lyrical scales of aortic tales' blog

Clean

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Mon, 02 May 2011 05:58:44 +0000

They sit, quietly

the twelve and their master

eating their meal with dirty feet and sober hearts.

They sit with eyes averted, each desiring to wash the Master’s feet

but not their brother’s.

Each thinking: I am not the least of these,

I am not the least.

He rises from his comfort,

laying aside His covering, for them

while Angels long to robe him in royalty.

He ties a towel around his waist

that he might dry their feet,

that he might take on the appearance of the least of these –

redefining greatness.

He pours out water, He pours out himself.

The one who has all things in His hands

picks up their feet –

He cleanses them

as His Father does.

One protests, veiling his pride with humility

“not me, Lord, not my feet”

But he must be cleansed by Him

To be made whole

To be made right

They sit, quietly,

The twelve and their master

eating their meal with clean feet and sober hearts.

They sit with eyes averted, each baffled and embarrassed,

for the greatest among them just made himself the least.

He answers: wash their feet as I have washed yours.

They feel His call,

They will soon understand His love.

He loves them with His words,

He loves them with His life,

He calls them to follow

They will remember this night.

Wayward Man

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Sun, 13 Feb 2011 08:15:41 +0000

i’ve kept you in my pocket
with a toothbrush and a tone
your joints pulled out of socket
what a tangled mess of bone

but we are we
and she is she
an undertaker thief

your mouth explodes with lovers
a four and twenty count
i float above and hover
by a lace you pull me down

but we are we
and she is she
an undertaker thief

the days grow short
the nights get tall
our swollen eyes can’t lie
with bone-dry souls
you have to ask
how we even stay alive

still we are we
and she is she
the undertaker thief

whiskey

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 07:06:17 +0000

in the brick hole,

dark and thick,

you croon a sweet melody.

your voice catches at all the right places;

words to break the heart of mankind.

but no one hears them,

tastes them,

feels them.

they busy themselves with empty talk,

lustful touches.

bodies tangle,

twine in foreign ways

not meant for standing.

heated whispers and jealous glances

exchanged between friends.

boys and rum.

your fingers callous

with each strum.

your voice grows coarse,

thick as stone

when you wail about her leaving.

the girls pray you’ll sing that way

when she walks into the night.

but they can’t catch your eye,

or their breath.

so they tousle another man’s hair

to get a drink,

to fill the space

that’s left.

words slur through lipstick smears,

their voices cannot keep up with yours.

each song brings life to those

who play with death.

love

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Sun, 22 Aug 2010 07:00:07 +0000

24E

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 02:02:35 +0000

I loved to fly when I was a child. People hurrying to and from destinations, carrying baggage and babies. Meeting your temporary neighbors in the seats next to you. Soaring above the cities. Everything was nice. Now, as I sit in seat 24E, wedged between two men – or boys, rather–, at 1:30 in the morning, I forgot what it’s like to love this. The guy in 24D is less than charming with his printed shirt stating that I “have the right to remain sexy…” and his droning repartee of current events. I realize he’s part of the armed forces, when he loudly comments to himself “boy, I just got powned by a boot. Never thought I’d see the day….” I assume he means the young boy grinning awkwardly in first class. I smile, then quickly pretend to be deep in my book. He says things like “here comes the seat nazi” when they ask us to prepare for take-off. He mutters “breaker breaker five nine, we need jumper cables, the engine ain’t turnin’ over… heh heh heh” while we’re waiting for permission to fly. His jokes are lost on me, and I sit quietly behind my curly hair, thanking God that it’s hiding my eyes from his. The boy in 24F is quiet, almost ghost-like. He says nothing, only stares out the window and listens to rap music. Once, he shielded his phone so that the light would not shine in my eyes. That was very thoughtful of 24F, as 24D was breathily snoring on my neck.

After three hours of shifting and sleepless dreams, the sun came up. We dipped low enough to make out the landscape of the towns below. There were grids of houses with the occasional blue spot. How often do these people swim in their pool? Do they know that people fly over their home and wonder about their pool activity? I’ve never actually seen someone swimming while I was spying on them from the airplane. I think that 24F and I were sharing the same ponderings, because he was tracing circles on the window as he peered out.

We landed in Memphis at 7:30 a.m., central time. I was greeted by a wave of humidity and boyscout troop 19. I think I’ll fly mid-day from now on.

love on the road

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 06:44:26 +0000

singleness in the game of Life

some great things come from trailers

San Marcos, Texas

the Gage Hotel: Marathon, Texas

david and bruce the goose

fun on the road

good eats on the road

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 06:23:41 +0000

Pic-N-Pac: Tyler, Texas

Joe’s Italian Grill: Tyler, Texas

Wild grapes: Austin, Texas

The B-Line: Tucson, Arizona

14

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 06:33:54 +0000

i am 14.

i have ocean blue eyes with golden rings.

i stare at the ground.

i have freckles on my nose that spread to my cheeks when the sun kisses them.

i wear pressed powder.

i have mousy brown hair that is cut at my shoulders.

i put yellow streaks through it.

i have a crooked smile and perfect teeth.

i sit alone.

i am 5 feet of insecurities.

i learn to dance in my room.

i listen to the radio.

i am friends with book characters.

i dream in the pages.

i make jokes so you’ll laugh at them.

i find my strength.

i write words so you’ll be satisfied with knowing me.

i find your weakness.

i hide inside baggy jeans and blue sweaters.

i live in a purple world.

sacred space

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 01:41:16 +0000

it is imperative to find a place of sacred space; a place to dream, to come alive, to wander through time and space. a place. my sacred space is surrounded by Keats, Dylan, Austen, Spurgeon, etc. my sacred space has a chair of moderate comfort, and a surface for writing. my sacred space has a soft glow and air that smells of yellowed paper. sometimes it’s a library, sometimes it’s a bookstore, sometimes it’s someone’s home. find a place to love and call it your own.

murmurs

lyricalscalesofaortictales — Sun, 02 May 2010 08:07:14 +0000

dark deeds so sultry and slight–

sultry and scant, scantily

wild and sullied

nevermore, nevermore, never vivid

vicariously lolly and lulled, lulled to taste

sweet heart, sweet heart, sweet heart

sweet light, fresh and fond and

dipped down, down, down

into tantalizing trios ten turn

tantric and dim, dim, dim

demolishing hand and hollow,

wayward wisp taste and treason

to take and tear

reverberating aloud, listen

and taste.