Ink Blots & Spilled Thoughts

The Heart of the Plaything Or, The Black That No One Claimed An American folk-elegy, in nine songs  as sung by the one who walks beside the boy SONG ONE: THE QUESTION You ask me why the boy went quiet.  You ask me why he does not turn.  You ask me why the ones who left him  are the ones he cannot mourn. You ask me why he stands so still  when the world keeps tearing down.  You ask me why he will not beg  for the love that never found him. And I will tell you, if you’ll hear—  I’ll tell you plain and true—  the black is not a choice he made.  The black is what they grew. Oh, the heart is a stone  and the stone is cold  and the cold is the only thing  that keeps a body whole.  And the black is the color  of the love that never stayed—  and the boy walks on  because the boy can’t pray. SONG TWO: THE FIRST CUT The first cut came when they left him—  a hand that ...

The Heart of the Ram Or, The Black That Comes After An American folk-elegy, in nine songs as sung by the one who walks beside the boy SONG ONE: THE QUESTION You ask me why my coat is black. You ask me why I do not turn. You ask me why the ones who loved are the ones I cannot mourn. You ask me why I stand so still when the world is burning down. You ask me why I will not kneel before the star or crown. And I will tell you, if you'll hear— I'll tell you plain and true— the black is not a choice I made. The black is what I grew. Oh, the heart is a stone and the stone is cold and the cold is the only thing that keeps a body whole. And the black is the color of the love that couldn't stay— and the Ram walks on because the Ram can't pray. SONG TWO: THE FIRST CUT The first cut came when I was young— a mother's hand, a father's word. They said, "You are not what we made. You are not what we heard." And I learned that love is a door that can be shut...

THE PAPER WAS WORTH MORE   (An Epic from the Betrayal Ledger) The stair rises like a black spine into smoke the color of old bruises.  Not clean smoke. This smoke carries the wet-iron smell of burned temple cloth, the sweetness of melting wax, and the faint copper of skin that has held something too long. At the top of that stair the white Lamb stands motionless. His fleece is the white of fresh bone under moonlight. His eyes are not the gentle eyes of church windows—they are red, wet, and open, the exact red of a wound that refuses to scab. Smoke moves through His hair the way fog moves through the bare branches of a dead orchard at dusk. He does not blink. He only looks down. Below Him, in a blue that is neither sky nor water but the color of a bruise seen through deep water, the black Ram stands and does not burn. His hide drinks the light. His horns are polished stone, catching the last dull glints and turning them into thin, hard edges. The air around him ...

The Throne of Stone     Or, The Boy Speaks Last   An American folk-death dance, as told by the doe-eyed boy himself  I. THE CHAIR Now I stand before the throne of stone  where the Devil sits and the Lamb is gone.  I’ve got no contract. I’ve got no pen.  I’ve got nothing left to give again.  And the Devil says, “Come in, cher. Take a chair.  We can work something out. We can make it fair.”  But I look at the seat and the names below.  There are things about stone that a boy can know.  There is stone in the courthouse. Stone in the nave.  Stone at the door and stone at the grave.  Stone for the man who pronounces the blame.  Stone for the boy when they finish his name.  And the bell goes ding—  oh, the bell goes ding—  but the string’s gone slack on the little brass ring.  And the cat sits still while the mouse walks round.  But the mouse lays the pen  ...

The Throne of Stone   Or, The Boy Speaks Last   An American folk-death dance, as told by the doe-eyed boy himself  I. THE CHAIR Now I stand before the throne of stone  where the Devil sits and the Lamb is gone.  I’ve got no contract. I’ve got no pen.  I’ve got nothing left to give again.  And the Devil says, “Come in, cher. Take a chair.  We can work something out. We can make it fair.”  But I look at the seat and the names below.  There are things about stone that a boy can know.  There is stone in the courthouse. Stone in the nave.  Stone at the door and stone at the grave.  Stone for the man who pronounces the blame.  Stone for the boy when they finish his name.  And the bell goes ding—  oh, the bell goes ding—  but the string’s gone slack on the little brass ring.  And the cat sits still while the mouse walks round.  But the mouse lays the pen  on the...

The Recognition of the Living Flame A Liturgy of the Twice-Born  For the Unbound, the Remembering, and the Becoming  * At the Threshold Before you speak,  listen. Before you name the flame,  feel its warmth already waiting  in the hollow of your hands. Before you ask who has called you here,  remember: you arrived carrying breath  you did not purchase,  a body you did not forge,  a language shaped by mouths  that fell silent before you were born,  and a longing older than your name. You did not come here empty. You came carrying rain in your blood,  the mineral sleep of stone in your bones,  the deep green patience of root and leaf,  the long labor of hands  you will never meet,  and the memory of songs  that learned to live  by passing from one living throat  to another. And you who read these words—  do not stand outside them. The breath that fo...