The Bird Sang
Not the caged bird
But the canary outside
On the telephone pole
Celebrating this glorious sunny day
So early in the morn.

The bird sang
It was the whistle releasing
The coal miners from the dark depths
And the soiled faces emerged
Smiling.
For life, another day, and warm meals.

The bird sang
The sad song about harsh winters
The cold child without a jacket or shoes
To tell the heartbreak to the world

The bird sang
Not really it crowed
To indicate it was more than a scavenger
Just a lonely bully
Looking for love

The bird sang
A song about ships on the sea
And the way they ebbed to and fro
About the waves of the ocean
Washing, lapping, crashing, rocking, rushing, swell

The bird sang
About the desert
How hot and dry it is
How the cactus is full of water

The bird sang
For hope
To fly in the wind currents
In the blue sky
For the sun warming its wings

The bird sang
Not the caged bird
But that living within your heart
The one ready to sore and start anew
The one waiting for tomorrow.

She shone like faith
Her glass opaque
Yet she gleamed with hope
Eyes that spoke wisdom
Walk of confidence
Determination of a child
Her hair was tangled
Face was scarred
Tattoos of pain revealed
She
had
been
worn
& trampled
Yet her head was held high
She gave and gave
Until she burned
She loved with open arms
Her freckled skin wrinkled with wear
Years
of
hard
labor
Her smile was like the first day of spring
refreshing and gleaming
A smile indicating a beautiful day
Where you look up
Feel the warmth of the sun on your face.
It was hers.

I saw a stranger.

She looked at me
& I cried.

Friends first: but there is always something in reverse… meaning a mutual understanding of… attraction. Off the wall comments lead to conversations we should have had… LOOONG AGO. Turns out I was right…. You swing for me and I throw a fight. I’m scared. And I’m smart enough to know I am playing the wrong game and that you are just filling a void as real as you claim your intentions be… You      s a a a y-      you are done with her, I say,     “yeah right, you can’t erase a history with a moments plight.” Then you find the actions to back the words to muster me some trust. I’ve never had any reason to believe you would bluff. But me… I’m still reluctant cause these things they mooove      too fast. I wonder if we’re playing each other like fast cash. Buuuut,  you seem just fine to jump the gate and cross the                friend line… becoming an immigrant in my state unknown to me… culturally. And what I think I knew... paints shades of a different you. Intimacy can reveal a lot more than what you think you’re ready for. Friends first: always leads to the best relationships or was it to a      sea wreck? Well, the games begin and honest as I am I can’t muster the courage to… jump in, because weeee            were good as friends. And shee… is still waiting to make amends. My respect for what I know of her is true, and it easy to remember being in her shoes.  You,   think of her and say so and, telling me I got green we are, good to go. It’s, always been me? But, this can only start so soon, and I do NOT have room for reservations or baggage. The wounds of a broken heart come fresh, making me feel like  a savage…   as she waits.       So, I tell you honest and let you know that, weee are not a show. That drama doesn’t come with health or games and, I’m sorry that I’m not ashamed to say… this… won’t… happen. Your love for her is evident, and of that you shouldn’t repent even if you are confused and, of this I refuse, to fill the void of hurt and       lose            a friend. You tell meee I got it wrong. That I was the one singing the song; pin point and blame me for allowing this play to remain… and, all I have is to give you up in love and tell you baby, friends first: because, you in my life is for the better and not the worst… and, I’d rather have that… then a bridge burnt. Turns out I was right.                                   Your heart belongs her. And friends…. we are no more.

I’m the girl who has brought to love you.
Showing you it exists in a mosaic of forms.
I’m the girl put in your life to show you, you’re wonderful.
Making you enlightened of another way.
I’m the girl who changes your life.
Taking your hand and guiding you through,
Challenging your thoughts and deliberation.
Reminding you to follow your dreams
To continue the unwritten path… of you.
I’m the girl helping you speak your darker depths.
Neutralizing the burn of life with cream.
Listening to things you’ve never admitted before
Appreciating the soul you bared, so earthly.
Keeping it secret and holding it true.
Opening up another door.
I will help you heal.
I will drink your cup and then fill it again,
Pushing you until you break and building you back up.
I will know you and love you for whom you are, B
e that angry, sad, outspoken, shy, etc.
I’m the girl you’ll care about immensely despite wanting to.
That sugar coated candy that fattens you up.
The scent you can’t get enough of.
I’m the girl that’s real with you,
Let you know when you’re an ass,
Giving you honest feedback, coarse and raw.
Helping you sprout and bloom into a better man.
I’m the girl you may never stop loving.
I’m the girl who will leave a wound.
When I’m gone I’ll be the wind.
Thinking that I’m was real and true.
Knowing that whatever was had, was love.
And with a remembrance of me, you’ll smile.
Reminiscing on memories that fulfill
On phases and stages that help to build.
Knowing you gained three steps and fell back one.
Glad to have loved and learned and
With nothing else, know you grew
And know, that I’m just not the girl for you.

In the mirror I see splintered eyes wasting truth that’s never spoken. Admonishing any beauty there is in trust, because… what lies beneath… is hypocrisy. Everything I loathe, removed from beautiful, never to d e f i n e ME.
Liar is stamped upon my forehead like a crest or emblem to cheat me of my own game f o o ling myself. I console others with words and voice I have NEVER felt, with the longing for beautiful, a standard, never met.

My wintered face speckled with scars from a war against acne which I lost costing me what I rightfully deserve, or so they say my s e l f esteem and confidence. With every zit to this day I shrivel into a pit of homely. However ridiculous it seems, there is still nothing gorgeous about volcanoes ready to erupt splotching your face and remnants of ash surviving on your nose in the form of blackheads. Then we have the bags of puff beneath my eyes collecting salt from all the tears I’ve cried, and my strongly defined jaw speaks, manly. My FACE is so defined that it baffles the cross be- tween Native America in my cheek bones and blonde hair blue eyed Swede, not pretty b u t different.

My flat square shaped image [circling my face with my hand] speaks desire with little lips and wears much of the “has been” /“never enough” beneath the nose in the phil- trum, it sweats of damage done reflecting from the inside out., and my innards are destruction, not far from bombing a village, colonialism, pillage, rape, or cataclysmic natural disaster. So it feels… not even a scrape or grain… of gorgeous.

The figure I walk in screams girl… undefined without a curve of woman. Except per- haps, the part that’s awkwardly disproportioned and overgrown; A symbol defining one unworthy of a name but an attribute in which helped teach me to HATE… myself. Five-two, 125 pounds, 34… double D. I would LOVE to reflect beautiful.

The lines layering my eyes impose worry, contention, survival. The crevices want to portray wisdom and lack much of what is there f e a r. The weathered spots seen above my neck are sure to remind of pain, sorrow, abandonment… and loss. Anywhere upon my surface I search for l o v e. Where is it? I’m trying hard, to read… beautiful.

Myself, I know what I think not spoke and I’m aiming to view how anyone could imagine this portrait as beautiful knowing what I know a b o u t me. It’s an abomination, because I slander revenge of witchcraft and sorcery in my head wanting to inflict guns, germs, and steel upon them. None of which works; horrible.

I’m standing in the mirror wincing at my own image, decrepit, nasty, putrid to see to see I’m surprised it doesn’t break but thankful also… it means there’s hope to find o n e speckle of beautiful. Instead I look at me and speak “never good enough,” simply U – G – L – Y [spell out in sign language]. And the mirror it doesn’t lie.

And I’m fighting to live I think?
Heeeeeeeeeeee broke me…. Trampled me…. Stomped me to the ground cracking ribs, jaw, my face empty… mostly in a metaphorical way. BUT STILL my thoughts warped like briars entangling the secret of emotion be- neath the canopy of thorns and berries and vines
beneath the shadow I hide.
Pain
Excruciating Pain
REVIVE
What I don’t because burning is so familiar and the fleshly smell scours my nostrils forcing me to acknowledge its presence alive in the way I haven’t of anything. And I’ve lost track of time long ago. And I’ve lost track of time so long ago. So I waste away each day in bed, giving up what I promised myself was respect.
Soooo I- fly into the arms of any- one who will hold me, big, small, hairy, smooth, empty, loving, ashamed, used, abused, vulnerable, pure… always the wrong ones.
Drunken
Trodden
And wasted gasps of air into unformed words to use what I have of sexuality to attract men to talk to… about nothing. And who am I kidding, I’m welcomed with illicit curiosity receiving what my body language asked, a sieve that keeps noth- ing. And I get a kiss… or 2 or 3 and myself in bed with a man just met for a second night AND… it’s nice to be held in someone’s arms.
1
2
3
BREATHE in, allow myself to walk the living dead, incapacitated by the whirlwind of what I choose, destruction to pivotal degrees but slowly I beat what’s good out and my legs bare naked run. Provoking the destined outcome I mean…. I’m told I’m sexy a word that appears like fishnet stockings frayed, so I flaunt a little nervous and disgusted by who I feel I’m NOT on the inside folding out and I no longer live for what I say and say what I become of what little I hate…. Yet nobody’s told me not to.
Masquerade in vodka fumes, half bottle in hand staggering about into work “sick”, just to fall into the mind of a different man, deleting much un- written rules that I verbalize what’s become comfortable, and confess contemplating suicide.
He listens.

Incandescent
CamouflageT
ransparent because he has been there too, loyalty, as continuous arms gather me crawling into one man’s arms while my confessions drizzle and drip into the ears of another…. Slowly… saving me…. FROM MYSELF, and his therapy of reasons stops the picking to let the scabs form and the ears contract to the mouth to share a story amidst the unveiling of mine to indicate…. There is ugliness smeared everywhere. AND HOPE. With the devil lingering beside … whispering…. Jaunt- ing… provoking.
My unworthiness is spit
Spoken
Unvaulted
Confirmed….
And somehow saves him.

All they can see is a white face,

Because those who are white don’t see me,

They don’t see the culture I be,

My high cheekbones, almond eyes, or olive skin,

Instead light hair, blue eyes, light complexion.

Don’t matter to them if I grew up surrounded with pride,

they think I use it as an excuse for a free ride.

They’re wrong for denying me and existance,

for further creating an identity crisis.

Although I look white my family taught me spirit,

and my dreams enlighten to listen and hear it.

My blood line is long and important,

because it’s been so long we’ve felt the effects of colonial garbage.

My people survive cultural genocide,

and now there language they work to revive.

And they may have beat them white,

but for our heritage we still fight.

We hold strong.

And this is where I was taught to belong.

But sadly what taught has long lasting effects,

because blood quantum leaves me as a reject.

And neglected from the traditonal raise,

of all the goods and bads of reservation ways.

My roots still have Finnish and Swede,

making me still feel like a weed.

Growing between the cracks,

Always having to stand tall and watch my back.

Protect myself from those who persistently reject,

who reaffirm that I have a defect.

Being mixed there is no win,

they always make you pick what side you stand within.

There never seems room to have two cultures,

no acceptance for the fire stoakers.

But most people of color are always asked to choose,

and it seems no matter what they always lose.

Too rich, too poor, too light, too dark,

but we have ways to recognize each other when it’s hard.

But within some groups we still don’t fit,

because half of us can go without being made tough as grit.

Half of mixed can pass as culturally west,

thinking they look and fit in like the rest.

But the world will someday let them know,

because the ignorance of America will eventually show.

And the beauty that’s seen in living dually,

will fade from the pain of abandoning.

The pain of lost and feeling alone,

this feeling reaffirmed even when you’re grown.

So the majority of us take shelter with each other,

because through understanding we feel like sisters and brothers.

inherit their wealth with their name.

CEO’s, computers, stocks,

never encountering building blocks.

They were born in 10 story flats,

no need to scrape and scrap.

Just to specifically learn their trade,

with their trust funds, they got it made.

Although note, they are very smart,

Bill Gates empire was his start.

But Koch and Walden were proceeds,

from their father’s planted seeds.

All these come at some expense,

usually third world and paid 5 cents.

Donations made to reduce taxation,

while people struggle across the nation.

Only the neccessary amounts,

to protect what they have in their accounts.

9 of 10 which are male,

women’s progress is still on a small scale.

Until we see more women in leadership,

and people of color  as an option.

Educate us, your country,

just give us a portion of your money.

Set up programs in the inner city,

make change, make kids ready.

To succeed and have hope to be anything,

what you call the “American Dream”.

Be morality, 1 percent,

because come judgement day, there’s no repentance.

When you stood in solidarity to protest, signs above your head waving your freedom of speech, you stood on behalf of many things. But mostly you stood on behalf … of silence.          You stood there evoking the message  to be quiet in the presence of injustice, standing among each other symbolizing the approval of child abuse. Telling the  91% of U.S. children sexually abused every 2 minutes that they SHOULD NOT SPEAK of this act that ROBS them of their innocence. That you would rather remain ignorant. Ignorant of the concern that this unhealthy subjectification will lead to many issues in the growing of the person, issues like making these children repeat offenders by distorting their idea of love, issues that will make them incarcerated, issues that will make them struggle through the rest of their lives, issues that create anxiety, depression, fear, guilt, anger, poor self esteem, and perhaps substance abuse. Setting them back for any sort of intimate relationship they may ever desire. Wishing that their tragedy could only just light a fire… in you to stand  for them.          And while each of these sex offenders, pedophiles gets away with what they do, not seeking help, and persevering through the silence… they average their 107 victims… children victims… children they groom and know well… children that believe they care… victims for each individual offender. So with your signs and protest you stand there implying that entertainment is more important then the safety and well being of our nations kids. You are saying that the 59%  percent of those abused as kids that end up in jail should continue, that this epidemic is irrelevant, that all the psychological problems should persist. You imply that abuse should not be resolved, that the success of the victims shouldn’t evolve, you say…. that the pain, the YEARS of pain that these people, that these families endure… DOES     NOT     MATTER. You suggest that remaining silent should allow accomplice and perpetrators to keep their gold platter. And MAYBE, just maybe, you should gather all those affected by these atrocities hear their stories and see what they think about      WHAT…. YOU … STOOD FOR.

Sources: sex offender statistics and child abuse statistics.

A reason to move on, to have some self reprieve.

What everyone has shown me, is to run away.

Because if I don’t, you will, and you’ll leave no trace.

What everyone has shown me, is to have no faith.

Relationships don’t last, don’t you move with haste.

So when something goes wrong, my mind moves to a place.

I assume you’ll lash out and go, that I’m never safe.

I’m still trying to fight, the notion that you won’t.

Look for reasons to forget me, or drive to the other coast.

Every time you find something, that bothers you I think.

No, I panic, and like a ship I sink.

Because everyone has shown me, that nothing keeps you safe.

That everyone may leave you, left with the memory of their face.

This insecurity will not stop, I’m trying hard to trust.

But this proposal has chased away, those I’ve loved so much.

My honesty won’t keep you, cause it bites and stings.

But everything I have can’t lie, so only pain it brings.

Maybe I don’t understand, reason or disagreement.

My feelings overwhelm rationalization, so with the pen I vent.

I’m anxious and want to tell you, everything I feel.

But  I fear I make no sense, that nothing seems for real.

I’m sorry that I’m hiding, but I can’t look nor see.

My cowardice can’t lift my head, to felt tragedy.

I feel I need to plead, to keep you around.

I don’t want to be lost, but want to be your found.

Someone compared the holocaust to the indigenous people of North America. I’m not mentioning the atrocities, where the border of the United States was relocated making immigrants of those who have always lived here. I’m not talking of the questioned number of millions to thousands who DIED after contact with Europeans… or those who endured slavery, rape, and pillage on behalf of colonization.

JUST YESTERDAY

In 1493 Columbus stole… all he could see. AND YESTERDAY Friendly Powhatan’s fed starving settlers at Jamestown and taught them to grow crops on land near im- possible for them to do so with their own innovations.

AND YESTERDAY

The government told the Dakotas they would… provide them food, making them travel in the cold brisk fall to await for a supply that never came. TO COME HOME TO, Germans inhabiting their homes in New Ulm, Minnesota… Where they then proceeded to burn and wage war on the village which led to the largest execution in the history of the United States where they killed the

Sioux warriors at Mankato on the order of the oh so praised Mr. Lincoln.

AND YESTERDAY

There were concentration camps at Fort Snelling.

AND YESTERDAY

The Nez Pierce fought at Little Bighorn to VICTORY in which was recognized and named after the racist Colonel killer they defeated. AND JUST YESTERDAY There was the Trail of Tears.

AND YESTERDAY

There was Wounded Knee, where the government killed an onslaught of innocent Native people. Then incarcerated a man by the name of Leonard Peltier for murder unjustly proven. AND JUST YESTERDAY Alcohol was introduced to a people whose bodies weren’t created to digest such impure toxicities.

AND YESTERDAY

There are reservations parceled up and given away, reservations that were unacknowledged and created as jail cells to keep Native people united in their impoverished state. Reservations disowned of their titles to be so.

JUST YESTERDAY

Native people marched.

YESTERDAY

The American Indian Movement arose in St Paul, Minneapolis where they demanded their civil rights. Proceeding to storm Alcatraz… marching on Washington DC… fighting for justice, and remaining yet to be acknowledged as civil rights leaders in the mainstream.

AND YESTERDAY

My grandfather relocated to the city from the reservation his grandfather founded and then assimilated as asked… to marry a Swedish farm girl and fight in a war that he WAS A MESSENGER, watching his friend lose his head before him, … remaining still invisible.

AND YESTERDAY

My father went to a Catholic reform school in order to erase the Indian in him and further alienate him from a culture that was a part of his identity.

AND YESTERDAY

My father, my uncle, my cousin, my uncle, my grandfather DIED of a disease in which 17% of Native people suffer and a… disease in which 95% of those people who containing the disease in which they

give their children, like me, a 50% chance of getting, a disease by the name of diabetes.

Thinking about Natives and the United States genocide, think of how the Government has done little to progress the people who have been here be- fore the government was instated and how little they apologize for the trea- ties they made and continue to break and think of how little the government has done to reconcile the wrongs they carry out.

AND REMEMBER

That yesterday, is our today.

Give me a resolution, don’t make me wait another day.

Give me a resolution to poverty, oppression, to the people starving everywhere,

give me a resolution, one that shows you’re actually there.

Give me a resolution that is beyond myself,

one that puts food upon the hungry’s shelf.

Give me a resolution that sees land desecration as a worthy fight,

where Native American’s can appeal their treaties and lands on behalf of religious rights.

Give me a resolution, that is past narcissistic ways

but one that serves for peace between all who pray.

Give me a resolution to the civil war and mutiny,

one that stops rape and mutilation as a war strategy.

Give me a resolution that marks terrorists of the KKK,

that begins to acknowledge the epidemic of racism in the USA.

Give me a resolution that protects the earth we dwell

that acknowledges global warming and moves people to propel.

Give me a resolution that closes their eyes to immigration from the south,

but recognize those north of the border with degrees, the south actually helps.

Give me a resolution that distributes our resources equally,

not feeding what we have to cows and cattle but ensuring the world isn’t hungry.

Give me a resolution that sincerely battles sex trafficking,

one that builds up and supports women who are panicking.

Give me a resolution that sees wrong with who we encarciarate,

the mentally ill, the black, the priorly abused, but not the Penn State.

Give me a resolution that gives the homeless a shelter to live,

laws that provide for it’s people and give opportunity to uplift.

Give me a resolution, I beg, I pray.

Give me a resolution that doesn’t just affect today.

full

half

quarter

eighth

what’s your blood?

let’s situate.

great grandma

grandpa

dad

then me

family lineage, birth certificate’s

proove to be

politics

government

tradition

preference

in some way

cultural genocide from within

full

half

quarter

eighth

pinch my skin

help to integrate

great grandma

grandpa

dad

then me

stop the oppression

and cultural hegemony

Tagged: blood quantum, hegemony, human rights, Injustice, Native American issues, poem, poems, poetry, tribal enrollment, tribal law ]]> http://korahomes.wordpress.com/2011/12/27/results-of-blood-quantum/feed/ 2 korahomes http://korahomes.wordpress.com/2011/12/23/push-pull-2/ http://korahomes.wordpress.com/2011/12/23/push-pull-2/#comments Sat, 24 Dec 2011 03:20:44 +0000 korahomes http://korahomes.wordpress.com/?p=834 ]]> There is this mechanism with wounded people, where we tend to want people to be close and trust them. But our pain keeps us from letting them do so, to keep us safe. This poem is about the pushing and pulling of relationships and vulnerability. That need to be close to someone but the fear makes you push them away. So here it is:

When I’m scared and can’t face the things I want to admit,

when I fear and unwilling to submit and believe that you care and let myself feel what you do I…

Push,

I get so close that you feel my warm breath brush your cheek and you,

hear my mouth open, pursed lips ready to speak, stutter, I…

Pull,

away from vulnerability, scared you’ll reject me because my mouth cannot comprehend what I want to say,

and I know that with every formation of a letter converted to a symphony of violins and strings to make a tone

that brings a brand new day… of healing. I…

Run,

away from my thoughts, fumbling words into gurgles to muster the adrenaline,

no… the strength, no… the courage, to sigh out my fear of exposing myself… and I…

Pull,

you back to me, cause I want you to know more, like…

I want you to want to know more… about… me…

cause my heart says you care and makes me abundantly want to share, b

ut trust is something we earn and prove,

and for so long it has beat me bumped and bruised, so I…

Push,

Just trying to know what you think, and see that you care enough

to let me open this package of explosive emotions unwritten,

cause I’ve never dealt with my walls, like China, no Berlin, tearing down,

crumbs of breaded brick dusting the ground, nails tear off your cuticles,

blooding from scratching the rubble, and my explanation is causing a stall, then I…

Pull,

You close to me and say my words are my best window into my life written down,

understandingly you take the letter your handsome hands so brown, c

ontaining everything I blindly show and don’t say, sharing my depth and feelings an array,

of colors like the rainbow… and you cry. So I…

Pull,

You in for a hug, your tears drip and I open up my vulnerability to discuss,

fireworks emerge from the dust…. that was created from the  wall you helped demolish,

and the section where my face is seen has just told you… everything silently… with my eyes.

protect our soldiers, protect them well
make them free to talk and tell
protect our soldiers after service
hold their honor and their purpose
protect our veterans, keep them safe
help them heal from their traumatic states

for those who kill in the US name
who are made to feel hellish pain
for those who fight to protect their people
who don’t feel they can kneel inside the steeple

protect our soldiers, with health care
create a budget with money to spare
protect our soldiers, with shelter
no more vets on the streets living skelter
protect our veterans, with medicine
not just for moral obligation

for those who cry with silent tears
suffering internally for numerous years
for those taught to pull the trigger
trying to heal with surmounting rigor
those defeated with trauma
wanting to relief from everyday head drama

protect our vets, from homelessness
no more 67,000 in the US
protect our soldiers, from injury
bring them home in a hurry
protect our soldiers, it’s your job
the government should not rob

for those who fight to keep you safe
care for them and provide them faith
for those who die to keep you rich
enstate laws that serve, not lynch
for those that serve with consequence and compromise
a purple heart is no civil prize

My source for the information was: wikipedia and  the washington post

IS… IT… FAIR… that after that day she began to meet up with this man, believing his soliloquies of “I love you baby” in a short span, BECAUSE… she met him just a few days ago and… she soaks these words up because she’s only 12 years old. And life is rough walking these streets because eventually she needs to make ends meet BECAUSE… this man has made her sleep with him and taught her to suck dick for money just to… be with him. And she ain’t the only one he bestows his twisted love upon, he… finds girls like this often just to use as a coupon. And leaves them in unaltered states of rags and hunger, BECAUSE… he is in a business where he takes women and throws them under to… the… lust of men in which they are fed to like disease and the amorous men who’s acknowledgement of their humanity does not concede. And these women verbally, physically, and psychologically abused, are ripped up, torn up, and used. And these women don’t know that every day, 3 women’s lives are taken away. 3 women lives die at the hand of a man, who takes his fist and lays into her because he thinks he can, and… these women live it hard, because we live in a society that does not regard, them… as worthy.

IS… IT… FAIR… that half these women are trafficked to sex, is it fair that we are so disconnected that the idea is perplexed. BECAUSE… this happens in our own homes, a few blocks a few miles a few hours
due to the if I can’t see it don’t exist syn-drome and… it happens in a city near you, where… women are brought forth without a clue, TO… sell their bodies because that’s all they have, or… sell their bodies to survive the mad-NESS of the reality they live, WHERE… if they don’t provide their flesh, hunger and pain hold them captive. And they ache with the breath of a man, breathing over their neck as they heave back and forth to the sound of a band… playing in the background of the room… trying to not think about how this man will eventually lead to her tomb, and she… learns to shut out and go to another place, and block out the actuality that she is being raped, BECAUSE… she is in a business she could not have escaped. An industry that holds her captive, and a trade that continues to be so massive. Commerce only eloquent to those who receive, the pleasure of a sexual deed. And… this is happening in Detroit, St. Paul, New York, and… SanFrancisco, and the children involved are treated like cargo. AND… most involved in sex slavery are just kids, growing up believing they have nothing to give. And… is it fair that this is right up the street? When we scarcely worry about having something to eat? And… is it fair that I can stand right here, when… this is a problem week after year… AFTER MONTH AND DECADE… and is it fair that I learned more from a film that was made? Soaking up the privilege in which I was gave. And… Is it fair that this issue hasn’t become real to me, BECAUSE… I have never met anyone who has… sold their body… just to get by and just to survive. And… that I need to hear a story live, just to understand and feel the agony inside of… how raw their situations are, when I could have no idea from afar, and couldn’t even relate to what they have put at stake… and crucified… just… to… ENDURE… just… to… EXIST… just to be… A-LIVE. IS… IT…. FAIR?!

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but it seems that words can hurt me. Words can pulverize my heart. Words can burn the minced pieces to ash. Words have broke me.

Don’t give them that power, don’t give them that power to belittle and you and make you inferior. Don’t give them that power. But hold your fist up in righteous anger and defend yourself. In the posture of a boxer, wrist locked, fingers tucked and rectangular knuckles covered by your thumb. Hold it up in womynly defense, to defend what you have left of dignity and respect. Don’t give them that power.

Respect yourself. Girl, respect yourself. Respect yourself enough to know that you will NOT return the favor, but instead you will stand proud and refuse to waiver from what strength you have left. The strength to continue to love in a fashion of Jesus, loving the poor, and the least of these, and that means… loving on him. Respect yourself girl, enough to be better than those who have mistreated you, respect yourself to believe that you are beyond what means you were told to achieve, respect yourself enough to know that you… are amazing.

Live. Live on. Live free. Live a life where you can dance with one hand waving free, live with each breathe as a precious gift, life without the shackles he locked upon you with the strewn out key. Live. Live free of the cuffs that you have broke, live free of the bounds that you have spoke, live. Live proud to have survived, with the scars as proof that you do abide. Live to know that your story, will break others free and reproduce hope. Live strong girl. Live on.

Have faith. Have faith girl. Have faith that life has its up and downs, that someday you can forget how to frown, have faith that the beautiful light with the vitamin D, that has the ability to make you happy… will be seen. Have faith girl. Have faith that life is not a game, that not everyone will use you and hurt your name, break your heart, stomp on your soul, that you are loved by short and tall. Have faith. Have faith that the children you teach will give you every glimpse of God that you will ever know, that they will make miracles out of the snow, that the little happiness’ are enough to keep you afloat. Have faith. Have faith that all things must pass. Have faith that, All things… must pass.

PS: I love you friend. Knowing you has changed Me.

brain hurts
selfish joke
sigh, yawn
put on my coat

breathe in cold air
cloud of steam
avoiding task
in a dream

empty slate
spacing out
the music plays
I scream and shout

scratch at my eyes
I can’t think
no focusing
need a drink

pounding head
this room reeks
grit my teeth
traffic’s at its peak

tapping my pen
clicking my tongue
lights are off
paining my lungs

blank page
vacant stare
tv’s still on
I just don’t care

he was always used as a decoy.

Not just by his dad,

but mom too hit him when she was mad.

He went to school and tried to fit in,

but even there he couldn’t win.

Always left as the black sheep,

deprived of love he wanted to meet.

Maybe he was touched where he shouldn’t have

Maybe mom drank while in the womb when calf.

Regardless…

Daddy shows his love with a fist to her stomach

Daddy shows his love with handprints on my back.

Daddy shows his love stabbing words in my face.

Daddy show his love with some beer.

Fell in love with a woman yeah,

brought him belonging that he never had.

They made some kids,

then her life was up for bid.

She died and guilt took her place,

because it was his he thought should have been erased.

So…

Daddy shows his love with a pipe in the drawer,

Daddy shows his love screaming spit in my face

Daddy shows his love like a criminal

Daddy shows his love drinking one more beer

Job one and two an three,

excuses for the loss of every.

Sits on the couch clad nude,

stalking the house so rude.

Visual sex on the tv,

shoots his gun at the tree.

When do you think it’ll be me?

And…

Daddy shows his love with food tossed off the table

Daddy shows his love shaking me to the floor

Daddy shows his love locking us outside

Daddy shows his love sippin on beer

Screaming, shouting, he’s at it again.

When will he do something that sends him to the pin?

He is creating a living hell,

And his breathe has a rancid smell.

Bills collect to hear the phone ring,

what is the next thing he’ll bring?

Cops at the house,

his trouncing around.

Gun locked and loaded,

the window exploded.

The suitcases packed and strewn about,

too bad he won’t let us out.

Trying to move out the door,

he takes a fist to her more.

Police shine down the driveway,

I don’t want to stay.

Quickly, take the baby and run,

oh no! Here he comes with his gun.

So…

Daddy shows his love in the ways that he knows

Daddy shows his love with a gun to my head

Daddy shows his love like soldier

Daddy shows his love with another beer.

I wish there was a way to…
accurately portray,
the color, the leaves dance.

The way they promenade their rhythm of
light to dark and shadow.
Flickering hues of a color, then another,
exposing themselves wholly.

Baring complete vulnerability to see what they are,
re-birthing each season a new image,
giving you something to look forward to.

Taunting eachother in their games of tag,
grasping out towards affection,
they speak practical joy, of being.

They can be still and soak up the sun,
spread waves of laughter as the wind
tickles their belly,
the leaves teach me to live.

Their tones provide me warmth,
seeping up my nose to smell the buds
they share with the world.

They’re giving.
Dispersing the contagion
of the spirit we should all know and have.

As a choir they praise,
Singing songs of twitter, swish,
as they collaborate with the wind
their branches, creek.

They whisper wisdom,
acknowledging, sharing, showing,
beauty… I have yet to know.

I have none.

Speak.

My voice is gone.

Think.

I can’t.

My stomach is tight. Tangled in a tense mess of knots that can only be pulled from the inside out to unravel. And what I have left to feel is smothered with inability to breathe because I’m drowning. What comes out is gargles and chokes, my chest heavy but enough to muster up strength to heave and ho. Only one more bubble and a scream might evoke because that’s all I can think to do before the hot streams appear upon my cheek. If there were an image of my brain it would look like a line of jets dropped bombs upon it, chaotic confusion, everything is melted together. My feelings are warfare, I set them aside to survive. And nothing can stop what’s attacking… anxiety. Just got to let the bombs drop.

Breathe In. Breathe Out.

Breathe In. Breathe Out.

Bump.

Bump.

Bump.

Pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffhhhhhhh

Thump.

Thump.

Thump..

Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffhhhhhhhhh

Hands shaking.

Tears flaking.

Force Smile.

Move on.

I never knew I was poor. Young and naïve living a life of normalcy. Everyone I know and everything I know is an illumination of injustice, but in the eyes of the unknown its life with love, life with family, its life lived. A life without poverty is a life of luxury without necessity. A life without poverty is a life of luxury without necessity. Now, reflecting back it was so clear but always unknown until THEY told me.

They told me I was poor through the stained ripped rags brought to our doors in garbage bags donated from the local schools lost and found. The rags which were loved and worn proudly, aqua blue with a dark number 3 sporting a name not my own… Bobby. It was a shirt I wore, with thankful pride.

They told me I was poor through the schools attended— “headstart”, the symbolism of at risk kids in the projects of cities, those students they wanted to get ahead and teach to read at the age of 3. The product of a school that fed the meals not provided at home, that fed me the meals not afforded, signs hung in windows and doors green go, and red stop. Who will board the bus today? Just to enjoy the free daycare that delivered me to pre-preschool by a driver name Barbie.

They told me I was poor through the treats I bought from the store with the coupons provided for the mothers and fathers whose incomes just weren’t enough.  The exchange rate for a little something of artificial toxicity many remain to live off.

They told me I was poor through the school supplies lacked, the manipulation of conversation and trades to write something in class or the generosity of the teachers or subsidies. Yet, we always came up with enough.

They told me I was poor through the free lunch I swapped and traded like East India in order to have a taste of that sweet thing they called cold…lunch, the forbidden fruit of my kind.

They told me I was poor by shopping at goodwill and that store that sold all groceries for cheap because all of it was expired. Like spices mixed wrong concocting an errored recipe boiling over and bubbling in our bellies. The store, painting the image of rainbow as a welcome and coloring us with a little warmth in our tummy. We were still thankful.

They told me I was poor through the law suit of money used to provide warmth and food, money stolen to provide for the family through a land source owned and shared, through abuse…and all the things forgotten and lost among the debt of the phone calls we were so used to not answering and the phone calls we made fake names up to like “hello this is sherry from capital one, may I speak to your”… click. Or— “no, they don’t live here”. —and the phone calls it was so natural to ignore. The phone calls perpetuated by credit cards unpaid… accumulating interest day after day until bankrupt. The ring ring… that we picked up and clicked off… the ring ring… of hi this is. CLICK. The ring ring of she or he is not home. The ring ring of silence. The ring ring of… you will not be received. The ring ring of no money here… the ring ring of my kids are hungry. The ring ring of too many so much… you UNPLUG.

They told me I was poor through the time spent with biology, coming from a lineage of color is enough, the time allowed for library excursions, free books, time spent with anything free, the time allowed because jobs were compromised on behalf of poor business choices, that compromised lives, love, and security.

They told me I was poor through the fake peanut butter, hamburger helper, corn beef hash, hot dogs, left over’s from schools and churches, through juicy juice and concentrated grape stuff, through kool aid and frozen pizza and poor man’s hot dish where you mixed anything you had in your house to try and make it taste good and last a week of leftovers and the consumption of many meals of toast digested on the stomach of acid and water. Through rice, rice, and more rice.

They told me I was poor when I came to school and had to do everything on my own. Through a class simulation and not being able to pay for my extracurricular without scholarship, Through my household income and material goods lacked, Through my background and status… through financial aid and grants, lack of resources like a Mercedes and Lexus and a Mac or a dell. Through scrounging for textbooks and borrowing them too. By 3 jobs worked with full time classes to even glimpse to make it… ahead.

They told me I was poor through the lack of books in my house, by the sheets used as curtains, through driving 45 minutes to see the dentist if we could find a car, and never having health insurance.

And I never knew I was poor because I was              LOVED.

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************

In light of the Occupy movements I have felt very disheartened. I have little hope in change because I feel regardless if the 99% come together in the end the middle class will gain and agin forget about the working poor and impoverished that surround them. Or else the government founds a way to appease the most powerful with a voice. It has happened so many times in history (Bacon Rebellion, Ban of Marijuana, the Government Bail Outs). Many of the poor that are affected most greatly by this disparity of 1%  cannot afford the liberty to take work off to protest. Their survival depends upon their job, and let alone the idea of working their way out of their state comes at many compromises and costs. Among this I have thought of many things as this intelligent woman has brought up in light of the Occupy media at her college:http://occupywhitesupremacy.tumblr.com/. I would suggest you take a look. Thank you for taking the time to hear me out. Bless you.

Dancing in circles
spinning around
The rain comes down beside you
you fall down, gravity
a foreign hand to help again

The one I built to keep the world out
To protect oneself and retain my life upon the shelf
Forgetting that my contents could rot
My time could no longer be bought

Mouth agape, eyes wide open, hair adrift
The water consuming my body so swift
Similar to the sinking of the titanic
The green mucus mold was wreaking havoc

The scent that spread each time I spoke
The gaseous poison I tried not to invoke
Passing my time pouring into you
With every sweat drop you were easy to subdue

My honest was sincere
Despite that my conscious was never near
Wasting myself, succumbing to the lies
Resurfacing things I’ve barely survived

Haunted, conflicted, and torn apart
The words I exhaled filled your heart
Breeding emotions never there
Miscarrying judgement with a blank stare

Drink my burdens and drown my joy
Playing your strings like a puppeteers toy
Intoxicating coma, I slip into a dream
We conclude in acts of sexuality

With every motion you grow faith
But retrospectively a piece of my breaks
Stifled, gripped, choked feelings strangled
Refusing to think from every angle

Burning my flesh with you in assist
Concealing the stench with a fruited mist
The consequences blinded to thee
Coating what coffee there was with cream

The company had, fed my hunger
Poking the veins with a complacent slumber
Though I was temporarily fulfilled
What I’d become vs wanted was revealed

My actions like a canoe carried on rivers course
I came to a fork and surrendered to remorse
Streams of wisdom rushing a flow
Nuclear chaos coated in snow

All I have are more apologies
Forgiveness is short but not so for me
However torturous and cruel
Please believe… Im sorry I used you.

She aspires to be a ripple.

SHE, is afraid.

SHE, is also brave.

She has a nice smile.

She steps over every crack, but not on.

She notices and sees.

She listens.

She hears.

She belongs nowhere.

She has emotions.

She sets them free.

She has a spirit of the sun

She is bursting with passion

She watches wearily waiting for those she loves to fail

She waits to see humanity

She doesn’t believe in perfection but aspires to do 110% always

She is a dreamer, a believer

She was taught how to love

She, will survive.

As the snow clouds gather, ready to cry down tears of icy flakes to coat your neighborhoods powder… I wonder, will it be enough? Will the neglect the of the state and local governments get media and scream out anger at the frostbitten children living among the diaster strewn homes. The shelters deemed uninhabitable and never treated for fix, because it’s not just those without disaster insurance suffering it’s those who came prepared as well… and I’d like to compare. You drive along the neighborhoods and blocks and blocks of houses lie destroyed, blocks of shelters boarded and ignored, standing vacant 4 months without any reply. Why does the governments speak not? Why are the people left and forgot? It goes to show that the middle class white folks of Hugo, whose pretty houses uprooted and replaced in decent time, sure, they get a comply. And it’s interesting to see the damage is worse but yet it’s not called a natural phenomena from the Earth, no aid is supplied, and lots of people left in the cold… with no ride, left in the cold, in homeless shelters of community buildings, left in rotten house, can’t you hear them cry? The poor lower class hoods of the north, stranded deserted, no help to come forth. No help to come forth. The black communities most affected, left to fend, this is disconnected! Hugo got help, and the numbers were less… what can we make of this mess? Soon winter will come… will it be enough? Minneapolis tell me, WILL IT BE ENOUGH?

Bits of info from:http://minnesota.publicradio.org/display/web/2008/05/31/volunteers/

and: http://www.startribune.com/local/minneapolis/122437179.html?page=1&c=y

I was lying at the bottom of the tub, shower pouring down evaporating the heat that steamed through the tiny holes above me. My body positioned face down in a fetal prayer, like I was bidding the sun goodnight. I don’t know what came over me but the only thing I could think of is… how did I get here? And I know it was a single event that had stipulations and overlapping of history attached like the quills of a porcupine in the skin, but I cannot understand how an event could lead me here. I feel like a dog panting for air. It kind of makes sense and it’s like a wave of blues and purples streaming me to the future and I foresaw this long before it happened but I couldn’t stop anyway. If I did I may have caused a collision with my future, tearing away slivers of what is to be, creating and destroying a better me. And as my chapters fold to a larger number I still cannot grasp why my steps of doom to “a better self” has made me feel worse. Mostly I cannot fathom how nobody else sees what faith can do to a person, unravel you until your foundation is bitter roots, then build you up again on the same piece of land. Now, what do I do with the contamination and toxic soil I live on? The same soil polluting my water, a neccessity to my survival? And it seems as if this world is evil. That nothing is everything and everything is nothing. That our destinations will arrive back where we start, and the monotony continues. I think the question really is, who do I want to be?  For a while I lived as the tazmanian devil and nobody stopped me. My words were often gibberish, that is if I talked. Everything I touched shredded to dust and swarmed around me.  But, here I stand. I cannot say I don’t have a trail and I will not say I don’t have a cloud, but here I stand. At some point along the way I picked myself up from fetal prayer and mounted on my own two feet. In that movement I declared myself too proud to stop… to proud to give up… and too proud to just stay where I was. But not really. My shallow swift movements led me to bed, where I hamstered in, face to the sheets, balled into the larger comforter I had. Needless to say I’ve spent the last 3 months ignoring every feeling I had, and I’m flooding confused. My status has gone from social elite to reclusive and I’ve been forcing myself to speak. To share. From all the burdens of today, honesty is the best coat to wear and it’s the only one that makes sense in this weather. And as everything weighs on me, pulling my hull underwater I can only try to makes sense of one thing.  How a single event got me here… and more honestly, how I let it.

He sang this to me. I can give a surplus of reason to excuse myself but none of it would matter. There is a dead empty feeling, like the inside of a hallow bell to accompany what he just told me. It’s as if they whole route we shared I thought I was being loyal, a good friend, but it turns out that my actions were simply a resort of pain. And, it’s not the first time that the storyline ran similar, like rewriting the same boring book. I’m contaminated by fear. He once asked, “Why won’t you let me hold you, but you are burrowed into the arms of others less worthy?”

I didn’t have a good enough answer but the fact that I was scared. I am scared. I have always been scared. I cannot deny that he loved me correct. That it was healthy, honest, and pure. But it’s easy to fall into the arms of those you know will eventually break. It keeps me in repetition of chaos and brokenness, the familiarity of what I know is exasperating. But this disfunctional cycle burns the bridges I have longed to build to get to the water I need to hydrate my shrivled self. And now I ask, “What have I done? How can I abolish my fear?”

I’ve heard that fear is a tool of satan, as well as guilt and manipulation. These things run hand in hand. I wish I was as powerful enough to scream NO! and be done with it. Like my will was so strong that it shatters everything that locks it up. Remniscent of those fairy tales like Ella Enchanted or Penelope where they break their own curses in self realization. I want it to dawn on me. BREAK! How many friends and potential loves do I have to hurt? Lose?

The key. Crooked edged and formed to open… my own heart. It looks like love. Love that can heal and show me that I am worthy. But I see the sorrow of my friend as he watches me burn. Although he understands he still questions, “Why do you deny me?” For he knows I love him and that favor returned and it is probably worse as he watches as me free fall from the cliff I built… for inexplicable reasoning. And he says, “I want to hold you.” And I deny him that too, for fear, of really being loved, and actually believing that somebody means it. Meanwhile, it is he who really suffers from the helplessness of what my mind cannot grasp. Patience is untied and no longer a suggestion.

I wish I could give what you desire. I wish I could deny what comes at your expense. And I wish that for me to tell you, I am sorry, was enough.

I want to go a day without fighting, with myself.

I want to bask in the rays of light that warm my body and kiss my skin.

I want to be better.

I want to understand… everything.

I want to have a picnic under a willow tree accompanied by laughter.

I want to travel, and visit, and see.

I want to forget about you.

and I want…

the impossible.

What I could never have.

And still I find myself dreaming…

Keep the demons at bay. I know hard times will continue and they may never go away. But what you surpassed is over now… although your dreams haunt you each day and won’t have peace or allow… you, to be normal. Because what you’ve seen is vivid and true. I will NEVER know pure evil, as you. Love may seem impossible to find because patience can be shallow. But I understand you are as they created you, to survive, and handle… any hostile situation, from combat to fire to torture or recreation. But with that something was lost and returning to the world that has no idea, came with a cost. Now you’re stuck to cope with what none of us know, what none of us seen, and forced to shovel it back forbidden to speak. Not that it’s confidential but it makes you crazy to think, about… How I, may never understand the harsh realities of war, the questioning of what you’re fighting for, the scenes played through your head, the realities of the living and dead, the demons that touched you, grazed your cheek and mocked you, the angels that held you tight, kept you warm and guided your fight. I will never understand. I will never understand how it made you a man. Glazed eyes with the  pupils of compromise, with depth of things hidden in the black abyss, with no appearance of bliss… or joy, just the concept of being deployed and    the,  simplicity of being alive, loving and hating that it was you that survived. It was you that survived. And God was lost. But I want you to know that I do feel pain and with my patience I will not refrain. The scarring is too real and what was has changed permanently, defaced. I bet you wonder what’s wrong with this race? But still,  the horror stories and could never know, adrenaline rush of pop pop’s and booms, the power of a gun beneath our hands, the knowledge that you maybe the last man… and it seems everything we take for granite seems so obscene. We may, never know of the sights of  half laid bodies on the streets, the children, the questioning of civilian to enemy. We may never know. As admirable as it seems that you’re standing here, the cost surmounts what can be replaced. What is there to take of innocence, it feels like a sense of rape. Live horror. Replayed. Each day. I can’t imagine the pain that forces you to feel that way… a bad habit. One which you try to protect from… to protect others from you. Almost unworthy of love but hiding the pain from us, as taught. I feel you. The chasee becomes the chaser…  with the knowledge that some people are just broken. Dishelved. Lost. Departed. Spent. They will always be, crumpled up and twisted like metal after a car accident. Disfigured. There hurt relfected outside themselves,  comes at the expense of everyone else… who loves them. What they don’t want becomes what’s real, so pushing away is the only way to not feel, the weight of more pain. They just can’t help the  inflicted. Some things are impossible to heal.  The wound clearly open, infected, scarred. Like a jail cell it keeps you barred. Your memories are your prison.  Maybe with time it will ease and love will treat your condition.          You told me I know nothing of evil, and you’re right. I cannot fathom the tragedy heard, I won’t tweet your pain like a bird, I won’t pimp your pain but offer what I can… I can listen.      Vivid as stories may be, they aren’t mine. I cannot feel that void that hits your heart or the apathy that keeps you alive…. in hostile situation.      I don’t know.     I don’t know the evil of war. And you’re right… I know nothing of evil. But, I will STILL be your friend.

limbs aching, head dreary, and thoughts disoriented.

my body balled up with a single blanket draping my bare legs.

i drift off into a restless immobile sleep.  i woke up cold.

sheets wrinkled, occupying a forth of the mattress, I roll over.

the pastel cotton blanket with brown leaves shifts. solid sleep.

arise again to unfold that which provides me warmth. i awake again.

reach my arm over to the empty space.

no one is there.

it’s cold.

no one’s ever there.

Yesterday I saw him. 6 foot something, ragged, and cold. He carried his sign on a cardboard box inked with advertisement of one of the local beers on the reverse side. His sign said, “Hungry. Please help.” As I was in my car driving I realized that this image presented me with deep despair. Bargaining my ideas of what he was, who he was, who he is, how he got there, and what he means to me. My standing ground is the reality that he… is still human. Without a doubt, in my core I feel a responsibility to move, to act, to care. But my remembrance is still there. Helpless. Hopeless. I can recall the thousands of beer cans lined up along our house, the 12 packs a day, in truck baseball sessions, cigarettes, marijuana, and rage. Always that pure hatred behind his eyes. It makes me wonder why? Why are you so mad? Reflecting on this questions the answers are there… as a domestic abuser he was abused too, not just by his mom but his pa too, and this didn’t end just physically, they took the limits and pushed him off the cliff mentaly, emotionally, and his… brothers and sisters gave him that extra kick. I mean, they always called him odd, never proving the chance to understand, no wonder his self significance was bland, he was always searching around for love. And maybe… that’s why he moved so much, because he always felt so out of touch and never found a place of his own to call home, or find a place within himself in which to love. Can you imagine… never knowing love? And I guess that’s where religion failed him… they never saught out and showed him, what it is to be a man… a confident man… a confidant man who loves himself for who… he… is. But it isn’t just religion because our community failed. To accept and feed and house him up… building the esteem that somehow got corrupt. Then the God that people believe took the only thing that he could conceive, his wife, the love of his life. She’s gone. And it  may take a life to really understand, why things are taken away by a poison gas… why you almost die and regain consciousness, and wake up unacknowledged to deal with post traumatic stress, because all that was ever good to you was taken.

Holistically I am writing because those who concern themselves enough to talk about my life, have no regard to care enough to come to me and ask about the gossip they may hear like a civilized and mature adult. This is not only a humorous nusence, but it is hurtful for those who regard themselves to be my friends. Don’t buy into the product of the “he said, she said” and media outlets that stimulate your brains actively. The “truth” can be abstract, but communication is key, and going to someone to ask is quite respected and honorable to say the least. I believe that people deserve the benefit of the doubt. The inaction of the nature of ones physicality to present themselves in front of me and clarify any questions, shows me the total lack of care these people have for my being and who I am. Given, that most hardly know who I am but know about me in some trivial and minimal extent, but they must take the time to judge the doings of mine and analyze the things that I do. So, now I think it is time to reflect upon yourselves and work on who you are. Don’t involve yourself in the pantomime act of those around you, who are just fooling themselves. Brave it out… talk… listen… hear… learn… respect… and move on.

I want to believe. I do. I want to believe. It’s true.

But what I’ve seen has told me no.

How can something broken grow?

Scars and scratches, never completely amiable

Can patience assemble what’s in shambles?

This world is broken. Is there room to make it whole?

I want to believe. I do. I want to believe it’s true.

Words are expression, helping to surpass the  chambers and circulate to meaning in the textual form. Feelings are important and evermore so when expressed verbally or written. Written, words can move a person to live, move them to survive, move them t o believe and love. They can counter the previous list as well. Verbal serves for  those who cannot read or those who understand it best when spoken. We use words everyday giving little thought to the full force in which we propel our language at others. It can be perplexing how far your word travels like waves, never ceasing until it hits  a surface and ripples out.  They go the  distance reaching many ears that hear and repeat. I would think it wise to mean what we say an be what we say. Maybe then, we would know who said it?

What we decide for our factors

matters for our solution.

So the pastor is talking and makes his offhanded comment about how this prostitute is a sinner and she doesn’t deserve to sit at God’s righthand, but God is MERCIFUL. Then he says, “what if a person of her stature was to walk into the white house, do you think she belongs there?” That statement was totally irrelevant to what he was saying and the combination says much about his position in society. If you ask me, history and cultural context are always relevant to a story. Now, trace back to biblical times and who the prostitutes were and why they were there. They were predominately females. They were there in order for the gentiles to release tension while not subjigating the honorable (wealthy) women. Many of these women  prostitutes were born and enslaved into their trade. Who would choose to be a prostitute? Being poor and in the slums you inherit the position of your parents. Many of these women were children of prostitutes then brainwashed and raped in by initiation at the ripe age. So,  how is she to blame for her state and unworthy of the throne because of the state in which the generations have given her? Her trade says little about her character and heart. In my opinion the sin of those with a choice warrant far more consequences and ills.

What perplexes me as well is when did sexual purity and exploitation become measured as the sin of all sins? What about cheating, stealing, or murder? These things reap consequences that ripple out further then our eyes could see. They have a hard affect on others while another (sexual sinner) harvests emotional health in the perpetrator. Often I have heard the prostitute chastised much more than the murderer, liar, and thief. When these do what they do by choice. Given, the poor may need to steal to eat and the murder could be sick. But what about the tax collector who deserves the throne due to his position yet he steals and takes advantage of the poor making collections for his own profit. This deserves far more attention, and repercussions deserve to be discussed. My point is, why is it always about the prostitute as the sinner and never about the person standing before you stressing mercy? Why is it not said that sin isn’t measured, but how we get to sin and how it brings wrath? Why is it always about sexual impurity and the prostitute rather then the pastor who stands before you and lies, commits adultery, slanders, commits tax fraud, molests children, and holds himself superior? The doctrines are all interpreted with a lens of privilege and power, which plays a large role in the sermons that are taught and HOW they are spoken. From what I know, it was never bad to think about Jesus critically. Too bad it’s not a practice.

Be fair.

Don’t know.

Who Cares?