war is over, if you want it

Fly on carrion birds, for I have stopped fighting.

"Ceased fighting anyone, or anything."

Besides, who do I fight but myself? My only possible enemy is me.

Those things which so wholeheartedly offend me, violate my sensibilities--rape, torture, terror, despair--these are human things.
They frighten and shock me, because I recognize in some way, as I am human,
they too are a part of me.

And, of course, God is in these things as God is in all things--delicate and precious, terrible and sublime, Creator and Destroyer, Alpha and Omega.
Holy and wholly incomprehensible...

So I ask, "What is there to fight?" Nothing.

If there is violence or injustice, then it exists somewhere within me.

My work is to constantly surrender. Lay down arms in my silly struggle with reality. Make peace with myself.

Then may I take my ease equally in the Valley of the Shadow of Death or along the banks of the River Jordan, because I know both are my home.

Passion, beauty, and love, folks--24 hours at a time...

please release me, let me go

The Universe left me a note on Facebook day before yesterday.
A quote, centered beneath the smiling face of a boy I know.
It said, "You can't live a better past."

Later I talked to Montenegro, online, electronically.
Our tapped-out conversation went to weird places:
sexual recollections, rooms without photos, regrets...
He had none. I had a few. I don't, really. But I thought I did.

"We will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it."
To tell you the truth, I'm more afraid of what comes next. Terrified.

I prefer to hold my private inquisition of lost moments.
From scenes played over and over in my head,
I labor to extract confessions, explanations, alternatives...
But in the end it's "just another somebody done somebody wrong song."

Nostalgia is myth. The past is the past.
It is what it is. It was what it was.

And who are we next? How do we live what's coming?
Who will I find in my house when I get home?

It will be what it will be.

I cried on the phone with the man in the Creek House.
My ego accused me of failure, and I believed it--accepted the shame, the burning blame.
"That's the color you're putting on it," the man in the Creek House replied.
"There's no failure here, just change."

Change! You relentless constant, you divine vehicle. I want your leash for my own.
But instead, I should strip naked, ride you bareback through the Universe
with my hands in the air...

Then tonight, they reminded me in the Rooms
that it's what we hang onto that keeps us from freedom.
How my palms are scraped and bloody from clutching...

And I find, as the waning moon fades to black, it's time to surrender my stories.
I am no hero, and no villains block my way.
Instead, I wander through a holy hall of fun house mirrors.
Every reflection I see there--no matter how distorted and alarming--is undoubtedly my own.
Only when I close my eyes and let my feet follow the path set before me
do I have any chance of winding up where I need to be.

Which is here.
With you.
Present.
Now.

Passion, beauty, and love, folks--24 hours at a time...


image: Crawford Barton