Why have coffee past seven? Because it makes you crazy.

Because if I said all the things that there seem to be going on in my heart at any given time, I'd always be in tears. Because I think and think and think on my thoughts and why I think certain things and how and why certain things effect me and I think until my mind is racing. But sometimes it stops. Sometimes there are brief moments of clarity and I think that there is a purpose to all of the thinking.
Something about loving everyone.
Something about being open to everyone.
Something about being honest about my faults.
Something about being gracious with myself and my apparent special needs.
Something about not being quiet about the unique way I work.
About not being ashamed.
Something about that light flickering inside me.
Something about the big thing that is happening from the outside of the now institutionalized church.
Something about taking away its' glory.
Something about the hostility it breeds when it fails to meet the physical needs of the needy.
The emotional needs of the cast outs.
Something about the fault of ignoring the arts.
Something about love.
Something about honesty.
Something about the travesty that is being a beacon of light and a pillar of righteousness when one is a leader in the church.
Something about being above the falling.
Something about ignoring the frailty of the faulty human chosen to have His loved poured out in a clay vessel.
Something about failing to be quiet to listen.
To Him.
To others.
Something about respect.
Something about the failure of stewardship over this place we live.
Something about quiet.
Something about being broken for others.
Something about me not being able to be broken for others.
Something about being light.
Something about regaining the freedom once again that He gave so lavishly through the cross.
Something about something bigger than the smallness of one persons' vision.
Something about being so very human.
Something about respecting the writings of other very human humans.
Something about finding myself.
And finding that I am small.
Finding that I am silly.
So so silly.
Some thinking on the things men and women in power ignorantly spoke to quench who my small little me was.
Some thinking on the poison I spewed on others when I refused to think for myself.
Thinking on the irony of education and my lack.
Thinking on quiet.
The failed art of conversation.
The failed beauty of sitting alone.
Of listening for still small voice.
Of the travesty of strain man's vision can place on sacrament of marriage.
On the bullheaded foolishness loneliness sins to.
On how I have limits in my humanity.
On how the past is alive all at once with the present all too often in my reminiscences.
On how a perfect life, perfect marriage, perfect wisdom don't exist.
They are lies.
On contentment without bitterness.
And the peace through patience.
Something about being honest creating a usable clay vessel.
Vessel to be filled to be used, cracked, and broken and usedcrackedandbroken.
Broken often.
Often to be sorry and to wrought change.
Honesty the conduit to change.
Changing struggles to honesty to freedom from poison laced truth.
That I'd not be a poison.
That I'd not be a wall.
That I'd not be a soldier, but a listener and lover.
A talker only respectfully, but on the page as free bold vagabond.
On page fighting past fear.
On page free to free boisterous and please-be-quiet-you-talk-too-much carefree silly child again free again thinking in quiet me.
If only in incomplete fleeting doughy in the middle not finished hot dishes of fragments of thoughts.

thump say speak. I speak, says the one. mini-mex muse revealing tex-mex itty bitty one.

making the change
breaking away
friend, my fear
so near
push away all hope of smiles
all the promise of the not yet known
and what we don't know
don't know what the repercussions will be
just we'll wait and see
and the yelling and they get so mad
wonder where they get that from
and the love that's so deep they weep and weep
their joy overflows into crinkled eyes
the joy of the ice cream man's jingle
the mad rush for the money hard earned
just a vacation
just a vacation
for the rest of their childhood


dear friend eclipsed by sweet smiling eyes



never going back to the semi-cultish house of worship contained in the sacrifice of the few for themselves
-careful not to offend the little
but their thing is offensive to me
offensive to that thick book I still thickly read
and all of those platitudes
those commandments we all sometimes dread
and read
and read
and read
magic thick book spoke life once upon a time
spoke direction in the truth it yelled at me
the message it taught to me
then the shifting of the meaning and the shadow of the one man's vision and his calling
and breaking away
though years have past
is still thickly stuck to the small hairs
is still twisted captor seeking to please that one man's vision
vision
singing be thou my vision
and raising ebenezer
and the last of the last and the fallen in the past
and then there is all of the sentimentality of the teenage youth group hanging on to me and pulling me deeper into the man's vision and the truth wrapped up in the warped and the managing of all of the hurt and the pain and the hurt and the fighting with the mom-child and the wanting to be better
to be better at the thick book reading
the thick book studying
and the long simple prayers admired-er
off to the oasis in the desert to sit and reflect and dig deeper and deeper
and there was refuge there
and there was calm there
and there was camaraderie there
and mission there
and understanding there

but past the busted hopes of being a part of magical all-is-virtuous-of-this-vision-most-magical
flat topper wasn't key to living out thick book
thick book
and churchy organism took
and took
and took

and readjusted sad smiles fell swiftly through the cracks
and meetings turned to meaning
and holding onto sacred life
when talking and listening was of the utmost importance
and though it always felt like the faith was out of reach, same struggled smiles held my smallness close in
and it grew
and it grew
and the laughter healed the misunderstood mismanaged healing mexi-mini me
and they held me up and I helped them up
then I left
I left
to alone and aloof and the pretty blooming trees
to box house living and just the one red friend

and I thrived
and thrived
and guiltily thrived
what of when questions breed more questions
and searching into that mini-mex proves unending
and the secular bad'man institution was a refuge to breathe
sanity in smiling faces
normalcy to pour into semi-cultish slash wounds
and of the three little ones who are thriving
and smiling
and smiling
and smiling
and of the tiny one born in the away place
the alone place
the lone red hand to hold in forceful agony
that victorious calm
to see tiny face held in swollen arms
mexi-tiny strength displayed
that questions unanswered and pains inexplicable
could maybe
not be the keeping to be tiny
the odd fitting could possibly be that perfect fitting smallish one to smile crinkle eyes alight
and tapping keys on cheap keyboard could be key to tapping small tex-mex perspective
that perplexive
long time in coming
tapped out voice
in conclusion of
those years in mom-child's care
those years in semi-cultish incompatibility
those years with the lone red sounding board
confusing one sided long thought out perspective
voiced perspective

old friend fear of rejection
push the publish
push the publish

quiet palpitating beat of the heart

quiet

for to listen to the rejection and the criticism of those thoughts and the things that they will question when to me they seem so plain and the talk of the past and the pressure that it breeds
that the satisfaction of this fallen one will be clean
and clean
and clean
and clean

because you were always mean
because you were always different
you were always just a little bit off
but that little one
that quiet face
you don't have a quiet voice, now do you

share the thing
share the thing

still your self
settle in
and the open
and the vulnerable
begets being heard
that in fear

that those impressions that wrecked small frame could soothe those stinging
in a smallish way

share and no

scared for the sympathy
sad empathy

to the single college kids causing me to doubt the value of my large family so young:

now 31
racing past the prime



and who taught and modeled the right way to be adult?
and who taught and modeled the drive to be more than you were?




And now these prizes
people past able to be value placed
these people fill cramped living spaces with their coughs and laughs and boogers and jokes

with their smiles with snaggle teeth and hearts full to burst with ability
to love
to grow
to develop all genetics passed down to them


now too big to be so small
too tall to crawl into lap
too heavy to tackle

associates
bachelors
masters
doctorate


tiny broken full heart
your full mexican american heart to love
to heal now that lost simplicity of childhood
sensitive to small
too quick to figure out
not willing to conform to now any mold
now too bold
these to comfort
not papers to type
not goals to achieve
loans to pay
dorms in which to stay
now piles of bills to pay
every day
my treasure now hidden in four small beating hearts

and that is enough
yes
that is enough

Just for me

If I just wanted to write
And I wrote what I wanted
Would the readers want what I wrote?

If the pen penned the verse
And the screen mirrored terse
Would it free us indebted serfs?

Would words stir the fallout
And the hearts voice curt curses
If voice was given to mind?

If sweaty palms and palpitating
Beat not fingers to retreat
But fought to shape taboo to display
And give voice to shaky beliefs
Would conscience sigh relief
However brief
If writing were just for me?