met my breath

between the sobs, i met my breath

held captive within my chest

and forced inside the empty hole

left when grief came in and stole

all the meaning kept full inside

and exhaled when the moment died

Two Pieces

Walking up streets

of the dirty, littered

city, I cast my eye

to a black plastic bag

stuck to the thorns

of a bush of yellow

roses, like that piece

of spinach glued

to his nicotine

stained perfect teeth;

He's always chewing

two sticks of pink

bubblemint gum,

tossing words around

from side to side,

over and under,

smacking me upside

the head with some

simile or other.

It's a crying shame

that I care or even

give it lip-service,

forgotten as I am

thrown aside roughage

left for scavengers

to find almost spoiled.

Pulled perfumed petals

used to be sweet pink

lemonade until I stopped

understanding or he stopped

wanting to explain

it to me, just flakey

and tasteless.

I never bothered

to ask why he's always

popping two pieces.

the "straight" voice

It always surprises me the moment I hear it come out of my mouth to hover there like some macho, bowlegged alien with glittery, green scales descending in the air between me and that person whose mere presence has unsuspectingly beckoned it forth from some deep space inside my mind, a outer homophobic dimension within a sanctimonious universe I really thought I had destroyed or left way far behind.

Like the other day when a big, burly repair man in official facilities' coveralls came to our offices to look at a problem with the ventilation unit, and just when I rose from my seat to greet him, inadvertently out popped the sound not quite a bass down from a treble clef but still much lower in octave than my regular voice. In a slower tempo almost "pesante" in a full, deep tone came through my lips the foreign "Hello."

Then when the conversation begins between us, words begin to flow, and sentences start to pick up some speed, my speech fills with words and phrases I never use and becomes saturated in a uniquely odd accent adding the missing flavor needed to succeed in speaking in this heterosexual safety mode. So now the low, deep "Dude, come on into this other office where there's the problem. The vent's right over there, man," is not only peppered with unwarranted masculine addresses but also spiked with a blend of surfer dude, dude rancher and country bumpkin who have gotten together to chew on some fat and plan something manly like replacing the transmission, rotating the tires and changing the oil of either a huge Ford Bronco or muscled up Camero. You can only imagine how utterly embarrassed and humiliated I am if people are around who I personally know hear and recognize this artificial substitute.

Unfortunately, once this strange extraterrestrial voice has made an appearance and been sighted by my dialogue partner, I have no choice but to surrender to its forced abduction, for no matter how focused I concentrate my linguistical power to consciously change this foreign behavior, I find myself simply unable to neutralize the habitual phenomena. In other words, once it's turned on, it's on auto-pilot with no manual overdrive until the final good ole boy, "Bye."

I've heard time after time again, that the first step towards recovery and change is recognizing that this pseudo-macho speak happens and that I have a problem with it. (Check, ten-four, good buddy.) Then with my real voice, boldly yet brightly, seriously yet sprightly, declare my disapproval of this strange established ritual of going on a seeming pro-hetero-conformity mission because I am insecure in my being, falsely thinking the person with whom I am in contact emanates a need for me to exaggerate my male gender role and abolish any effeminate traces or sissy slang in order to maintain peace with the patriarchal majority. Finally, take the last step and commit to increasing self-confidence, work through personal vulnerabilities, and then ending that kind of talk once and for all.

So Mister "straight voice", today I'm sweetly yet firmly giving you notice. Although I am certain I learned you as a child and attempted to perfect you in order to survive in the world, and even though it's really been a lot of performance, impressionistic fun, now is the time to for you to go phone home because your body-snatching days of my true voice are over and done.

All the cool boys

Tonight, the cool three convene

in a dark corner of the scene,

all exclusive, handsome, and husky,

their smarmy velvet voices shaded

with hints of bitter freeze,

cold just so, that all the meek

stay away from their pride,

far off the party line,

over here under the Exit sign,

standing right beside me,

an adult suddenly transformed

into a gawky, awkward teen

wearing ginormous, shiny metal braces

covering anxiously crowding inadequacies.

With wordless, waning wallweeds,

I stand watching inconspicuously

this ever so captivating trilogy

wearing tight, toned skin

and through sexy, slanted grins

whisper somethings among the guys

below sly, snickering eyes

before pointing their unified

mirrorball glare condescendingly

over at – oh please, I pray not at me,

who even if in a bright green, silk-screened T

and side-cocked, black, tall trucker cap

could never hope to look as cool as that,

so the self-esteem of my internal teen empties

only to refill to the brim with envy.

Yes, I realize that I should come to my senses

knowing we're all self-conscious adult adolescents

when utterly stripped of all our pretenses

under last-call's harsh bright fluorescents,

but sometimes like tonight I just can't help it

that the insecure me feels like a big misfit

and becomes a dejected killjoy

annoyed by all the cool boys.

Couples Counseling

June 2, 2009

A week or so ago during the day while at work, I got up from my desk suddenly, walked into the 11th floor men's bathroom, went into a stall, shut and latched the door, pulled tissue from the roll, and then quietly began crying. There were only two prayers that came to mind that I offered up as I wept in that tiny, green-tiled closet: Please don't let anyone come in the bathroom right now, and what in the world is wrong with me, God?

When I returned to my desk and the waiting, glowing blue computer screen, I saw on Facebook that someone had just updated her status to something like, JANE "is so happy and joyful that God is SOOOO GOOD ALL the time!!! Thanks and Praise!" I read, I frowned, I wanted to throw up. I found myself completely nauseated by her brightness and bitter with skepticism. With a mumbled, irritated "whatever", I shut down the web browser annoyed and simultaneously depressed by how awful it must be of me to even have such thoughts about happy people and God. (Lord knows I, myself, am guilty of very similar status updates from time to time!) My eyes filled again, and I sat staring blankly at the flower filled plain on my computer's desktop become a churning kaleidoscope of colors through my tears. I felt so alone, displaced, sad, and doubtful, and I was frustrated with myself for feeling so alone, displaced, sad and doubtful. What in the world is wrong with me, God?

My therapist, who is truly one of God's blessings in my life, said that it was completely understandable that I might feel this way. For although these are bright and sunshiny days (for the most part), I am finding this period between Mother's Day and June 7th to be emotionally dark and stormy days for me. These days represent the time between the anniversary of my mother's suicide two years ago and the anniversary of my best friend's suicide three years ago. It is as intense as struggling with a stuck storm shelter door while the wind whips and the locomotive sound of a tornado thunders ever closer. It is at this place that all those promises God has made are suddenly difficult to believe; God's Love seems out of reach; sadness, mourning and grief cloud my eyes with doubt, and I blindly begin to question everything.

After explaining what was happening to my therapist, Barry, one recent session, he asked, "Chad, who are you angry with? Your mother? Your best friend? What would you like to say to them?" In silence, I thought about this, churned it, knowing how difficult it is for me to deal with anger as that emotion was taught to me as a destructive one (rather than one that could potentially be used constructively) I wondered if I could even manage to manifest it and towards whom. After a few moments, I said, "You know, I really think I'm angry at God." Barry pulled an empty chair out from the wall and pushed it in front of me. "Then why don't you tell God about it?"

I'm always a little hesitant when Barry wants to start one of these chair exercises, but I conceded and attempted to look through the empty chair towards God. "Do you see God?" Barry asked. Not really knowing what God looks like, I said, "No, but I can sense that God is there." "Good, then why don't you just tell God how you are feeling," he said, leaning back in his seat, giving God and me room to be with one another.

The words came hesitantly, "I'm angry with You because..." I stopped, paused. Was I really going to tell God this? Who did I think I was to say such a thing - to God? Something inside me said that it didn't matter. What did matter was that it is true what I felt, and God should hear it. "God, I'm angry that you let Mom die. I'm angry that I prayed to you over and over again to help her, and You didn't. I'm angry that I am trying so hard to keep on keeping on, and You don't seem to even be around or care. I'm angry because not only did Mom and my best friend abandon me, but You seem to abandon me too!" After a shallow breath, feeling like I had gone too far (I mean, this was God after all) I thought I should take it all back, but Barry asked me to just simply sit and be with the words I had spoken. So I let them linger there, let the truth of my feelings resonate, and without any judgment, allowed my mind to calm.

Something happened then that caught me completely off guard and surprised me. Instead of "hearing" what I thought would be God's explanation or perhaps God's defense or maybe even God' frustration at my feeling abandoned when that couldn't be further from the truth, all things I would likely say for God, I felt something else so real and simple and concise directed towards me: Just Love. I wish I could put into words the weight of the moment as that little therapy room filled with God's Love, the moment God listened, heard me, and Loved me.

"What is happening?" Barry asked, "What is this I'm sensing?" and I told him that it was Love, pure and genuine Love and that's all, shocked to find my therapist experiencing something extraordinary within those four walls alongside me.

As the appointment was ending, he asked what I thought about the session that day, and I looked over at the empty chair and said, "You know, I think God and I need to do this more often. Couple's counseling seems really good for us."

did Jesus shower on the third day

did Jesus shower
on the third day,
or did He smell
the dirty, musty,
sweet stale
of dead, damply
crushed, fallen
leafy sheets
like I do now
finally rising
from that bedroom
tomb draped
in two dusks
and sunless
clouds?

downtowntrain

local sliding doors
lips clinched tightly
beside asphalt linoleum
images are watched
in the white specks
floating in black tar
under lights vega blue
absent green leaves
as broken dead skin
falls into powdery
dust eaten by bunnies
scurrying underfoot
beautiful broad boys
oblivious blackjacks
dozing on orange plastic
seats anchored fastly
nearing the destination
between scratched tags
downtown

vinyl maxim

cracks in the white

words on my red

t-shirt leave tracks

color trickles through

breaking letter islands

into smaller white scabs

aching to be peeled

away so the red

cotton rivers can flow

where machine washed

lingo grows old

and then goes

Lunch – Hold the Bloody Tongue Sandwich

Today at lunch, I rested on cool stone steps beneath the blazing sun, mostly because of the rather gusty crosswinds and dry air. I fell asleep twice, I think, and didn’t manage to bite my tongue in the process, which I usually end up doing inadvertently waking me from my naps with a painful startle. I relish lunch breaks when the weather is just so, and I can go out and do a little daydreaming, a little mediating, a little getting away from it all.

Birds of a Feather

From "The Vine"

Many autumns ago when I was visiting my family in the little, rural Arkansan town in which I was raised, my sister and I decided to take a drive over to the "Central Park" of Blytheville, Walker Park, and sit beside the duck pond, talk, and relax. There were many times during our childhood that Mom would load us into our long, faux-wood sided station wagon, drive to that very spot and let us feed the ducks and geese some leftover, stale bread which Mom called "duckbread". (It actually wasn't until junior high school that a friend finally pointed out to my embarrassment that "duckbread" was not a real word for leftover, stale bread.)

Anyway, on this beautiful, warm, bright, autumn day, Tara and I arrived at the park and walked down to a bench sitting in the shade of a bright red leafed oak, looking out over the rippling, calm, green pond. As we sat and talked, listening to the gentle waves, we began to watch the different flocks of ducks and gaggles of geese that had made our little park their seasonal home. As children, neither of us had taken much notice of the many different families and types of aquatic birds there, and so that day, we began pointing them out to one another, trying to identify them.

There were mallards swimming together to our left, the males with their distinctive heads of a metallic green sheen beside the mottled brown females leading the way with little ducklings paddling close behind. On the one small mound of an island out in the middle of the water, small wood ducks sunned together on the short beach just outside the shade of the few island's trees, their blue colored wing patches vibrantly catching the light. Arriving from the sky to our right, a skein of large Canada geese in white chinstraps around their long, black necks touched down into the water with soft splashes and short calls to one another. And, among other similar flocks still, there was a group of white Embden geese fearlessly and noisily approaching some delighted, screaming children who held out pieces of "duckbread" before their wide-open bills, closely supervised by some adults, all on the opposite side of the pond.

"Birds of a feather," Tara began, and I finished, "flock together." Yes, there in nature, God's living creations seemed to fit together so perfectly, each group picturesque with its own species, family and type. And interestingly, the animalistic nature of humanity seems to be in accord as persons usually seem to gravitate towards groups of people with similarities: similar looks, ideas, finances, etc. But at that time back in my hometown, thinking about such groupings in relation to myself, I honestly didn't really know where in life I fit or even what feathers covered me. For so many years up to that point, I had felt alone and different, outside and ostracized. "You know, I guess I don't really fit in anywhere, Tara," I said, sadly, "There's really no flock to which I belong."

As if on cue, from behind a rock set back in a little cove of the pond, an American Black duck, about the size of a mallard, swam out onto the water. "Awww, there you are," Tara pointed, giggling. I smiled and watched as the duck floated alone out into the sunlight. Suddenly, right after him, another bird appeared from behind the rock, a large white goose wearing an odd voluminous, round afro of feathers atop her head, and there swimming alongside was a wood duck with bluish, crooked wings pointing straight to the sky rather than flat against his back. And then a little platinum, albino duck of an indistinguishable type joined them, closely followed a Canadian goose with a stunted, short black neck and a mallard with a discolored teal head and mandarin orange bill. Likely rejected by their own kind because of their oddities, these misfit water birds swam as their own flock into the sunlight, across the pond right in front of us, together.

Surprised, inspired and enlightened, I accepted the divine epiphany and turned to my sister with wide eyes full of new hope, "I was wrong; I DO belong to a flock somewhere. If these misfit birds have found one another and formed a family, I'm certain God must have a little flock out there for me." And sure enough, God has proven it to be true with all of the many different yous paddling across life's waters with me together, within God's Son's Light.

Are you feeling like a little lost duck? God has the perfect, unique flock for you too!

Spiritual Abuse

As a child, I was spiritually abused. That is not a statement that I make lightly without a real, deep sense of hurt and pain. It is a truth that I have only recently in adulthood been able to admit happened and understand that it was wrong and should not have happened to me or any child. When I recall my experience, I wonder how many of us, especially those of us who are LGBTQ, share this spiritual abuse in common? If so, how did it shape our lives, our spirituality, and our relationship with God? I believe there are many of us who have survived to tell about the religious beatings and molestations of our fragile and innocent souls brand new unto the world. Therefore, it is no wonder that, whether preached from the pulpit or shouted from a street corner, when faced with the same kind of verbiage and jargon of that damaging religious dogma, which almost completely shattered our spirits, we react negatively, angrily, and crouch back into an infant position, hugging and rocking ourselves in order to try and find some comfort.

My spiritual abuse began when I was just a baby. Crying as a toddler in the middle of a Sunday morning's holy worship service was absolutely intolerable. On every occasion, I was punished for being "bad", dragged out the back of the church and given a good spanking until I was quiet. Being "bad" as defined by my Christian, Protestant, Southern Baptist church meant that I sinned (a lot) and therefore was a miserable sinner in dire need of something called repentance, usually induced by overwhelming guilt. I cried, I sinned. I spoke when adults were talking, I sinned. I spilt my milk, giggled during a prayer, wet the bed, I sinned, sinned, sinned. I wanted that toy that my friend had, well, God help me. And as a child far too young to understand fully what these things mean, I was indoctrinated with a basic idea of what it means to be a child of God. No, not that God is Love and Loves us unconditionally, but that I was really bad, which made God really, really mad, so God punished Jesus instead of me, and that if I didn't accept all of this and try to be perfect like Jesus is, then God would send me to suffer and cry in pain and sadness for eternity in fiery hell with the devil. Oh, don't get me wrong, I was also taught that God "loves" the little children, Jesus "loves" me, but there was always a "BUT".

Perhaps I was a child taking things far too seriously or perhaps I was a child who thought too deeply, but whatever the case, I was a child who pondered my Sunday School lessons diligently, listened to sermons intently, and was absolutely terrorized into believing in God and Jesus, and Satan, for that matter. I lived in constant fear of being anything other than what God had instructed in the Bible for all of us to be or doing anything other than what God wanted us to do. I was utterly terrified of the devil and was positively sure he was just around the corner ready to pounce on me at any moment. By the age of five, I understood that I was a lost, unworthy sinner and, worried sick, instructed my parents to call our pastor to our home so that I could be saved and protected. For until that happened, if I died and knocked on Heaven's door, Jesus would answer saying, "Sorry, you can't come in. In fact, I don't even know you." The door would slam shut, and Satan would appear, putting his horrible arm around me. Going down?

Many scream-filled, reoccurring nightmares later, just imagine what happened as I began realizing that I was very different from other little boys. A whole new can of worms was opened. My being "bad" became my being "evil". God being "mad" at me became God "hated and despised" me. For years, no matter how perfect, no matter how righteous I strived to be, my damnation to hell became more and more likely until it was finally assured. It seemed that even a salvation experience at eleven would not, could not, save me. By the time I graduated college, my head was so full of religious contradictions that my spirit was virtually unconscious, beaten into a coma, surviving only by the goodness and love of God's life support of which I was unaware at the time.

It was then that God removed me from the people, places, words and things which threatened to extinguish my soul in God's Name. By the grace of God and God's goodness and faithfulness, my soul did survive, my spirit breathed, and my heart continued to beat, waiting for the day when God did liberate me from the shackles of my indoctrination, healed me with the Spirit, and awakened in me the purity, honesty and innocence of which I had been raped. The Riverside Church is one of God's hospitals where I was attended to, and I am fortunate and blessed that God carried me there. God has a plan.

So as a survivor thankfully making it through to the other side, whenever I hear theological language that pokes at my bruises or salts my scars, I suddenly find myself impassioned, emblazoned, and full of fervor in making sure that abuse never happens again, that others are clear in understanding. I wholeheartedly believe that it is vitally important that we do NOT repeat this kind of history nor ever let another child or adult go through this kind of confusing, terrifying, painful abuse again. For God's sake, this must stop and be stopped, and that's why I am writing all of this today, what I believe God is calling me to share.

It is as if God stopped by for coffee this past Sunday afternoon, and as we chatted, God held up before me all the religious doctrines, traditions, and dogmas and said, "Chad, do you know what's really crazy? Do you see all of this and how messy and scary it has become? Can I tell you what all of this really means? Will you share what it was supposed to say to you and humanity simply, utterly, and completely.

Just this: I LOVE YOU.

I came as Christ to say 'I LOVE YOU', and like that game where you pass a secret in a whisper around a circle of friends, the message seems to have come out different than its purest intention. My Good News has been added to, subtracted from, used for power and gain, abused to oppress and destroy, incited to cause terror and fear. All I want is to call you here to Me, to hold you and comfort you, to Love you just as I made you, always and forever." God then stared down into the coffee mug, and I thought, you know, I believe God's feelings are hurt.

So, allow me to close by offering a little advice. Whether you've endured a similar childhood experience as mine or not, I implore you, my friends, always keep handy your Holy sifter, and whatever you hear, whatever you are told, whatever goes into it that does not demonstrate and convey God's eternal LOVE for you, sift it! Let only Christ's unconditional Love fall onto the dough of your heart. Then knead it with compassion, mercy and forgiveness; sprinkle it with lots of love for yourself, and allow it to rise into a genuine, authentic relationship with God. For you are promised that God is and always will be faithful, staying right by your side, with unending compassion, pleased smiles, deep love and a tender embrace no matter where you are on your life's journey or spiritual walk, no matter your doubts, fears, questions, or brokenness. No matter what, you are precious to God and so very Loved.

And hey, if you aren't exactly sure about God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit or anything else, know that you may start as simply as just saying, "Hey God. Haven't talked to You. What's up? Bye." I promise you, God will be overjoyed to begin a conversation with you.

Time

From "The Vine"

Welcome to 2009!!! I apologize for the delay in getting out the first Vine to you, but after my return from the Christmas and New Year holidays in Arkansas with my family, I found myself inundated with items which needed my attention and was unable. However, it is a New Year, and things are back on track, thank God.

This New Year has had me pondering "time". Just after my mother passed away a little over a year and a half ago, it seemed quite suddenly that my watch's battery died. The hands simply stopped moving around the minutes and hours. The second hand did not even attempt to skip forward. In that moment, I felt it was so fitting that my time had stopped. In deep sadness and grief, quite honestly, I had wanted my whole world to stop moving forward and thought that it couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't now that Mom was no longer here on Earth with me. I really had assumed that life had ended, that time had finally run out.

But, as much as I thought that was what was happening and what I wanted, the sun still appeared in the East and descended in the West. The stars still churned above me as seconds passed into minutes into hours into days and nights. Through time, God had a way of keeping me keeping on moving forward on my journey of life even if I thought it shouldn't and had little desire to be present in it. It is as if God was smiling while trying to comfort me, and, like a parent holding a crying child's hand leading him up the sidewalk as the tearful child is completely unaware of the direction he is moving, God was guiding a blind me forward embraced in God's purpose and plan for my life.

Months and months later, I finally replaced the watch's battery and just as soon as I inserted it into that little space in the back, the watch's hands jarred awake and began their track around the face and over the numbers. The wheels were set into motion and the gears began their systematic rhythm. Yes, in some ways while doing that, I felt like time was starting all over again, but today, in this brand new year, in this new number moved forward, I realize that it had never stopped and that although Mom had left, God had never and would never ever leave me stranded alone in a stalled second. The same, of course, is true for you!