word made flesh

word made flesh, the intangible promise
held in flimsy, slippery flesh
fetched by human fleshy hands

like (yet not) an author's unshapable story
pressed, bound and sewn together,
decaying vessel for an infinite artifact

many metaphors to describe the gift,
fashioned by the author and finisher Himself,
divinely spoken to the saints, for us

word that is seed, tiny vessel of hope
grown, scattered and sown forever
though it fall on thorny soil

light that shines through sight unseen,
now opened and shown altogether,
obscured, as it were, but ailve

contained in plain truth of a backalley birth
(swift moment of transformation)
delivered for our deliverence

Here's looking at you, kid

I was looking at myself in the bathroom mirror (recounting this as if a voyeur unto myself), gazing and searching intently. It occurred to me that I could make myself uncomfortable. Close, very close to the mirror, I held my face and examined, realizing that I could not truly see inside myself (or rather into that strange figure looking back). I could only focus on individual spots. In other words, I was unable to look upon the whole, unable to find that nonexistent, godlike point of access that brought everything before and everything to be into view, into understanding. As in film, I used my vision like cinematography, cutting quickly here and there at random locations on the reflection of my face. Bam! Bam! Bam! I could see a silent eye at different grotesque angles. It was mere seconds, then a jarring moment of pure fear. I don’t recall if I had looked straight on or not, but I backed away and invoked the Holy Spirit to comfort me.

I have kept it dim and silent in here. I keep looking over and noticing that my kitchen cupboards are open. It is the aspect of their exposure that I must find sickly compelling, like someone has intentionally left them wide open for my notice (it was that man behind the mirror).

This was written 9/18/06.