Pickles are present. I've bound the lord behind the back with small, pathetic gestures. I approached the lord like a junkie, a junkie son, and got him to twist and turn. Haha, lord, how are you going to help me now? You can't.

Bulletin boards brightly lit and calling me.

Eyes all around and lips loosed for the devil's bidding. My eyes rest at contempt and sag with fear. I want to be a 13 year old mowing lawns so I can buy Washing Machine by Sonic Youth. Or 7 years old back at my house where my hoop was hood central. Great dramatic strides as consuming as god's opera. Furry and fire just feet away. Stopping short of being anything of use. Wars and such. Bad blood. Wrongdoing and small failures I choose to hate with a sin that betrays me daily. The sin of criticizing my freedom, of transmitting my person to nothing. Or disbelief in self.

Sitting in snow and breathing deeply. staring off at artificial lights and trying to get over past embarrassments. Sentimentality everywhere. Everything is more meaningful when its in slow motion. I want to take that time if I ever get to take anything at all.

Under sheets with a warm sun blooming faces. Random smiles and victories over incessant and staggering fear coupled with the desire to always return. Belief in the distance our words can't reach. Just wants to look at each other.

I cried out to the holy spirit more than once. Prophecies and hands laid on my shoulders and head. Isiah 49. I saw you almost always, even before we met.

"Mystery and wonder, messy hearts made of thunder" -ASMZ