Open Eyes
He felt the chair beneath him, sitting... Contorted, disfigured. He could hardly feel anymore, the numbness that spewed from his pores. Cloaked in darkness, bereaved of light. Suffocating, he closed his eyes and pondered the effects of reservation. Reprobate... Should he just give up. Quit.
He could feel the passing of satin cloth. The pressure of crawling feet stapled through his skin, but he dare not open his eyes. Blind. He felt a crown on his head, papercut through the eyelid. The spines of snowflakes scraping his skin, the blood that erupted immediately froze. A hand pressed against his eyes, assuring they would never open- a stagnant voice whispered, "Be blind... what you can not see you can not feel."
He had felt for so long only pain. Crying himself to sleep. Waking in the darkest hours of the night to the screams of inability. A vine that had twisted and and knotted its way through his throat. How he wished at times to cry out for help, to reach out... but he mustn't try, he could never escape. Silence. What is the point? Chained to a wall, I can only run but so far.
He felt the blood that beated from his heart slowly turning to tar- thickening, choking. It's ash falling into his lungs. Touch. His eyes still tightly lipped, he thought of the toy in his hand. The world tightly clenched in his talons. He gripped tighter...
Suddenly, the hands over his eyes grew warmer, relenting only a second before pushing him, with all force, backward. Falling. He felt himself falling. He became entangled in a dark cloud and a webbing fabric, that gripped him tighter and tighter as he fell. But he dare not open his eyes... What good will it do to see the coming pain? Tightening. Wrapping. He became as small as possible- arms holding his knees close to his chest. Fetal. Unable to anything, except for fall- tighter and tighter, and fall- tighter and tighter.
Slowly he began to forget his name. Eventually he forgot who he was. He forget the arms that had been engulfed into the wad of his former body. He remember no more that he once walked on legs- but he was falling now. Was he falling always? He wasn't sure. Lost. He knew nothing else, but the falling had begun to feel like flying, the darkness of his closed eyes began to flow with warm melting colours. He only sort of heard the breath of the others falling. He could hardly make out the yelling, or the crying; he hadn't recognized what the other voices were saying, but they were there. It was comforting. They were falling together, and he dare not open his eyes for he could soon hit the bottom- and then he would hear the others no more.
He quickly erased the thoughts of loneliness from his mind, he was with friends. They knew nothing of each other, but they were all falling. It felt like they were riding the wind, and the dark hands wrapped around him. Covered in the unholy embrace, he felt the warmth in the midst of the fall- he had not felt warmth for so long. This was real. Was this real? This was real. Blind.
One day, he felt a mild nudging. On this day he heard a new breath, a whisper- calm, affirming. At once he desired to see the owner of the familiar, but new, voice... He tightened his eyelids, tied his eyelashes, and folded his face in. No! ... The voice faded away, and he thought about it no more. He continued to fall- relaxed his tensly wound self.
Some time later, he felt the voice again. It was hot. A string of warmth grew from his neck and spread down his chest and across his shoulder, his head leaned back, and he strained for air... The dark arms that he had been falling with pulled tightly, and he recoiled. Settling back into his complacency, he felt a movement at the top of his neck, a break where his head met with his neck... The stagnant voice whished again, "Forget, forget what is new. Hold to me, I'll protect you. What of warmth, what of joy? I have held you in my breast for so long, would you forfeit what is common? Can you imagine falling without me?" The dark beast spilled around him, encasing the pruned and taunt skeleton of the boy...
But He could not forget the voice. He could not forget the warmth. Breaking. Like the warm tangerine colour that seaps from the horizon in the breaking twilight of dawn, his heart stream with eruptions. They grew. Dominoed. Soon his ribs caught fire. His feet burned with conviction. His chest breathed harshly. He had no strength... The dark voice grew angry, the claws of the beast tore through his flesh, but he had to know. He had to. He raise his limp arm, with twitching movement and strained convulsions- he glided his hand against the dark robe. The DARKNESS SCREAMED, "NO. NO." But it's voices faded as the cloak was pulled from his bust. A leprous face peered through the ripped darkness, it felt the warmth beat at it's wrinkled figure. Hot.... Hot... Burning...
His eyes squinted, opening with the hardest measure- taking all his strength. His eyes opened, His arm reached out. Breaking from that womb of death, the wind burst around him. Pressing. Pushing himself through his throat, and screaming with all might... He cried out, "JE-SUS" The tears tore through his retina. His body jolted out of the Darkness' grip. He was flung into the air, in that falling abyss, but everything stopped. He was in his chair again, He had finished the prayer... "I choose you Jesus, and I accept you." It was over- his body felt so open- he no longer writhed, but stood. Stand. The electicity flowed from his stomach and rushed to his fingertips, flooded from his feet. Assurance. Security. Love. He felt the saviours arms embrace him- he was not ashamed of this embrace. The darkness that he had so highly regarded, it had no strength in these arms. It didn't compare.
He was free, lying in a sun baked field- resting in the shadow of the Almighty. A shadow of light, not darkness. He knew now that the warm voice had been the same that had spoken him into existence, and after so many years of forgetting, he remembered. REAL. He knew me. I was where I had been born to be... in His presence. True Life.
The boy was given only two instructions. First, to seek the warm voice and the Father eagerly and always... and Second, not to forget the breath of the others who had been falling with him. The boy was instructed to yell into the abyss and call to them. Speaking of the experience and new life, for the Father desired to have them with the same passion in which he had pursued the boy. And in gently whispers, and heated calls- The Father would again draw many to Him. And all would dance. And all would sing. And would rest and praise together. There would be a day when the abyss was no more. A day when the Darkness would loose its voice, then there will be eternal rejoicing- uninterrupted, forever.
He felt the chair beneath him.
JP Quay, 1-20-04
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Quest for Peace (A Fragment)
She sat at the water's edge. Staring into the silent ripples as they drifted toward her. She considered, for the moment, just falling in. Nothing dramatic. No show. Just take everything that plagued her mind and drown it out under the tranquil rippling. Any other time she would have stayed a great distance from the water's edge. She could not swim and greatly feared a breathless death, but now, right at this moment, it was safe. She leaned over the water, her face but a few inches from the surface, now crouching at the tarn's side. She thought to herself, "I wouldn't even need to fully submerge... just my face. It wouldn't be such a torrent, if I but stayed calm those few moments. Maybe then I could have peace. Maybe once I am dead I will no longer have to deal with those things that now haunt and molest my every waking moment. Maybe."
She leaned a little farther, taking a breath of air in anticipation. Slowly she shifted her weight, searching for the best position in which to enter the water, a way in which she would create the least amount of disturbance in the pool. Her stomach felt lighter. The blood welled in the base of her neck. Her bottom eyelids became coarse. She was afraid that her, now, heavy breathing would displace her weight and cause her to enter the water before the anticipated moment. Her eyes welled up with tears. She had not meant to cry. The drops made little rings when they hit the water. She closed her eyes tight and breathed out. "Is there a heaven that will take me when I leave here? Maybe there's a hell waiting for me. There is no place worse than here, of that I am sure. I'm sure." She felt as though these thoughts were not even, in themselves, clear. They were jumbled with the anger, the pain, of all that she could remember. She didn't care to live here anymore. She was sure that anything would be better. Anything that made the pain stop would be better.
She pushed herself forward. It seemed to her a heavy thrust, which only pushed her face ear deep in the water. She felt the water rush into her nostrils and flush through her ears. She quickly pulled back with the shivering discomfort this foreign liquid created. Swinging her torso out of the water she wrinkled her nose to lose the itch. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with laughter. She tried to contain it, in light of this somber event, but could not. She let out a light giggle. "How absurd that I would worry about an itch in my nose as I try to drown myself." Her face suddenly turned straight as a stone. This thought had brought to her the stark realization of her plans. "Drown myself," echoed in her head. She burst into sobbing tears, with articulate breaths shivering throughout her body. She didn't really want to do this. She didn't really want to die. Maybe it was courage to stand in the midst of her trial. Maybe it was fear. Truly, she didn't know what would come after death. She didn't know if it would be worse.
She sat up, her head knelt in shame. Whether it be shame that she had almost taken her own life or shame in that she couldn't pull through with it, the head still hung the same. Her whole body seemed limp. She couldn't run anymore. It was time to return. With a sigh, she decided to end this day's adventure. She sat back, lifting her leg out from under her. Firmly planted it on the ground and lifted her other leg out from under her body, lunging herself to a standing position. But she was unaccustomed to the mud at the water's edge. She had lost her footing. She quickly twisted her torso and reached toward the shore as she began to fall into the water, but there was nothing she could do. She knew at that moment it was over, without any planning, without any hope. She didn't have any chance to choose the emotion she would feel. This was not expected. She plunged backward into the water. She didn't even have time to scream for help, not that anyone would have heard her. She saw as the water crawled across her face, almost as if time had slowed down. She felt as her body was dropping through the water. She knew she was dead- buried alive beneath the silent ripples.
"No! No! I will not let you," she thought to herself, frantically, as she began to reach for the bottom and dig her fingers into the mud. She had hope that she could crawl her way out across the bottom, she wouldn't need to swim if she could just walk out. She twisted her body, trying to face toward the land, but she no longer could tell where it was. She could not tell if she was heading toward life or going deeper to her grave. It seemed that the more she struggled, the less she could control where she was going, what she was doing. There was no chance. She couldn't even feel her fingers anymore. They had become numb with the chill of the water. Her fingers tore on the rocks as she tried clawing through the mud, a sensation that let her know where her hands were. She felt light-headed. She couldn't even tell if her eyes were open or not. "No," she calmly announced within her head.
With a burst of hope, she began swinging her arms, kicking her legs. "If I could just get above the water, get one breath of air, then I'd have the sense to know which direction to go." She longed for her body to swim. "Oh God! I can see the surface. Bring me to it. God!" She flailed about in the water. Wasting all her might in a frivolous attempt to save her self from the water. With one last strain of desperation she pierced her hand through the water's surface, but that was all she could get to penetrate the brim. She couldn't get high enough. She couldn't reach the top. She couldn't get air. She couldn't.
There was no longer any reason to fight. She had lost all her energy. She felt limp, cramped through-out her entire body. She was so tired. She began to slowly drift down, a tedious sinking. She could hardly feel her fingers or toes. Her hair swayed with the current. It was blocking her sight of the surface, but she couldn't move her arm to get the hair out of her face. "What should I do? What do I think? How much longer will this be?" Many questions invaded her thoughts, but it was silent. No one could bother her. She relaxed. It was what she had come here to do.
Her thoughts clouded and she let out the last of her air. By now she had fallen to the bottom, wrapped in sand and aquatic weeds. Her eyes rolled uncontrollably. She couldn't feel her body. She could only feel the light pulsing of the water. She had tried at first to keep the water out, fighting the biological urge to bring in new air, but then succumbed. It burned when the water came in her nostrils. Her body wished to purge the unwanted substance, but it continued. Her lungs convulsed slightly with each breath, but it soon felt natural. The water was heavier than air. It felt warm in her and filled her. She felt full, as the things became dark. She felt peace, a bizarre and frightening peace, but calmness. Maybe she was free. Maybe.
JP Quay, Summer '03
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A Cold Drop
Wet. He noticed how wet it was, the rain pouring down over him. It created a haze over the dark night sky, breathing a fog on the mount and surrounding view. He slowly brought his arms close to him, never looking down. He folded them, held them tight. He pushed for warmth. He slowly knelt down on his knees, his legs prostrate behind him, stolidly frozen from the knees up- errected as a tower, but small. He never took his eyes off of their subject. The lightning crashed, it vibrated behind his ears. He felt his ribs hum. His mind felt heavy.
The wind rushed upon him, it harshly displaced his comfort, but he took no notice. Neither did he take note of the jeering crowd. He could no longer hear the priests singing in rejoice, or the mother's weeping. His arms tingled, as if cold sheets of glass were placed on him. His neck was heavy sore, stretched and tired. His cheeks felt stiff. There was rejoicing, but he felt no joy- never did he take his eyes from their target. The lightning crashed, it vibrated behind his ears. He felt his ribs hum. His mind was heavy.
He had nothing to think. No words could push through his mouth, only could he stare. He forgot his body, ignored the others, and his eyes did not twinge. He stared. The eyes blankly stared back at him. The blood dripping from his brow, interrupting the view. It was pounded at his chest. It pushed through his sides. The battered body hung, hanging still. His body ripped. The splinters in his back. "Was this his God?," He whispered to himself, after the body had breathed its last.
Where is this king of Glory? Where are the trumpets and the triumphant angels flying? Why is he not arrayed in Kingly robes? Has his magnificent steed vanished? Is this my God? The body almost whispered it's pain. The blood continued to drip. He is dead. God is dead. The Lightning crashed, it vibrated behind his ears. He felt his ribs hum. His mind was heavy.
As the tears welled in his eyes, piercing through the rain; as the rage inside flared through his nostrils, he screamed, "Where are you God?!" In a lawyer's voice, he stood and marched near the cross, marking, "You who claim to be God. You whom I once called king, get down! Get down of that cross. You can not fix my problems there. Get down. How will I support my kids? Huh? My wife is going back to college- I don't have the money. I'm pregnant from being raped, ready to abort this foreign child. I'm starving, and my government wishes I would die, so that they would have one less mouth to feed. I have a really big test tomorrow, I need an A to pass this class. Get down. I can't resist pornography, and masturbate daily. I've never kissed anyone, how can I get married. I've been diagnosed with cancer, I only have a few months to live. Get down. I just killed a man. I can not forgive him, he raped my wife. I just smoked my first joint. God, I need help. Get off of the cross. I was molested as a child. I can't do anything right. I touched the girl where I knew she didn't want to be touched. I cuss every other word. Get down. I'm ugly. I'm too fat. I'm too skinny. I have crooked teeth. Nobody wants me. Why won't you get down. - The man continued his march, shaking now- he took firm steps. Pointing, shouting, he made his arguement. - I'll never be able to walk again. Where is my feminity when they take my cancer infested breast? I don't have a scantron. He murdered my brother. I set the house on fire. I hate my neighbor. I don't know what I did last night, I was too drunk. I had sex with a man. I don't have heat in my house. This car won't run, I can't leave my kids in the car while I walk to find help. Why won't you help? Help me. Our Father who art in heaven. Let the Eagles win. I'm all alone. Give me a sign that you are real. I cheated. I got away with it. It was only once. I want to so bad. Forgive me! Heal me! Heal me! Heal me! I won't talk to that one. I took it out on my kids. I didn't read my bible today. - his walk finally ended, him standing at the base of the cross, screaming at full force at the limp body - GET DOWN! GET DOWN! WHERE IS YOUR POWER NOW! WHERE IS YOUR POWER, YOU WHOM THEY CALL THE CHRIST. YOU CAN'T EVEN GET DOWN OFF THAT CROSS. MAKE YOURSELF LIVE. WHO IS THIS KING OF GLORY?!
...He stared up at the body, heaving deep breaths- dizzy from his forceful cry. When he felt a cold drop of blood hit his face...
...Christ's blood, running down his cheek...
In that instant, he finally realized. The blood held his sin. He breathed out, "Truly, this was the Christ."
Christ choose to save us through his blood, the atonement for OUR unrighteousness. There were three days when our God was dead, but still reigned in sovereignty. It was in his death that we gained our freedom, it was in his resurrection that he gained our souls. His power was not in saving himself from the cross, but in saving us through the cross. The man stood for a long time staring at his God's dead body- and though he would never see the life returned in just three days, he knew his God yet reigned in heaven. It was extreme, perhaps a bit too far, but the curtain between God and man had been torn. The blood had saved. The Lightning crashed, it vibrated behind his ears. He felt his ribs hum. His mind was heavy.
There is power, power, wonder working power- in the blood of the Lamb.
There is power, power, wonder working power- in the precious blood of the Lamb
JP Quay, 1-27-04
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| Trigger-Life Chapter 1: What is trigger-life? Trigger-life is when you sit at an abandoned train station still waiting for the next train to pass by. Knowing that it will, when there is no rational logic for another train to pass on those tracks. When it starts raining; the thunder and the lightning become your only light- and yet you sit in sudden flashes and bursts of realization that a train might not come, but you are yet waiting for the train. Maybe you'll die waiting there... but if it came and you weren't there waiting, that would be a fate worse than death. Trigger-life is when you stand on a bridge looking over the side, watching the water pass under you. It's when the current seems to say, "Hey come on in, I'll take you for a ride." It sometimes seems worth it; it's not always so bad to be "taken for a ride." (That is, if it was your choice- who would choose to loose control?) But there is never quite enough reason to jump into the swirling mass of liquid mayhem... and you spend an eternity leaning over the edge, nearly falling in, but you never lean the milli-inch over- the distance it takes to fully submerge yourself in that uncommon world you see pass right beneath your nose. Trigger-life is when you climb our you bedroom window, on the second floor of your little half a double house in the middle of a half a double town - when you climb out that window and find a spot on the roof... and just lie there. Maybe for days at a time, you just lie there and stare at the sky. You see stars, you see clouds, you see the sun, you see the moon, and you want with everything in you to be able to touch them, but you never do... not because you couldn't, but because you never attempt to reach out and touch them. Trigger-life is when you hold life in your hand like a gun, with your finger sitting on the trigger. You know that you could shoot it; you know that you could do something, but you choose to just leave your pointer finger rest there... unshaken, unmoved, unmove-able. Resting there, never straining and flexing enough to pull it down. It's safer to not pull that trigger, and so you never do...
you may never pull that trigger down; because you know that, if you do, the whole world will change - your whole world will change. And that's trigger-life. |
JP Quay, 6-4-04
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Right words
I sit in the chair right in front of the computer. My head hard pressed into my hands, my elbows pressed hard into the top if the desk. My eyes are parched, dry; and I am unable to cry any more. There were so many lies, too many lies. Maybe they were all lies… I held onto these broken hopes, these dysfunctional dreams, for far too long. They were the same that pierced my sanity. They carved ill-conceived patterns on my bitterly naive heart; these hopes that trespassed on my heart. Sitting here tonight, for the first time ever, my heart is breaking- is broken. With numbing pains of glass shards forced through flesh, I learned the horrors of love. It’s like a dark corridor holding a silent compulsion, Pandora’s box opened; I was so terrified of falling in love. Ridiculous, falling nothing, this is a chosen misery; inexperience prevailing. So, with distant composure pervading my hand, I strike my fingers down hard pressed against the cold keyboard. The soft clicks and clacks form a somber melody, a fitting song. The words are pouring out, but I can not keep them- erase and rewrite. Then, erase and rewrite again. I can not find the right words. What are the right words to say, "Go to hell," and, "I loved you," all at once? Typed speech forsaking my heart’s inspirations. I type my last good-byes and give up on love. My sighs are pressed hard against hope. I let go of this hope for the hope of clarity and peace.
JP Quay, 05
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The Greatest Disappointment of Our Age
Poop.
The word sends middle school aged children into a frenzy of laughter. What an appealing grotesque word. The little girls shrill, "Ewwwww.." It must have been a boy who said it. They are the ones with potty humor. Potty humor. Or maybe it was that little girl with the brown hair in pig-tails... You know. The one with the glasses who picks her nose.... Ewwww. Yeah. She is gross. I bet she said... "poop." ...:Tee Hee....
Yuck... She's gross. I think I'm going to call her Poopy-face. "Poopy-face. Poopy-face." Ha Ha... Look, she's crying! Tee Hee. "I'm sorry Poopy-face... Poop-face, don't cry." Tee Hee. "It's okay Poopy-face." Tee Hee. Tee Hee. Tee Hee.
-Feb. 14th-
She shyly walked up to the front of the room. Nearly racing to the big heart shaped pocket she had made only two days earlier... Oh, it was incredible. The shine on that bright red construction paper. The dew drops of Elmer's glue glistening in the florescent elementary school over-head lights. A bit of lace, taped lovingly to this masterpiece... She must have been a child prodigy. Her skill she had... the gift she was given... the art inside of her.
She did not care so much for the construction paper art. She cared more for what was inside... and the distance it took to get from the back row seat, to the hearts hanging on the blackboard seemed immensely too far to make... But in no time at all she was there. Her hands piercing forward, fingers grappling her creation... a twitch of her shoulder and her arm flung into the air, executing a grand twist of the hand, a motion followed through until her hand plunged into the pocket. It scuffled around inside pulling out a clump of little folded valentines.
Oh how excited she was, Valentine's day!!! Which boy liked her back. Which was she most likely to marry? The anticipation was killing her... And she gleefully began to read the little papers:
"Happy Valentine’s Poopy-face. Your face looks like poop." -Bobby
"Poopy-face, you should marry poop." -Katie
"Scooby-do wishes you a Wappy Walentwine’s Dway. To: Poopy-face." -John
...and so they continued. Nearly all of them had the word Poopy-face in them. Somehow the teacher’s vain attempt to reprimand the class was less than consoling.
-six years later-
"Hey, did your hear that that girl we used to call Poopy-face is pregnant?"
"Are you serious?! God. That’s screwed up. Like she’s gonna make a good mother."
"Yeah, that girl needs to learn to close her legs."
"Man, she should not be pregnant. That’s just gross."
"Yeah, she’s totally gross. I feel sorry for that baby."
"Ha ha. Poopy-face is gonna have a log."
"Ha ha. That’s just wrong."
"But you’re laughing."
"I didn’t say it wasn’t funny- I said it was wrong."
"Maybe the father could call the baby ‘little shit’."
"Tee Hee"
-just a few years down the line-
"I’m sorry. I just can’t take it any more. I tried. I really did. But I guess I’m too fucked up… Mary, my precious, precious daughter. I love you. Mommy will always love you, but mommy has to go to heaven. I will miss you tons. Butterfly snuffles... I’d like to write a some kind of memoir, but what does it matter. No one will miss me; I just wanted someone who loved me- even if it was only a little. Fuck it all."
-At the five year reunion-
"Hey, do you remember that girl who killed herself senior year?"
"Yeah, that was horrible."
"Definitely"
"I can’t even imagine what would ever make someone do something like that."
"Yeah, she must have had a bad home life... Screwed up parents or something."
"Hey, what was her name?"
"You know, I can’t remember- "
"I can only remember calling her "Poopy-face" in elementary school"
"Hmmm... I wish I could remember her name."
"Oh well. Hey, there’s John! Let’s go say hi."
JP Quay, 6-9-04
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My Two Lips.
I have two wonderful lips. Incredible. Incredible is what they are...
No, my lips never served in the United States Armed Forces. They can never say they were military lips; and I should doubt they would want to. They are on a Mennonite face- and Mennonites are Pacifists, you know; consciencous Objecters, as it were. My lips wave white flags, it is true; but not because they are unable to fight, but because they are not willing. My lips were never so quaint as to be afraid, simply neutral in the posh policitical efforts of those who care less as to what my lips would speak. Peace is a war less fought for, and a battle little won... but my lips have fought in that fight.
No, my lips were never in a movie. Despite their striking resemblance to a certain pop-star, who shall remain nameless. My lips have never sung in front of a crowd of thousands of fans waving like the daffodils of the Netherlands in a light breeze. Strike that. Waving like the sea of Nazi salutes hailing Hitler. Hitler, now he was a star. He had millions of adoring fans. He had as many men and women as he could want, in whatever way he wanted. He was pretty wealthy. Respected by the educated and the lay-person, revered by many religious leaders of the day. He could captivate people with stirring words poured out from behind his microphone. He worked his way up from nothing, fought for what he wanted, and obtained most of his desires- isn't that the definition of a star?... See the result of fame- does a word have the same meaning in a different context? And does that depend on the word or the speaker?... my lips have never been in a movie, but they've talked of the stars.
No, my lips were never in a porno. Lips are some people's fetish- but this I don't really understand. I like lips, don't get me wrong- I, in fact, love my own... but I would never obsess over them. One can not change their lips. At least not really... Perhaps with some collagen. Julie Robert's has puffed them up a bit. Kyan Douglas has been accused of the same. Angelina Joulie, I can't spell her name, but I know it's collagen- ha, that ryhmes... Collagen grosses me out. It equates to pornography- trash-fabulous "actors" making their living in the forbidden arts... It's all too trashy for me, to be honest. I've had my views of pornography, and the truth is, I have no heart for the things that are uncontrollable. Maybe that "looks" good, but it won't "look" good when that person is 70- a painful truth. My fetish is what makes a person who they are. I like to know what makes them laugh, what makes them cry. How do they view life, and how will they approach death. What is most important to them, and what can never be taken away. Why is this individual who he or she is?... My lips don't seek what is fake.
No, my lips are not forever caught with their ends up-turned. I am not forever in a smile. My lips refuse to live in the painful contortions of an unnatural state of being. "A smiling face is a happy face." Fuck that. My face doesn't need to be smiling all the time to be happy. What retard thought up that crap? If I could find him, I'd staple his cheeks taunt- force a smile on his face. In fact, who said you have to be happy. You know, sometimes I don't want to be fucking happy, damn it! So, leave me the fuck alone, you jack off!... Who's offened? I know I just offended myself.... Boy, that makes me fucking unhappy... My lips are currently frowning.
No, my lips don't cuss. Who decide to change the pop-phrase-ology and replace the word cuss with the word curse? Did cuss sound too harsh? It should sound harsh, it's talking about harsh language. "I cussed" sounds much less pretty or hip then saying, "I cursed." Shouldn't it though? I'm going to resign to the more dutchy-version... "cuss!" yeah. They don't cuss, or curse... but unfortunately, my lips have often been found full of lies.
My lips have danced... They waivered in an "almost thought" with something that couldn't but should've been said. They sit in brief pauses, waiting for inaudible music to hit the beat where movement begins. When the musical markings are struck, my lips take off. A cultivated stretch- practiced in the mirror. They move eloquently with the rhythm of conversation, with the blunt exclamations and soft remarks. My lips strut across the floor, fall into a split. They accomplish what legs would never dream of. And that is a very sad thing. The dream of my legs is squashed beneath my lips grande movements. My legs are slowly losing hope, they are forgetting how to stand, much less, how to extend and jump. My legs, honestly, are losing balance. They are continually falling... and my lips keep dancing. They do not care. But little do my lips realize that their dance could not be held up without the quiet strength of my legs... The dance of my lips is quieted when it breaks the dreams and hopes of those less eloquent.
My lips hate vomit. The eruption bursting forth from my inner intestines. Striking immediately from bow low depths to uvula heights- and then pushing through. Splashing all that is around it. My lips hate vomit. The taste on the back of my lips is disgusting. It makes them want to vomit. My lips have refined tastes. Once my lips were rich. They infact lived in Hollywood, California. As wealthy as a movie star (but not one, as we've already established). The lounged about on lawn chairs, spread around a pool... They crisped in the sun until they became two overdone sausage links... crispy and black. Charred. Wealth made them disgusting. As disgusting as vomit. So, my lips gave it all up. Gave it all up and moved here. I haven't vomited since I was in elementary school. My lips haven't much lounged since then either. Maybe to avoid the grotesque, you have to get up off your butt and do something... My lips are learning to not take things for granted.
My lips were never in the circus. Bravo can never play and old movies of their Cirque du Soliel performance... becaue there never was one. But my lips thought about it. My lips could edge across a tight rope. Slowly pullin one to another, twisting- balance! Don't fall. Slight Elvis flex. Balance! Balance! Turn around. Purse! Jump! Slide. And my lips dismount! Hoo-Rah! Yeah... My lips could tight rope walk. And they could probably do an acrobatic act. Turning over themselves. Moving in an uncommon way. OR, they could do the trapeze. Oh, my lips would love to fly. That would just be incredible... soaring through the air. My lips would love to fly in real life. Just, up and away; like Superman or Mighty Mouse. But my lips realize they can't fly... My lips are bound to reality.
My lips have been found in the transaction of unspeakable information. GOSSIP... I mean (gossip). Oh, suspicious eyes, slightly flicked to one side- harder to the other side.. then dead on to an expecting face. Mouths water, juicey tid bits about to fall out. Mmmmm. Succulent pieces of truth kept from those of us who deserve to know... You want to know... You need to know... I know... Want to know?... "I could tell you," my lips hardly whisper in a tone that peaks all interest. They curve, rounding, and a warm breath begins to move through. From deep in the lungs, words begins to be spoken. The dew on my lips' breath... But someone walks in! The confidence must break, the secret is on hold. Fear and compulsion, confusion and shame. A quiet face, an innocent gesture, my face is not guilty. My lips have not sinned... but it's true. My lips have sinned.
My lips have felt other lips. My lips slowly held out it hand. A little afraid, they reached across the other lips. Spreading an open hand across a moist and soft terraine. Feeling around. With some apprehension, they purse and draw together. Unsure, lips embraced. You can almost feel your soul swoon inside your chest. Falling, somewhere between your ribs and you pancreas, or maybe lower. There is a near electricity that sparks beneath the lower lips. The upper lips rippling like water overflowing a resevoir. Everything leaving through a port of two lips, I am emptied... My lips have emptied the contents of my soul in a single moment... and lived to tell about it.
My lips have gone away. They are gone. They no longer make funny poses in the mirror as I strive to get ready in the morning. They no longer spend too much time enjoying a lunch that I'm trying to quickly get finished. They no longer make annoying speeches, nagging other to return a favour of speech. No communicating. They no longer run through meadows. They no longer dance under waterfalls. They no longer climb mountains just to see the view from the top. They don't fucking do anything. My lips are gone. And I don't know what to do. I can not speak. I can not sing. I can not give myself to the rest of the world, for my expression is gone, my lips have ceased. And I am alone, because I am missing part of myself. My lips.
When will my lips return? I love my two wonderful lips, and nobody else's lips will do. When will I be able to speak? Now, I will speak, for I know the importance of my lips. I see what quiet fear can keep from existing. The blessing and the curses, neither of which my mouth would ever speak. My lips kept closed. I had them, I knew what they could do- they infact did it at times.. But not enough. I did not open my mouth enough. I did not speak all the times I should have. I was so caught up in the stupid thing my lips were and were not that I forgot to simply use them... that was my abuse... and now they are gone.
I love my two lips... will they ever return?
JP Quay, 6-11-04
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It stood in a holy graveyard
It stood at the back of the sanctuary... It looked at the alter on the other end. So far away. It looked to both sides... Saw nothing on the right... Saw nothing on the left. It saw no one out of their seats- and though the pews were full, they all seemed as if dead to it. There was no movement. There was no dancing. There was no celebrating. It had heard the random quotations, "God is dead." It considered that might be the case as it viewed the holy graveyard.
The sanctuary smelt of decay. Rotting carcasses. It was disgusted- it wanted no part of this revulting scene. It watched as others came in, the very few that entered at lengthy intervals. They seemed confused, lost... misdirected, misguided few. Suddenly It would see a corpse stand to it's feet. This corpse would raise it's putrid arm, and point a finger of a bone through it's hand at the wary victim who had wandered into this holy graveyard. In a rhaspy scream that howled from the corpse's gut, it would refrain, "Siiiiiinnnnnnnnnnneeeerrrr." At this alarm the other corpses would suddenly come to life. They would all point out their decomposing fingers at the victim, and join in the screams of the first... until the entire holy graveyard became a heated chorus, vigorously condemning.
Most of the victims would soon leave. He would shy away, slowly backing back out the doors through which he had come; or he would run screaming, thinking the mass a cult of condemning crazies. Some would return shouts in the anger of unacceptance; while others would simply walk away, having every reason to forget any reason for returning.
But then there were the worst... Those who sat there and cried. They just fell to the ground and cried, acknowledging without doubt that the accusations were true. These suddenly knew the worst grief of life, but the corpses offered no hope, only the obvious verdict. So, the balling victim would take a seat in the holy sanctuary. And the victim would cry for years. Eventually the victim would grow tired of crying, and begin to blame the world he had come from. In anger and revulsion of the former world the vicitm soon gained his piety- and he would gleefully decay to a point of immobility, saving all strength for the following victims. With all hopes it could gain company for his misery, it would proudly sit still, in it's dead war pose.
The corpses were always quick to return to their seats after the condemnation ceremonies. They would slowly fall back to their contorted postitions in their hardened pews. Whether the victims stayed or ran, the corpses had done their duty, they had defended truth with everything left in them.
It watched many of these ceremonies at the holy graveyard. It did not know quite what to make of it all. So, It stood at the back of the sactuary, at the very end of the center aisle, holding down vomit and considering this thing called, "Christianity." It hated the corpses. It hated their ways, their acts, their hatred. It even hated the building in which It now stood... But, It had not experienced anything much better outside of the holy graveyard. It seemed death thrived in all places... So, It would wait just a moment longer, It's questions not yet answered.
After a long time of waiting, It suddenly noticed something on the other end of the center aisle. There was a corpse standing on the pulpit, droning on... chanting words out of an old book. It was bible. Nothing about Grim Reeper appealed to It, the reverend said nothing that behooved It... But It noticed something strange about the bible He held. It was dripping blood.
On the alter, just under where the greatest of these corpses spoke, was a pool of blood. Blood or such a tremendously bright redness that it hurt It's eyes. It was scary, but had an incredible draw... and the blood beckoned that It come closer, with a hauntingly inaudible song...
It didn't understand much of anything, but It understood this one thing. There was an appeal to this blood that no other thing in this world offered... It seemed alive... And It wanted that with everything inside... It dropped all caution to the wind, It ran to the alter.
Pound.
Pound.
It's steps were heavy and forceful. An all out sprint.
Heaving and wasted, It reached the alter. Where It fell to it's knees in the blood... It collapsed completely.
...
...
After a long and difficult silence, It gave in. "I am a sinner." (The corpses stood and cheered, but It did not notice.) The blood lept up at him. Spindles and legs, arms and tentacles of blood streamed out from the puddle and grasped ahold of It. The blood pulled It in, and then plunged into It's mouth, It's eyes. The blood filled It to full. And then the blood hammered through the hardness of It's heart, and broke it. Shattered pieces of the old slowly faded away. And something entered it's heart.
A voice calmy whispered within It, "This is my blood, it has sanctified you. I see you know more as a sinner, but you are now as one of my children. You are forgiven all debts. For they are paid on this my blood. The blood of Christ."
It suddenly beamed. Completely whole, It finally felt alive.
The corpses did not understand this. They hardly cared. They were content in their death, assured their seats on the pews saved them their seats in a heavenly court. Their holy graveyard was enough to suffice- life was not about living, it was about impending doom. Sinners, all are sinners.
The corpses had stopped short, but It had heard the end of the message. It understood that, "yes, all are sinners, but salvation is in the grace of Christ."
The corpses never listened to It's refrain... And they rotted in death until they died. But it was not there to see, for it left the holy graveyard for a garden of those who had heard the rest of the call.
Those in the garden were frames of fire. And they marched in rejoice, dancing in the garden, and then out to the fields. They harvested until their death, with a new refrain, "Come, all who are thirsty." Their aroma simply the praise of their God... and it was beautiful.
It eventually died- after living a life full of life... now It worries no more about gardens or graveyards, or the fields that surround them... Now It worries only of feeling the never ending embrace of the God whose blood had taken his life and made it what it was always meant to be.
The graveyards still exist.
The fields are still overflowing.
But...
The blood still has power.
JP Quay, 6-24-04
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I solemnly stood there
I solemnly stood on that protruding surface of false land that swayed above the running waters below. A terrifying sight, a rolling fountain, a writhing waterfall pelting water at water. There is a song out here, on this half bridge, this landing, this selfish port. Cars in the distance, humming a melodic tune of go's and stop's, vibrating engines hardly heard. The harsh undertow, the moving liquid mass- a pouring noise, a contained power. The water gives a humble explosion held out for all eternity, a constantly strummed harp or a trombone note almost jazz. Here is where I stood.
A bird flew about my head. It let out a dancing sound, and it's breath danced upon my shoulders. Backlit by a dimming sky. Initially melancholy, it will suddenly burst into new perceptions, a mellow a joy and a calm reverance. A light that's hard to see, but that spreads over everything. There is a rainforest glow or maybe just a glowing fog swirling around this river-side spot with a wild leaping waterfall.
My eyes ache... ache with the beauty that is never seen.
The beauty that cries out for audience. Singing of it's God. An orchestrater and an artist- the painter of lights and atmosphere. It screams in it's loudest voice, "Yaweh.".. but no one hears the near silent whisper of a calm and melancholy day. The ignore the brush strokes, and the pretty fish faces rolling down the way. A rolling water, hardly refracting light- in the ominious break prior to a gentle rain. This day gives all it can, for even just one to hear the beauty of it's creator. It sings a drumbeat into your heart and pounds steps upon your weary feet.
The day speaks, "Hold my hand, for it will lift yours to the heavens." So I do, and my spirit jumps to my throat. I start crying in an awesome terror. It is beautiful. Painful. And I'm surrounded by the glory of God, surrounded by His very presence. How could I not have known? How could I have missed this- His face right before mine. A welcoming smile, forever hugging my cheeks. My tears burn with my ignorance and I can but smile and cry.
JP Quay, 9-14-04
