MYMOTHER MYFATHER

“What I Wanna Hear”

let’s take the small talk of the city,
blow it up and make it pretty
like a polaroid from 1969.
we could talk ourselves ‘round circles,
scratch our names out of all the tables
in a neighbourhood too fitting to be mine.

just a toss at functionality
to match our personalities,
to pull your chain, and then to feel you tuggin’ mine.
who woulda’ thought i was such a liar—
some bad vibe desirer—
dodgin’ intentionality to stay “refined”.

the city draws itself up to concoct its lies.
you can hear its little whispers in the dimming light.
and now the movement seems like mystics as you’re sippin’ your beer.
i know you’re only hearin’ what you wanna hear.

oh, and the evening draws itself up to concoct its lies.
i can see its moonlit evidence was falsified.
babe, how sweetly you told me just enough to let you near.
you know i’m only hearin’ what i wanna hear. 

(Source: jamesnord, via grainfield)

“Pointing at Maps”

spend the whole day slaving
over “some day maybe”,
and i do so daily—
am i consistent?

so we skim the pages
till we pay our wages,
till it rearranges
in a pocketbook.

take some brief anointing,
just some fingers pointing.
am i the phrase you’re coining—
“in love with love?”

all in time, we’ll be where we want to be.
that’s post-modern philosophy;
ain’t no reason for any of this.
we discussed it for hours before
all in one great accord.
meaning was not revisited.

so we dreamed up our plans
to survive the age of man.
and how to fall in love.

i’ve refused this soil,
or else my dreams’d spoil—
all my flesh done foiled
in the boilin’ sun.

and no, i don’t put roots down;
just roll around now
from town to town now—
gotta make distance

between myself and the ones that i’ve loved—
those i’ve wronged and i’ve snuffed,
or that don’t even know me yet.
i can see it all now— with every love that is born
is someone else to divorce,
as i’m seeking what’s infinite.

how long must you roam,
o my unceasing soul?
are we just pointing at maps? 

(via grainfield)

“Poster Extravaganza”

a subtle, sweet phrase honed me in, i must confess.
just one thing that you said, though offhand.
the traveling bus does exactly what it’s told.
our voices raise to a song,
the cds and stations sing along,
and the air grows cold.

and it’s been a summer that i shall remember.
i was sweating my bullets and skipping my dinners.
this tunnel’s unending, suffice it to stillness—
a fever i’m feeding, perpetual illness.
it goes on infinitely.

and jenn takes the posters and shaken up, crosses main street.
the storm’s blotting black ink on through the sky.
i am torn between my own lethargy and what i’ll say
once i finally work it out;
i’ll find some purpose to kill this doubt
stung by the rain.

our toil’s been plastered all over these projects,
with these bullets we’re biting through lack of an intent.
but i am a man, jenn, and you are a woman.
i have hated my sister to savour some moment
locked in physicality;
left with no intentionality. 

(Source: incaseyouwanttosee, via grainfield)

“I Know You Want Me”

you smile moonbeams; root for the home team.
even so, they get you stoned.
amidst the stoning— the stones they’re throwing—
you’ve been looking all along for some place to call home.
but still it roams,
your ceaseless soul.

we could take a breath to waste some time
when we both know what to do.
i fill up all the cracks in your heart just like glue.
but i see the way you’re usin’ me,
as though i could glove God’s hand.
i don’t suppose that love is somethin’ you understand.

oh, what great guile on the dirty bathroom tile.
you’re standing awkward in your shoes.
feet turned inward, holdin’ back those cuss words,
‘cause you know that i don’t like women bein’ crude.
i say, change is due
for your attitude.

and for the sake of the argument,
could you tell me how you feel?
even i have some trouble decipherin’ what is real.
and typically it comes so easily—
yeah, i’m a descernin’ man.
but i suppose love is just somethin’ you don’t understand.

i see you standin’ at the railing now,
wearin’ the same expression you always do.
as the platforms fill with girls just like you.
i know you want me to take you away
to some far off land.
but honey, love is somethin’ you need to understand. 

(Source: grainfield)

“Steal Now No Longer”

did i take what i could from you?
will i return sevenfold, will i pay my dues?
it’s like some awful game of clue.
you always knew what was done, where it was, and who.
oh, but still you checked the boxes in to turn doubt into benefit.
could not believe the truth received, looking for something.
and you always said reality wasn’t based in physicality.
i’m painted black, i stabbed your back, but you let me live it down.
you let me live it down.

some day, so you say, i’ll know me,
and you’ve seen him purified.
we lived six months in a petrified state,
‘cause i would not move, wouldn’t grow, wouldn’t change.
you said i was wrong, but i did not care.
thought this man God made was somethin’ i could bare.
but i realise i was never ready,
or at least not ready enough.

the thief, he shall steal no longer,
as all truth unwinds, he’s a good, good man.
and the thief, he shall steal now no longer.
let the truth be unwound— he’s a good, good, good, good man

who stays on topic, finishes what’s started;
loves widows, orphans, the sad brokenhearted;
lays down his life, whether or not he’s martyred;
and once departed,
concerned not with being understood—
this is a man made good.

and you said, “don’t let all this pass you by.
this is a great opportunity.
it’s the option to change and let God have His way,
or else be cast out to the rock and rain.
and everything you do won’t be perfect,
but when were actions ever enough?”

you say, “you gotta get that Blood— be grafted into the Vine.
so you’ll open your mouth and you’ll pour out light.
there’s a man in there with that self-control.
a compassionate heart; so wise, so bold.
so wise, so bold.
so wise, so bold.
so wise, so bold. 

(Source: areaofinterest, via grainfield)

“Beat the Tom and Throw the Crash”

i’m gonna tell you about forestry,
yeah, well, just to settle scores.
trees must stand still,
unless met with opposing force.

i guess i typify the hours—
turn out something i can’t stand.
the grass here grows tall.
nothin’ goes strictly according to plan.

always got into you usin’ me,
but for now at least i’m good.
i don’t think you know,
or perhaps you did, but you never understood.

grace us with your presence, let the well run dry.
it’s either-or.
you’re gonna force up the harvest— rape the land, the crops’ll die.

nobody’s perfect, and i promise that.
i mean, just don’t get all upset.
i make a mistake,
but you don’t forgive and you never forget.

i see you always like to question me.
you’re just a beating tom it seems.
i gotta throw the crash.
you’ll let my flesh dream all its dreams.

well, hey honey, am i a real man now,
because i took control of you!
just don’t get confused
on who is the user and who is the used.

our friends laugh for hours about me and you.
our sorry little tale,
this grim reverie,
our perpetual state.
leaves an awful taste,
yes it does.

and i’d do anything
to stop controlling you.
yes, i’d do anything
to stop worshipping you.
oh, i’d do anything
to follow some greater truth.
absolutely anything
to turn into something new.
well, surely anything
to stop controlling you.
to stop controlling you. 

(Source: grainfield)

“Bones Hold Your Breath”

the lights on the porches at the end of the day.
a sweet row of parked cars in the longest driveways.
and one of these lies vacant— a suburban waste.
someone homeless or needy could take up the space.

and monday morning rolls around, and sleep,
well, it has to flee,
like a sickness, or alone;
so each man may get up,
give his tired wife a hug,
and kiss her face before You.
the highway fills up with a
load of semi-trucks
and men, all the priests of their homes.
let it depend upon
who their fathers are,
or don’t.

is your father the devil, the satan, the dead?
does your father make demons to reign in your head?
is your father what’s carnal— your slithering flesh?
does your skin hold your power, your bones hold your breath?

(Source: grainfield)

“Know I Haven’t Been (A Man)”

i made dreams through this storm,
as never before,
where my hands could cover my eyes.
so i never would look
at each step that i took—
fumbled footsteps, a fool walkin’ blind.

but i see there’s a body,
built up as an army.
we are gathered or scattered in waves.
and each seed that i’m sowin’,
is a harvest that’s growin’,
be it pleasure, reward, or just pain.

and each man is a priest then
of the household he lives in—
a head over family and name.
so he leads in his labour,
returns the Lord’s favour
as his heel strikes his personal gain.

so a girl isn’t all that i want.
not just some young lover to flaunt.
oh, it’s time i tell God’s hands and feet the truth.
at these bible studies we hold,
she can still feel your hands through her clothes.
do you really think that those thoughts will still be new?
you know, two can’t be one until the day is due.

now the fruit of the spirit
that a man should inherit—
that’s love and a sealed self-control.
i have taken the rhythms
to constructive criticisms,
but sometimes self-pleasure gets bold.

how it coils and slithers,
a spine made of shivers—
the cold of a dark, rusted cage.
give allowance to treason—
even i do in seasons—
but receive what was done to the grave.

dead and defeated,
its armies depleted;
there’s nothin’ now to stand against
the salt and the light, man;
the solid ones who do stand
on the Rock—wholly omnipotent.

and what the body can perceive
in physicality,
well it ain’t the Truth that wakes me up each day.
there’s no other reason for a dream,
no reason to want or to need.
at the end of the day, you’ll still be a slith’rin’ slave.
you were made from the ash, and you’ll return there in your grave.

a father, a husband, a man—
well, i know now that that’s what i am.
all the fields growin’ tall around my feet again.
‘cause God made a man that i know i haven’t been. 

(Source: grainfield)

“Dirty Birds”

effortless instrument—the cause, effect—the nameless truth.
discipleship—such a ruse;
where no one knows what happened to you.
and then did they take you in?  a cult to spin your games of clue.
cigarettes were sin back then.
stole ‘em off all my friends.

there the yelling starts—better guard your heart—they’ll get the best of you.
we got nothin’ else to do.
somebody gonna let us loose.
such simple minds afraid of alcohol, they pretend they’re God.
but when will the moment come
when they realize they’re not?

so now i’m ready for my lesson.
i’ll learn what i can from you.
yet still there are these voids—space between Truth.
you really could forgive me,
but i can see you’re still hesitant to.

and up in wilmington, some saved souls sit—they wanna see God move.
can anyone know for sure
what the Spirit’s ‘bout to do?
we conversed to quote the verses that had changed my heart.
and nevermind those jezebels.
the King had marched ‘em off to hell.

and in the book i read, my friend was fed by dirty birds.
he did what he was told to do.
you don’t work, you don’t eat—it’s true.
do i abandon all?  put my trust in God?  stow away in the Word?
had to suffer like the Glory did.
man, i’m a man—no, i’m not a kid.
and then the page, it rearranges, my hands firmly untied.
gotta sow, honey, gotta reap.
His hands’ll cleanse my dirty feet.

i ain’t gonna watch these sidewalks raining,
and i ain’t gonna lie here on the floor.
but now every wet window just looks like a painting—
water colour corporate chain store.
apply, apply, apply, and i’ll apply some more.
there is nothin’ else to say.
no, there’s nothin’ to say, but i think i’ll tell you more.

(Source: grainfield)

“Breaking the Ice”

well no, ravens don’t get scared,
they just go ‘bout their purpose.
even whiffs of human hair
will not bring about their scream.

it’s but a simple delight.
you watched me stay my course.
yes, you broke all that ice,
and even then the love was forced.

but a man must have calloused and unshackled hands;
oh, a man must provide from the plain.
yes, a man works the field till his six days are done,
and not till the seventh refrains.
He can do more in six days
than i will ever do in seven days.

(Source: grainfield)