the now-becoming America

softly as in a morning sunrise, silently
buckling into the naked and vulnerable sky.
two hundred and fifty million and one frames
(the not-yet America: who are, must be, watching: paralyzed)
interpreting the beautiful chaos unfolding.
again and again, each time and always only a whisper.
there's courage and grace in a quiet descent,
being pummeled and given a ride
again and again and dying, reluctantly,
then unwillingly repeating itself -
surging downward and outward, its tremors
exploding in every direction - in the theater
of the now-becoming America.

once upon a moment in time the nursery rhyme fairy fell down the chimney
stalk, smashing the chimney sweeper and his ash-faced son with a sack full
of toys. jack shot the stork who had babies in tow and hansel dropped hard
from the sky into a million pieces. peter lost his shadow kicking an egg
from a wall while alice placed a tooth under her pillow. a golden haired
girl found a little red cape and gave her pouridge to a giant. three little
pigs running from a gingerbread man stopped and baked an old lady's boot.
the little engine with a bright red nose huffed and he puffed and blew the
house down.

ckm 8.29.01

 

 

I could have walked for another three hours, talking, listening, walking with God, waiting to connect, feel a feeling, waiting to be freshened with the spirit of God. I could have wandered another three miles, through other people's neighborhoods, looking for answers to my problems. I could have sat and stared silently into the backs of my eyelids, waiting for the small voice to speak wisdom to my soul. I could have asked all the right questions, listened intently for possible solutions. I could have formulated a plan of action, relying on myself for the plan of attack. Instead, I sat down on a swing and let go of my inhibitions. With no one around and with midnight approaching, families finding their way closer to tomorrow, asleep, safe and sound, I started to swing. At first, it was a casual glide that cut ever so slightly into the playground breeze. But then as height increased with speed, I began to soar higher, reaching each apex of the childlike pendulum. Looking, yearning even, for a word from God took back seat to the enjoyment of swinging. My cares fell off as the wind increased its pace, wrapping itself around my flying frame. As I swung back and forth, I watched the same set of stars, pointing my outstretched feet as straight and star ward as I could, laughing a playground laugh, hoping someone might be watching so they could see a man swinging with Jesus. What I thought I was looking for when I started my walk, I never really found. Instead, I was reminded that I am just a child of God, needy and dependent, but full of joy and hope. It was only when I let go of my cares and hang-ups that I was able to swing into the arms of my Heavenly Father.

ckm

 

whether or not the weather will weather out the weather forecasts of the weather-men (and women), who are called by their titles meteorologists, will depend not only upon the weather itself, but whether the weather-casts of those very men and women will wither and wilt under the canopy of the rapidly weathering and unpredictable wigwam we call earth; this is the statement posed to many who watch and wonder whether the weatherman (and woman) are really trying their best to predict the weather in a whether/or not format. as far as i'm concerned the whether/or not is more whether/or why and the not is relegated to the proverbial basement, where erroneous predictions of hot and cold go to die and be damp and lonesome.
ckm

 

 

"this poem has no meaning, yet...if you care you make one up, write in. don't think that i think it's good, because it's not. it's just fun to throw words together.

ckm"

our lives are stories, not linear time-lines that can be picked apart and memorized like the pathways of history, but rather narratives of God's endless mercy and sufficient grace. regret of past decisions can haunt or propel, hinder or enable; we are always growing, some with hardening of hearts others with maturing spirits, all growing, either for the better or worse. if God writes our stories, our decisions just might determine the chapters, but whatever the case may be, life is a mosaic of experiences that shape who we are, and God is the weaver, time, His loom. The threads and strands of our lives might be ugly when inspected with a judging, human eye, but when viewed through the story-book perspective of God's discerning vision, each fault and error, each tiny mark of innocence and value, work in harmony, as a byproduct of mercy and grace, to form a work of art, a masterpiece of indescribable beauty. it is in this way that God chooses to work in His creation, and with this is in mind, we should strive to acquire the same vision of our fellow sisters and brothers, one where a life is a story, where redemption is just around the corner, where grace is always at work, shaping and molding the rougher edges, a vision that sees what Jesus saw in the most downtrodden of humanity, for it's when we see in this way, that others will recognize, without impedance, the true face of Christ, and will forever be altered.

ckm

We are the fold, the hidden, the wandering, sheep gone astray, we are the lost souls shivering on the mountain side, we are the prodigal populous, the human race, we are moving together away from each other, away from the one that never ceases to search.

He is the shepherd, the persistent, the sleepless searcher, he is in storms a lantern approaching, round the steep crags and cliffs he is the swift footed, experienced guide, He is the glimmer, growing in the darkness, overtaking the fears that wandering brings.

ckm

"You give but little when you give of your
possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give."

Kahlil Gibran, from The Prophet

 

the texture of stones are like the texture of other stones that have yet to be metamorphosed; except here, my metaphor not only changes, it loses sleep, as it were, and decreases in its effectiveness, and according to the principle of general guidelines, maintained on the bi-lateral code of discipline, we will discover our answer lies not so much in the texture of the stones, but in the stones themselves.

so therefore, one can then imagine the weight of these even weightier matters, which weigh heavily upon the mind, especially at night, when the doors might or might not be locked. are these doors literal or symbolic, or both? figuratively speaking, am i only conversing in patterns of disjointed messages, frozen in time with erroneous import? maybe. or maybe not.

for you see, when two stones, both with affluent textures, rich in granite and, do not forget, cobalt, are married in watery places, the impact, on the evolution of their respective textures is directly and conversely related to their respective textures, so if both have identical texture, then one can assume, that there are not two rocks, but only one.

under similar circumstances, human beings, when subjected to the same rigorous atmospheres, will not become united in these same aquatic locations, because contrary to many scientific opinions, which have claimed everything but anything important, the effect of texture can and will be irregulated in respect to the known and unknown cylindrical influences. duly
noted.

You are my greatest Cause, I, the effect of yourun-deserving affection. You are my final and my firstplace. You are my asylum and the open field in which I run. You are the maker of my smile and author of my tears. You are filling me with joy when I sleep and when I am quiet you are the distant and intimate whisper. You are when I am not. You are more important to me. You are not definable by comparison.
You are everything everyone else is not. You are capturing me every moment. You are finding me when I hide. You are.

"At the level of weakness, we are truly one. In our strengths we stand alone, independent not only from
God, but from one another. Where I am strong, I donít need my brother or my sister. Unneeded, they are unconnected. Where I am weak, I need them. Then together we are strong. Our weaknesses hold the power of connection and the glory of God. Our strengths hold only our own potential."
Len Hjalmarson

As opposed to everything that has been assumed about the perpetually languid and reserved slow-moving species, there is an underlying, bedrock absolute truth about turtles, one that when disclosed, or unearthed, as it were, from the mounds of, up to this point unsubstantiated propaganda, the light of the true amphibian enlightenment will descend and inhabit all the minds who have felt so inclined to shed their scales of blind and weighty ignorance, scales fabricated, though not entirely in the subconscious, on presupposed ideas and predictions of murky pond-knowledge, drowned in congested aquatic pregnancies, womb-filled with doubt and laden with erroneous convictions of suggested emancipations from the shell; these shackles of green are a most naîve and psuedoturtilian endeavour indeed. The ostentatious display of truth, raised on the platform of anthropomorphic morality, was subsequently applicable in regards to the turtle. Most scholars have historically agreed on the boundaries of amphibious limitations in the ethical and socioeconomic compass: All amphibians, mobile by stomach, four, or two legs, are capable of making sound moral judgments only as far as their respective body weights could be hurled, as a projectile, by the nearest dismounted pedestrian-type. This of course has been the most convenient assumption. As the years have progressed with disjointed divisions of opinion in the academic society, so to have the evolution, nay, revelation, of the genesis of truth in reference to an amphibian's, turtles in particular, ability to comprehend matters on a moral level and therefore perform rational maneuvers within the confines of the dark shell of reason. Turtles, as it has now been confirmed, are merely a biosynthetic creation of God's subconscious, made manifest in order to learn the populous, among other spherical virtues, patience. Empirically authentic and kinetically tangible, turtles are, in fact, real. Their moral capabilities, however, fall subject to the mechanization, or wind-up, if you will, of a divinely set-in-motion process called Deamphibilitization, a biological series of events that explain all of a turtles actions, from each small step of amphibious infancy to each ethical response made in aquatic deliberation. In short, the scholastic opinions, given birth by misinformed and misrepresented (dare I say miscreants?) shallow-pated individuals, have thus been falsified on all accounts, each account being, in its own unique and proverbial way, a part of the larger whole that has up till now been the Great Amphibian Cover-up, also known as TurtleGate. And that, dear friend, is the truth about turtles.

can buying an ottoman with a recliner be likened to buying a printer with a computer? or, how about goggles with a snorkel? saddle with the horse? not if you're an indian. is one, therefore, required to purchase the accentuating accessory if the salesman uses the dusty line, "well, if you're gonna spend that much money on 'product x', then you might as well spend the extra $400 on 'product y'"? is this so? has our culture reached the point of acquiescing to the prevailing winds of obligation-driven-consumerism? i indeed hope not, though ottomans are dreadfully pleasant to the feet. it's no wonder the turks had such an imperial presence. ckm

The square root of a turtle's escape velocity is pi times the square of x. And this being the case, we can assume that x equals time minus distance divided by speed. Of course, when dealing with shelled equations, such as this one, we must take into account any outside variables that have acted violently toward the protagonist, always the denominator. So, all this being said, if a hare and turtle are racing toward some unknown destination, can x be assumed, implied, or asserted in reference to its escape velocity? That my friend is the ultimate question but then you say to yourself, Huh? What the heck is he talking about? I've never heard such rubbish. I understand. You disagree with my formulae. Do not be concerned so much with the formulae, or steps to gets there; for yours would be a fleeting life if such were so. The journey itself should be enjoyed. You and I will probably never understand the escape velocity of a turtle, so let us sit back and enjoy the show.

ckm

Imaginary Bands and Their Latest Albums

Exit The Moose - A Shakespearean Aside
Rumpus Room - Were We Here Yet?
Sloven - Ambition Propelled the Cat
Petrified Frenzy - Moonbounce
Twice the Gypsy - Nomadic Tendencies
Kanga Blue and The Notes - Motifs and Circumstances
Gogglehorse - Aquatic Impressions
Thatch the Hatchet - The Dirge Years
Sid Fictitious and The Vicious Misfits - Chronicles of Confusion, Vol. 2
Assumption Junction - Jumping To Conclusions
Willimar and Harpy - Acoustical Nuances
Space Station Alex - foras ex frigido tenebrae (out of the cold darkness)
Alabaster Disaster - Parodies of Storm
The Thomas Experiment - Subterranean Swan Song
Wayward Lance - The Great Embargo
Holler Town - Screaming and Shouting
Tuesday Fusion - Meltdown and Other Assorted Bedtime Stories
Lucy Sundown - Umbrella Tree
Cincinnati Service Project (C.S.P) - Carpathian Rhythms
Plastic Agony - Saltine Tears
Oxen Holiday - last album was 1987's The Replacement Police, band currently on hiatus.
Plaster of Eric - Tragic Distractions
Sanctified Asphalt - The Road to Sparkle
Upton Sinclair-Raid - Cold War Antics
Swift the Foot - Blatant Protocol
Tractor Blast - John Deere Stole My Horse
Et tu Lupe - Live in Tijuana
Squid Puppy - Swim Dog

Once upon a time, when time was not measured, in the golden days and minutes of dreams undreamt, there lived a young boy simply known as Alowisha. A lad of only twelve, Alowisha lived with his parents in a meek stone cottage. From the crooked chimney sitting astride the point of the roof, smoke would billow forth every morning, and Alowisha, after slithering through his crevice of a window, would watch. From the hill beyond his tiny window of his bedroom, which was really only a section of the kitchen, he would watch the thick and then thinning curls of smoke rise from the top his cottage, meeting the morning fog in a marriage of black and white. Though not knowing why and for what purpose, he would sit in this manner every day.

On one morning after stealing from within his woolen walls, while watching the dance of the dawning smoke, Alowisha heard a distinct rustling in the bushes behind where he was lying. He heard a voice call from the bushes, asking of him to free it of its burden. Alowisha, a lad of only twelve, as you already know, possessed enough years to distinguish between that voice in his head, the one we all hear from time to time, sometimes shouting and whispering the strangest requests, from an actual living and breathing voice, one that can only come from that which is external and outside the head. Alowisha knew that it was the latter that he was experiencing, but how, where, to whom did the strange words belong? The report continued to pour from the branches. Freedom! Freedom! Please, for these fetters have worn deep. Can't you see? Won't you lend a hand? This burden has become more than I can bare. Please! Alowisha, who, though he did not know it yet, carried inside him a heart broken for the broken-hearted, and so, took pity on this stranger. Moving in closer to examine the journeymanís entanglement, Alowisha discovered that the said shackles had indeed rubbed deeply into the flesh of their captive.

It is at this point that the story takes an unexpected turn, even stranger than has already taken place. It was certainly not normal or routine for Alowisha to discover lying so near his home a stranger in need of liberation. Alowisha, for as long he could remember had ascended the peak of the tiny hill behind his cottage and every morning watched the smoke, and never did he encounter anything so strange and out of place. Then, as these thoughts and more raced across the mind of the young boy, and just as the iron cuffs were torn from the legs of the minute creature did I say earlier it was a man? It was more a creature than a man, more a frightened animal than a sir. Alowisha wrestled with these thoughts, though eventually giving them no home in his heart. And in this very heart, for what seemed hours, at last, he purposed to lend aid to this wounded speck. He saw neither a man nor a creature. Such cries, such wrenching little moans, they would have brought even the most frozen of hearts to thaw. Alowisha was one of many, frozen.

But the story must continue then, just as Alowisha, in the daring innocence of his soul, knelt down and freed the one of its bonds, the little blot slithered into thin air, as though a vapor, right through the confused fingers of our dear young boy. Where there was once an man, now was left but a pair of iron fetters, in the hands of one dreadfully confused and frightened lad, of only twelve I might remind. Utter amazement painted the face of our astonished Alowisha. Not knowing why, there upon the hill overlooking his humble cottage, he gave forth a rumble of deep joy, sending laughter to all parts of the nearby forest, and in every direction within a mile, people later recalled having heard a curious laughter resounding from all corners of the sky. Alowisha, having given his heart to help another, had discovered that even though the one in need had vanished, it was he who had been in chains. Without realizing it, Alowisha had become captive to the smoke that he watched in rhythm every morning. He had dreamed only of selfish desires, ones rising to meet the morning fog and evaporating when the sun would come. But now, the fog had burned away, the sun was shining, and Alowisha was dancing with joy.

ckm 8.22.00

email: Chris Margrave