What kind
Of God
Makes a world
Like this
Lost in the dark?

How’s it
Good news
That we’re all
Born damned
Right from the start?

I tried escaping
I quit believing
And left Him behind

Freed from His judgment
Who could condemn us
Or cast us aside?

But in that light
I stood in the silence
And found that the darkness
Was growing inside

What kind
Of father
Offers up
His son
For his enemies?

How is
It right
That He just
Forgives
Such awful things?

I tried explaining
Because I still want to live in
A world full of grace
But who gets acquitted
When all men are felons
And victims the same?
I just can’t say
How mercy and justice
Can still be consistent
And both have their way

 

Sometimes the truth

Feels more like a person

And maybe I'd love you

If we ever met.

God if You hear me
I’m giving up now
Because I’m out of answers
And I've got nothing else
If You come to visit
I’d sit and listen
I won’t disagree You
Can speak for Yourself

Just speak to me!

A rat done bit my sister Nell.

      Whitey’s  on the moon

Her face and arms began to swell.

     Whitey's on the moon

 

I can't pay no doctor bill.

     but Whitey's on the moon

 

Ten years from now I'll be paying still.
     while Whitey's on the moon

 

The man just upped my rent last night.
     'cause Whitey's on the moon

No hot water, no toilets, no lights.
     but Whitey's on the moon

 

I wonder why he's upping me?
     'cause Whitey's on the moon?

I was already paying him fifty a week.

Taxes taking my whole damn check,
Junkies making me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is going up,
And as if all that shit wasn't enough

     Whitey’s on the moon

 

A rat done bit my sister Nell.
     Whitey’s on the moon

Her face and arm began to swell.
     but Whitey's on the moon

 

Was all that money I made last year
     for Whitey on the moon?

How come there ain't no money here?
     hm! Whitey's on the moon

Y'know I just about had my fill
     of Whitey on the moon

I think I'll send these doctor bills,
     airmail special to Whitey on the moon

 

                                              Gil Scott-Heron

Punctured bicycle, rusts in the slough of despond
Sign posts he made famous are now misaligned
They’re better left laying where they lie
But who will replace the stars in our eyes?
When Morrissey finally dies

When I was kid, he made a brave sound
But when we both grew old, he seemed so alone
“Well-read”, I suppose, is how he would like to be known
But what I want to know is will three words on a headstone suffice?
When Morrissey finally dies

He was healthier than he ever let on// But in the end his body let him down, Oh!
His sickness was one of the heart// The legend of the young man gone soft
Who will now rearrange the furniture?
He backed his way into the future
Was he “one with the younger ones”?
No one thought his time would ever come
When Morrissey has finally GONE!
No!

Mic stand is stable, whip crack the cable
The songbird of Man-city,
young blue eyes
When Morrissey finally dies...

Clock on the wall, [the] hour’s come ‘round
Cummings, Stevens, Williams, and Pound
I wear black on the outside: it’s my vocation
When his time comes, I’ll pray for his salvation
When Morrissey finally dies
When Morrissey Finally dies
When Steven [Patrick] Morrissey finally dies

ABSTRACT: The author (James Bozeman) explores the relationship between his own life and that of Steven Patrick Morrissey, famed singer for the band The Smiths and of a similarly illustrious solo career. The author explores the liminal space between life and death, between singer and fan, and observes his own potential for grief in the face of an intangible loss. The author interweaves the mystical (prayer) with the practical (the lives of both singer and fan) in the effort to set down a future-as-now narrative. Pain and joy are offered as the potential result of the working out of these converse planes.

I was a scoundrel till I met You, a truth that I often forget. Hands still

crimson from my secrets, the nights You have pardoned, laid to rest. Those

days of slumber, walking aimless like a shaking silhouette. I can recall

them back to memory but I would rather talk of grace instead. Lips of poison,

stained with bloodguilt, the secondhand of recompense. The times I left You

in the gutter, praying to affirm my righteousness. I gathered with the grand

assembly, blended in with crooked men. You saw my heart through walls of

striving, withholding the reward of Your suffering. Yet I dare pray to You.

Now I stumble through the pages where I ought to find life in place of grief.

I can hear the sorrow in Your stories to those demanding signs but not Your

peace. What a mockery of Your Kingdom, yet You offer to the thief. If You

restore the heavy laden, could You heal me of my hypocrisy? 

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.

On those living in the land of the shadow of death, a light

has dawned. You have shattered the yoke that burdens them,

the bar across their shoulders, the rod of the oppressor.

Every warriors boot used in battle and every garment rolled

in blood will be destined for burning, will be fuel for the fire.

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given. And he will be

called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father,

Prince of Peace. Of the greatness of his rule and peace,

 

there will be no end. Isaiah 9

THE OLD MAN AT THE END OF THE HALL


the old man is still waiting at the end of the hall, near the door
dark, disapproving eyes, veins pulsating


the huge frame shadows my doorway
passivity to rage instantaneously
bearing down on my childish frame
innocence collides with anger


i am colder, jagged and out of focus


now i am grown and the old man is weak
my mind still paralyzed with fear
larger than life, his angry criticism on everyone's face
wherever i go


i cannot forgive


the anger so real, so justified
my mind aches to think of it
i fall from prayer to restless sleep


yet beyond my unforgiveness,
Christ entered the room where the old man lay weeping
Convulsively shaking before him, God rocking and soothing him


my father was as frightened as i
that pitiful old man and i cried healing tears
softening the calluses, releasing the knot bound deep in my chest


now that old man is still waiting at the end of the hall
near the door
red, tear stained eyes, lonely, regretful, misunderstood


that old man is still waiting
kneeling at the end of the hall, near the door
waiting for my love, my acceptance
and my prayers

HAPPYTOWN

everyone wants to live in Happytown
no pain. no fear. no death. no hell.
everyone wants a house with a white picket fence
no rain. no floods. no break-ins. no fire.
everyone wants a perfect little world
no war. no dictators. no bombs. no army.
every man wants a perfect woman
no blemishes. blond hair. blue eyes. nice tan.
every woman wants a perfect man
nice job. new car. good money. strong face.
but no one ever wakes up in Happytown
because it doesn't exist in this world
down here it's not so perfect
people bleed. people cry. people break down
yet everyone chases a vision
ignoring...always ignoring the Only Perfection
there is a town called Hope.
deep in the heart, ruled by a King
open to all...the door is a Son
the city is real.

steve M.