The Seasons are in Repair

Countless times have I sauntered down the street and stumbled on nothing but concrete to love on. The bitter insensitivity of the temperature bleeds through the wool that sits sympathetically on my shoulders. My heart cries for a cure for this loneliness. This dark cavity in my heart gets darker and darker when the melodies of pop artist sculpture drifts in and out of my ear with the cold city wind. Beautifully an aged man with a fair beard shuffled through the snow from a sinister brick alley, kissed me on the neck and said ‘let me have your grief”'. I reminisced him, ‘there’s nothing I can do, the seasons are changing and I’m losing my grip. The warmth is slipping out of my clenching. I trip over my ankles, falling after it as if it were a child’s lost balloon. Rising, rising faster and faster, the wind takes my childhood in a red inflatable prison. It drifts into the sky with no return in mind. Its point of view has no intent on my best interests.’ The old chap replied, ‘Grace released you a long moment ago.’ The moisture of his kiss was starting to freeze on my neck. The pact was waxed and pressed. My jaw fell open and my pain, my pain…I misplaced it! Oh what a superb falling out! The throbbing shed off my body like my coat in a warm room. And unexpectedly, I was home. I was never really ready but I was home. A glow of orange poured into my perception and suddenly in my heart it was autumn. Ah, the warmth of my father’s house…I almost forgot the senses.

Spirituality is Not the Right Word

‘uality’s [oo-al-i-tees], speak to me of something plural, a state of mind attaining several [wrong] choices. And to put a spirit in front of an ‘uality’ is like a hasty dynamite stick ready to blow a hole in the side of Jesus. When did Christianity become all about defining mystic association with God and not simply about falling in love with Jesus? Theology is only acceptable when Jesus is apparent in your heart. No floating hearts are looked-for in a sanctuary, unless the charlatans say so. And they have masquerade porticos on with intent of parading selected expressions around; carelessly telling everyone that they have vapor inside they’re eyes. That they see vapor inside the room, and that this vapor is from my Jesus. I don’t see the steam! It’s perhaps because the fog of their obtuse prayer is too thick.

The Perjuries Embellish With Seaborne Raids

Time is a bandit. Always putting you in the position of depletion. It never looks out for your best intrest. -C.L.

Basement Priced Poetry of the Vanguard

I’m full of it; I’m full of sin! How can I get away from this sonnet? This ode to I. It’s like a dim orange street light on an LA boulevard. Light bulbs smolder with no one beneath them; aside from crack dealers and prostitutes desperately abusing themselves for survival. It’s like shout-abuse offered at point blank to blow your head into pieces. Grief spews up after condemnation and condemnation originates from my pocket sized politicians. I vote for no more war. Exfoliate your asphalt jungle oh mind! Send your center into release oh heart! Jesus boasts grace.-C.L.

Orange County is Not Organic

Sidewalks are too hard and the light pollution is too much for the nighttime sky to hold. Its too soaked with everyone’s lonesomeness. And people laze in their faint beds next to their waterlogged fantasies of oceans and seas. Never embracing the audible voice in their interior character that says ‘I want something more’. Those poor humans, they don’t have the courage to sit up and admit that they’re square; ridged on the edges and restrained in form. They just hope that they can wake up and make it through one more day on their calendar. Make it through another freeway, another business convention, another designer latte. Their existence is as thoughtless as their frothy steamed beverage. How else are you supposed to live? Only, Jesus wants to give you a hug.-C.L.

Every Point Has its Turn; Hence a Turning Point

There comes a climax in one's life that disappearing out into the unknown is the only place that feels like home. The arms of God seem to bring you into the deep loneliness of dependence upon him. Making them [His arms] seem much larger. Complete surrender is the only option to surviving the whirlwind of this life. Lying on this friendless street you discover your soul and you disregard your cares. You come into a sacred shelter in the moment that you care less of the evolution of your own imaginings, and more of the Lord of Hosts. The only end that guides you is the Grace of God. I have no money, I have no home; I have Christ. - C.L.

A Violent Dog Baptized Fundamentalist

"We tried to forget about theory and pitch and timing and focus on feeling"-Jon Foreman
[Rules]-a definition
1. a principle or regulation governing conduct, action, procedure, arrangement, etc.: the rules of chess. 2. the code of regulations observed by a religious order or congregation: the Franciscan rule.*

What is ‘rule’, but a cold faceless ideology? Jesus is not an institution, nor is he a code of regulation, He is grace in flesh. Occasionally you should forget the systems and find freedom in the concealed. The naked truth is that grace releases the tight clench of the iron fist of legalism and consumerist schemes. The corporate method is to cookie-cut humans; but Jesus makes us unique. Gracelessness imposes people not to smile in Church and to exist in a sad state of ‘deep spirituality’. Grace reaffirms that man’s regulation is not to be feared. So smile and make sure you’re breaking the rules.-C.L.


*[Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)
Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.]