, comfortably for an hour each while I relax my tense shoulders from the days of preparing them for all things efficient, and I hate this fulfillment that I love, and it's stupid that the world rotates around pain, until it slows to a stop at achievement, the days should adjust to an opposition.

And I wrack and they wrack and spurt out all over, spill out onto the floor, all over me - all over myself, and I'm helpless, they don't see it; I feel the force of books and I feel the waves of the conversations lap right, below, my mouth, near my chin. Right below.

The days make me force, they are all that I have, and I discontinue as much as I can, as it all feels too unnatural, the way that anyone dresses and mingles and cooperates, while the days bring them some stricken satisfaction, or in some cases, unfound satisfaction, and I'm still stuck in the middle.

This week is every week, and every measurement that paces each step, each determined step, each faltering, they are convoluted with the concept of the mouth, in every person I meet and know for a unit of time, and feel united with; I sleep, and I'm haunted, by the week.

Proverbs 4:26

Unlike a Short, Stark Gratification

There is a pleasantry in waiting always

It is a kindness of being basic

And a sigh, but it is so long

And it is a kindness like the kind

That makes the most of a difference

And a difference that’s meant

To be something

Not like a bleeding of humility

Not like a short, stark gratification

Not like those things

That compensate

That resolve

Indeed, they abhor the notion

Of Patience

It is a mold

And it is

Time

And it plunges again.

I can't even begin to explain the feeling. If loving a human could be this wonderful, what is being with God like? I already know some of it, and it's surely greater than anything else I've ever felt. But what is it like after I die? I can only imagine that it's the most miraculous experience a being could experience. My religion - our relationship - is gorgeous and beautiful. It's sanctified. It baffles me that so many artists are atheistic in ritual. Which is an incredible understatement as to my feelings on the matter, by the way. What I have with God is probably the most abstract concept, most untouched by science, most unconditionally beautiful thing that's capable of being 'contained' by a person, or brought to our animalistic planet.

I guess it's just that people kind of ruined it, defiled it - you know, made it ordinary and started crafting all these mundane, obscene associations with it. With 'loving God,' 'being Christlike,' using the vicious tool of written and spoken word to spread hate...simply. And seeing as those artists are a separate faction from these people, and they can only really be outsiders looking in, it won't change. It's static. It will change, but not by my hand, or anyone else's. It's sad that He has to see all this. Sometimes I wonder why He made us all - just so that a small percentage would actually care. I mean, He knows that the majority of us aren't ever truly going to be with Him, so sometimes I wonder why it's worth it - I mean, for Him.

But then I go and I love the human being I love more than any other, and then I remember. Because loving God is about a billion times stronger and better, and it's just absolutely inconceivable. And He gets to have that relationship with so many people. Is He selfish for it? Am I selfish for wanting this person to love me more than they love any other person? God is so dauntingly witty, it scares me. How could he create a better mirror? I never thought it would be so obvious.

But I think I have a pretty heavy understanding of why some artists look down on God (as if He were some non-artistic 'concept,') and sometimes I wish they'd shut up and stop calling themselves artists for a minute so they could focus on something other than themselves. And so it goes.

Us; In the Valley of Hinnom

Help me take my hands from my hips some time

And let my flowered fingertips breathe

Because they carry a lot of weight

Like ‘you’re my baby.’

And that’s the shirt that you kind of like, that I always like and

You can’t wear it - or them – partiality always screws things up

But we can wear our modesty and our pride:

All buried in the valley of Hinnom.

A lot of the time, we’re hearers only

Deceiving ourselves

And hearers we are.

And tasters. And the cold, Shallow Dip.

To Us:

Lament!

And stop fortune-telling.

And be meek.

Things that make me sad:

1. When funny-looking boys only leave their addresses on comment cards at restaurants.

2. When the girlfriend gets mad at the boyfriend’s accidents.

3. When old women let their dogs eat off the table with them.

4. When dads yell at people in front of their sons.

5. When parents buy transportable televisions for their children.

People are so weird.

Animals do not:

• Perform contemporary dances
• Learn new languages
• Create collections of images to be displayed on a stationary object
• Wear skinny jeans