himself, perhaps

without love, he was a shallow grave, a tainted reliquary

where dogs bury bones for future consumption

he was aching for resurrection from his tomb

to leap about the temple of his world

he dreamt of sowing cheer for once

and bear the presumptions others assume

but it was life that was missing

had escaped into the wilderness of loss

of a childhood smothered beneath a mountain of loss

beneath the garbage dump where seagulls swarm

he longed to rise crying

to scrub away filth from the treasure at hand

to flush the muck binding his feet

but who'd hug him in his funk

choose him, a trinket cast off as junk?

who will notice and enfold him in care

who other than himself, perhaps?

*Thoughts of Gil Bailie:

-No group of  people is more unalike than a group of really committed Christians.  The saints are as unusual and unique as you can imagine.

-Christianity is all about imitation, not in the slavish sense, but in the sense of being inspired to the same aspiration.

-Heaven is not where you are, it's who you're with.

*How Can We Be Free

Sometimes I wonder about this race

Because we must be blind as hell

2 think we live in equality

while Nelson Mandela rots in a jail cell

Where the shores of Howard Beach

are full of Afrikan corpses

And those that do live 2 be 18

Bumrush to join the Armed Forces

This is so called "Home of the Brave"

why isn't anybody Backing us up!

When they c those crooked ass Redneck cops

constantly Jacking us up

Now I bet some punk will say I'm racist

I can tell by the way you smile at me

then I remember George Jackson, Huey Newton

and Geronimo 2 hell with Lady Liberty