You Are Here

An unfortunate thing to say?

"I'm not where I'm suppose be but I'm not where I use to be."

Does this not alleviate progress?

Perspectively?

It's this simple:

If your planted feet are no longer on previous ground...

...then you must be in the exact location God has scheduled?

Right?

Where you are now, God has circled in his day planner!

Be Blessed.

Paralyzed: An Ode to Toni Morrison

Will you accept a gift?

A gift to give folly importance?
This gift to give names to noun?
A fine gift to make adjectives successors?

Will you?

And if unwrapped notice the gift is familiar.
Words you've written, I've read and altered very little.
They have not made a void returned, you see?
Therefore, with pleasure to undue my commonness, I bind these words and present them to you.

I explain:

I have buried my mind in deep holes of God's schemes, longing for my name.
And was flattered when my moons were brightened and prophesied through teeth of preaching elders with smooth hands.
With this, is it strange my name was found in death?
At the dancing feet of a mother on fire?

Verily my name unfolded in Sula's stillness.
As the fire sparks that embraced her mother greeted Sula's open eyes.
T'was on that page of Hannah's last breath a revealing of my birth; a reason.
I was born to write.

The convincing part is I'd watched Hannah burning not because I was paralyzed...
...but because I was interested.

Will you accept a gift?
... to give folly importance?
... to give names to noun?
... to allow me to be your successor?

The Pie

On the table there's a dish...
On that dish... a piece of pie sits.
See it?
The green dish.
No, the other one.
The one garnished with the small olive branch?
See it?
Yes, that one.
Its yours.


It took a few broad laborious scores to make that pie.
Humble.


The sundry ingredients were harmoniously contrary:

• Diced apology
• A thimble of sugar
• One fourth cup of flour
• A tablespoon of shame
• And honey, a finger full directly from the angry hive

In a foggy bowl they were given into marriage.
A mixing... my mixing... through my palm's laboring strokes.
Soft strokes.
...which continued until time held her breath.
Or truth choke her.
Something was absence.
So....

I ceased the mixing and place the bowl in the clearing and waited all night until...


The morning...
... when the clearing led to a pantry behind the dawn.
A discovery.
A large bottle labelled PRIDE, which I moved aside and there it was...
A smaller bottle same to the larger with brown, black, and green label, however.
With a name ending in two R's.
I opened the top and inhaled.


Mmm... Smells nice.


The bottle's content was a secret.
The missing link.
I finished...
And now it's finally done for you.
An humble pie.


Only we know the mystery.
Our own language.
I see you smiled at the "two R's".


I made it for you baby.
It took scores.... baked slow.
Real slow...


Look on that dish.
No, not that one, the other one.
The green one --


... with the olive branch.