Silence and Sirens: A Slant Rhyme

Poetry is sensory. I pull phrases together from what I feel, what I imagine those around me feel. I pull phrases from what I wish I knew how to feel. Curiously enough, sensory overload represses the phrases and pulls me only to feel.

I'm not sure why I thought that a divine calling required a skill. Or why I thought senses to be overrated; I wished they would fall away, pave the way--get out the way!--of the truth. I expected the truth to end profoundly, to comfort me, to push me, to call me to thrive. I expected a truth to list the steps to discovering truth. And no, I didn't/still don't care that truth is objective, subjective, vague, and up to interpretation. Its ability to be interpreted is only your interpretation of it.

Sorry. I sound like a philosopher.

What I'm getting at is a discovery. I discovered, while pushing to listen past the sirens for something profound, something supernatural to guide my feet, that the sirens are profound. My ability to pull them apart from each other, to try and transform them, X-men style, into the sound of falling rain, is a calling in itself. I am called as a follower of Jesus Christ, submerged in the center of the world, to sense.

Because, friends, those who say (while I see what they're getting at) "love is senseless..." are choosing to take love's kaleidoscope and peer through a single facet. I'm striving to go beyond the direct, past the peripheral. The warrior I am for Christ sees supernaturally, and I realize now that while writing about what I see naturally--and sometimes supernaturally--brings what I see as my God-given influence to those around me, I can't prioritize it over simply soaking in what God puts in front of me. Poetry is sensory, love is sensory, God is love. Love is good. God is good!

We good?

Hibye

3 days left. That's not a ton of days.

I'm excited to write posts featuring pictures of New York City that didn't involve Google Image searches.

I'm moving into the middle one. :)

Good Riddance

Okay here's the deal. It's not that I was ever in denial about how fast time goes by. I just didn't like to hear people who felt they knew better tell me that that is the case.

Now it's all I can do to stop myself from shouting to children waiting at bus stops: YOU DON'T CARE NOW, BUT YOU'LL NEVER GET THIS TIME BACK! DON'T WASTE IT!

This is how I feel: :(( :O :D :/ :* :?@#$^!($@)#%$($%(@ughhhhh

I don't know what time I wasted, but it had to have been somewhere. I rely on time's consistency, but good riddance, folks. Why do last weeks in town fly as swiftly as lunch breaks?

And you know, I don't expect this to be the most intense transition I will make. It's the first wave of depressedexcitement, and I'm holding on for dear life. Dear, dear life.

W 34th St, New York, NY, 10001

Hi there! Sorry I've been MIA. I work a lot and I sleep a lot and I think a lot about how I have to pack no more than one fits in one third of a 500 square foot apartment. I leave for New York City two weeks from yesterday, but hey. Blogs are interstates of their own. Information interstates. Oooooh.

For the readers who don't know, I'm going to The King's College in Manhattan. Wikipedia it; the article's nice :)

I promise I will semi-regularly enter my thoughts in this forum. I might even start a new one about Starbucks work experiences. What do you think?

Peace,

lucy

Supraconscious

summer means love and falling in love while being in love, love, and wondering which way the love falls. lower case letters and mix CDs, Julie's 80s Mix in the drive thru trash, a stack of cassettes tattooed on a hip. the empire state building, ESB to you, drawn smaller than life up the bones where you breathe. JET, LCD, ESB, ATL, NYC, life is so acronymical. sound out each letter, baby Lucy, C-A-T. don't say the whole word, blue collar worker, you'll run out of time. syllables correlate with inefficiency, Mr., you'd best spit it out. they'll know what you mean.

what do you mean? to whom do you trust your future? your safety, your security blanket, your excursion into post-curfew hours, your Excursion in the fast lane. Life in the Fast Lane? move over, Sparky. my radar detector detects no such thing. no lights, no sirens. no brakes, no fakes. the only siren I know boasts a cup of Anniversary Blend, spins around a lightning rod, spins around my 401K. and 401 K to go before you sleep. and 401 K to go before you sleep.

take a deep breath in, out. in, out. see? piece of cake. it heals in time. the number one rule?

exactly! I see you've been paying attention.

Edges

Earlier than the sun she wakes to his elbow between her ribs. His edges sleepwalk like her mind--panic attacks manifest only in recurring nightmares. Dry eyes scan the ceiling, forbidding a glance at the bedside table. She overrides their conviction and observes a clock's top right corner enclosed by two black arrows. She appreciates his shape rising and falling next to her but no longer craves it. If only, she muses, everything were as concrete as time.

Inclement

single-passenger umbrellas fill the streets as rain does,
grates absorbing the storm and filth,
sleeves absorbing the weight.
it's not moisture they fight, but gravity
willing the clouds instead to swell
gray, full, stoic
as though with the silent
pride and thick
ambition
city dreams require.
'Be nice to everyone, for each fights a battle'
or something like that.
cabs carry two
one driving, one paying
yet tonight
as one
we battle the rain.