immigration, squash, & pakistan (on the day before election day)

I just sat for two hours in the Office of Immigration, with El Salvador's National Squash coach, from Islamabad, Pakistan. After talk of family, sports, religion, and future, I began to hear my number called, and in the last seconds, had to get his take, on politics, relations, public perceptions, all that jazz. so I said: "Break it down for me."

And he did so, saying this: "you and me, we can do this. i understand you, you understand me. this is good. but were you walking on my city streets, i could not talk to you."

Why he said it, is irrelevant in my opinion to the fact that, for whatever reason, somewhere in his heart, he felt it. And i'm not making any political endorsement here, because well, surprisingly Pakistan will be one of the few places wearing red tomorrow; but come election day, may we be mindful of how we, i, americans, fit into the world, more so than how we dominate it.

ps: i am officially a permanent resident of el salvador. cheers.

as 21 questions played the jukebox

whether luck or fate,
the juke box spits the best tune
at first take

around a room,
under spotted light,
passed the two girls at corner windows right,
who stare beyond cell phone screens
into social phenomenon
and true boredom,
to three men,
living horizons,
blowing octobers crisp
wind out their clasped
palms
with the warmth of their back and forth,
like it mattered to eternity,

like conscious and perceptions
for how love
and lonely
happens
like intentions I,
forgotten
remember
a good heart being broken;
and still, for my heart you have spoken;
between
these tin roofed, wooded walls,
they have broken out
from the pie charts
and the bar graphs spells;
and we learn that,
to somewhere
and someone
we are all the errors margin,
our lives the hope
of defying
everything the experts say;

and were the other side
of this restaurant bench occupied,
by she I'd say let's make a break for it.
the president debates
are through,
i heard the worlds a scary place
for most,
and i'm awake to unearthing monsters;
lord knows they don't fear teleprompters,
nor could 2 trillion more
for ships and helicopters
possibly search all the right closets,
in time.

so let beyond realistics sureity,
mouth your lovers hands into the cure,
to a terrified world's need to be heard;
and over mexican and beer
we'll make cold wind out of our fears
and do so,
after all, do so,
with my breath still on your finger tips,
like three men making music
even more melodic,
than Nate Dogg & 50 cent,
or so i imagined it,
as 21 questions played the jukebox.                                

for the wilder pastures

i said a girl like that fades as quick as she smiles, exiting your mind as fast as she flirts. but george couldn't hear me as loud as her skirt, make believing she'd considered him more than the next guy with white skin, khaki pants and bad spanish; and the minute he gave her his, was the same she moved on, to some other game she's playing with eyes and the forces of attraction, some other rope she's pulling, some hope she's twisting. and i wanted to say, wise up smell the summer sun george, look to the hills, and run, for the wilder pastures no one ever takes to because you can't be certain where they roll, nor be home in time to have your hands washed for dinner, and these still have two days of color, some vendor is holding them at your car window, and the light's turning green. 

why i ran for the city i'll never know, but the inundation of curbside daisies never really feels like home, because i was once led through the wild pastures; and their is living color in that which grows; but she made back and forths as a felled flower george, like bubble wrapped plastic - ribbons and bow, with some factory written note that says i love you, but means i don't have time to; but he cashed out, and when he did, part of my soul died too, to think that i might soon; 

meanwhile the hillsides are waving, george isn't watching, and neither is worried; 

except for me. 

Let's Talk Coffee: (Day 1) To Comalapa & Bogota

A 3 pm flight out of Comalapa International Airport; had Antonio and I, Panamericana bound half past 11, quickly dropping by my apartment in the city to drop off my bike and pick up my bag. We talked about the 10th of October community, about that fact that not everything in El Salvador is traced back to the war, and the newly constructed KENWOOD sign that sings out white letters and marketing from the hills of Los Planes, like Hollywood is something we're supposed to imitate.
We said nos vemos, and put the truck back into gear, leaving me sea-level in front of the airport with my bags and a partially sweaty back. I passported my away into a crowd, and quickly checked my bags, receiving instructions and my boarding pass almost entirely in spanish; up until the question of whether or not there were explosives in my baggage, to which I asked for english; against what she had already perceived as my stubborn and strong will.

I will fake comprehension before I admit shortcoming.

Through security and  passed duty free,  I was gate 10 in time to internet, exchanging a few emails with Emilio, and instagram a photo of my ticket and plane, all the while people-watching the Costa Rican national tai-kwon-do team flirt their youth and matching jump suits through the terminal. I was jealous that they were so many, so visibly surrounded by friendship and comradery, and yet I was glad I didn't have a best friend to fight with for the seat next to the brunette with glasses.

Boarding call and a quick photo of the side of the plane, and I was 24 A and a cat nap against the window, in time for take off, and the fading Salvadoran coastline; the San Miguel Volcano pointing to heaven like its the only thing he knows.

Their are moments in life, where one feels so aware of the present, the past and future fold neatly into now, like they've always been there, and always will be. There is no shame, nor fear, simply rest, and the coastline bends eastward, and you spot Honduras in time to notice your flying into an expedited sunset; as sunlight bends into kitchen lanterns, stadium lights, and some little 12 year old girls reading lamp, and it's dark outside, and you're happy, because the man just announced our descent into Bogota.

Let's Talk Coffee 2012: the next generation in relationship coffee

Today, at the near start of a new harvest, I will have the opportunity to travel, on behalf of Cuatro M, to Antioquia, Colombia; to attend an event hosted by Sustainable Harvest Coffee Importers (Portland, OR - USA), titled Let's Talk Coffee: The next generation of relationship coffee.   

Sustainable Harvest themselves, are a coffee importing company based in Portland, Oregon, that we work with and export coffee to over the course of the harvest. With offices and staff then based all over the coffee growing world, their business model structures itself around the idea of relationship coffee & transparency; meaning that their goal in importing coffee, is to do so from farmers that they have direct relationships with, and work with year round, and in a manner that is visible and honest with the financial aspects of the buying and selling.  

Beginning Thursday; and over the course of four days, lectures, discussion, and workshops will take place within the coffee producing country of Colombia, all related to the topic of specialty coffee, its development over the past decades, its state, and its future. 

The idea or, theme of the summit is, "the next generation of relationship coffee," which in essence promotes the principles of community, innovation, and growth; driven toward the idea of joining farmers and millers with roasters to talk about themes within the coffee industry; linked by the importer, Sustainable Harvest. 

Since Cuatro M is a miller and supplier of coffee to Sustainable Harvest, they are providing for all of the expenses of my trip while in Columbia, something they contribute to each individual coffee supplier they work with. 

Having spent the last few weeks reading over the program of events that will take place during Let's Talk Coffee, my head is packed with  ideas that I desire to share and take away from the week. I am perhaps most excited to meet with other farmers and millers, and hear about the manner in which they have developed over the last decades as a result of both their work with Sustainable Harvest, and the specialty coffee industry. 

Understanding the history of development within the coffee industry,  and recognizing that the specialty industry is less than a half century old, I begin to realize that folks working today, are the very ones who have seen the most dramatic changes, and improvements; and can therefore attest most vividly to the development at work across the coffee growing world. 

I am eager to hear those stories. I am eager to listen to folks talk about markets, and develop relationships various members of the specialty community. I am eager to put forth my questions regarding the still urgent need for development in much of coffee growing world, and to hear responses from folks who spend their careers making that happen; and over the course of the next week and a half, I hope to introduce, share some of my expectations for, give updates, and offer a final response to those things learned and experienced at Let's Talk Coffee 2012. 

from 'two sonnets in memory' - Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time, that renews the tissues of this frame, 
That built the child and hardened the soft bone, 
Taught him to wail, to blink, to walk alone, 
Stare, question, wonder, give the world a name, 
Forget the watery darkness whence he came, 
Attends no less the boy to manhood grown, 
Brings him new raiment, strips him of his own; 
All skins are shed at length, remorse, even shame. 
Such hope is mine, if this indeed be true, 
I dread no more the first white in my hair, 
Or even age itself, the easy shoe, 
The cane, the wrinkled hands, the special chair: 
Time, doing this to me, may alter too 
My sorrow, into something I can bear. 

2 roasters, 1 barista & a journalist

These characters soon became some of my favorite. A great day in January.

Our newest...

So, while by no means a hater, my boss, Emilio, dislikes Coldplay. Paul Simon, Bob Dylan, and all the other classics, he is into, but just don't think about mentioning Chris Martin in the car, without expecting to see his face go sour, followed by some remark to get serious about your taste in music. So when he denied me permission to use a Sufjan Stevens song in this video, saying not to take it personally, I chose to even the score by selecting none other than a poppy Coldplay song, for the final video of a class he will be teaching in Portland next week Saturday. While I do enjoy the song, we both gathered around the computer this morning to see what I had concocted over the previous couple of hours, he rubbing his  hands together, and me holding in a smirk, that would become laughter as the artist of the song was revealed in the opening notes. 

I suppose anything was better than Sufjan's Chicago, as Emilio noted that he liked the video, and that it would work; which now means that I will more assuredly select something out of the classic rock genre for my next video, to again grant myself some leeway for these alternative ears.  Until then, the song is Hurts like Heaven, and accompanies video I shot in May of our machinery at the hulling station. Hope you like. 

One of our newest (shot over the course of this passed harvest)

RP207 - Basics of Coffee Processing (class toward completion of Roaster Guild Certification)

it's your right, but sincerely, why not hunger ... (and waffle fries)

i spoke to my brother, and he said, "don't let these things get to you," but it got to me, and so I wrote three pages, but i'll promise to drop them, along with my criticism, each into the fire i just started, so long as we promise to both look up from the flames and ask a few questions: 


why not hunger?  


in the first day and age, when the world produces more food than every human would need in a day, and yet somehow one dies every seven seconds because we don't. 


why not hunger? 


can we get outraged by social injustice, or something that actually matters, and wait in hours of lines to give our money away; to light up our inner souls with hopes of feeding every mouth, instead of social networks with images of us filling ours? 


why not hunger? 


christian church, turn your cheeks to what you perceive to be blows, and your eyes to the faces of the ones who didn't eat today. i've got no reputation of feeding the hungry, but i swear i'll dive head first into the church that convinces me they care more about that, than the offenses to corporate millionaires and political agendas.


true religion is not at the bottom of your sweet tea; but it is somewhere in James 1:27. 


and i close out of a favorite book of mine...


"There are always those who take it upon themselves to defend God, as if Ultimate Reality, as if the sustaining frame of existence, were something weak and helpless. These people walk by a widow deformed by leprosy begging for a few paise, walk by children dressed in rags living in the street, and they think, "Business as usual." But if they perceive a slight against God, it is a different story. Their faces go red, their chests heave mightily, they sputter angry words. The degree of their indignation is astonishing. Their resolve is frightening. 

These people fail to realize that it is on the inside that God must be defended, not on the outside. They should direct their anger at themselves. For evil in the open is but evil from within that has been let out. The main battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena but the small clearing of each heart. Meanwhile, the lot of widows and homeless children is very hard, and it is to their defense, not God's, that the self-righteous should rush.” 


- Yann Martel 'Life of Pi'

intro to 'to she:'

Not sure if there is a more ‘token’ metaphor, than that of the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a butterfly; the transformation of one ‘creature’ into another; and let’s be honest, my science is bad, at best, however, I did read up on a child’s butterfly website, so I suppose that makes me qualified to dole out facts like Bill Nye or something. 

You hear it often, and my intention is not to emphasize or even highlight what happens within that cycle of life and transformation, however, I do hope to walk passed with thoughts, like I did this butterfly's dead body being eaten by ants; how moving, the imagery of that transformation and rebirth is, within the larger narrative of the butterfly’s very short lifespan. 

A 3rd grade field trip to Butterfly World taught me that an average butterfly lives about 12 days, and from my new favorite website, I learned that this number can be greater or less, but regardless, I remember thinking even then, that is a short span of time. Seems somewhat sad, that something so magnificent as metamorphosis, could be so shadowed with a near flash of an existence, and yet we very seldom hear much of the butterfly’s life, other than that sole event of newness into butterfly, never the short-lived, or otherwise tragic imagery of something so inspiring and beautiful, ceasing to be. 

And i want to capture that reality of that thinking, pack it into a rucksack, and travel the world; because truth is, I think most of us are cocooned in life’s possible failures, the what ifs, the potential dangers, potential tragedies; and what is the butterfly doing; he’s living, with nothing more than two weeks ahead of him, and so he always inspires, he is always called beautiful, he will always be the centerpiece for allegories and metaphors, and rightfully so. 

I want to live, so free of fear, so full of love, so intentionally hopeful, so mindful of of what i’m chasing after, that when i miss the target the memory of what i’m aiming at is nothing but sonnets and daisies, that when i fall short the dirt on the other bank will have been disturbed, that when my skiff is found empty eyes will subsequently scale the waterfall, that when loneliness makes camp the sun will set over a volcano i’ve never seen before, and when oxygen, no longer expands and contracts within my lungs, we'll know without question, that i am at last, truly breathing. 

to she:

you were a star

a hologram baseball card

and my father’s father’s guitar

you were gold 

my favorite story book

and a secret i’d never tell a soul 

you were a season

fallen leaves and winter lake 

caught in the act of freezin’

and when you leapt onto my pages 

you penned your name she  

and wrote it on my cover 

beside will forever be

so i’m going to flatter you 

then let my heart break

it’s the only i’ll come out breathing

(the only way i keep believing 

that you can be every bit of beautiful 

as the colorful 

i’ve scratched onto the cave walls 

of my today, 

yet not be mine)

cuz’ when i crack this cocoon 

my brightest butterfly wings 

will dance a hope stronger then the darkness before

crack this cocoon 

my brightest wings 

will dance a hope stronger than the death comin’ soon

isn’t that something to hold on to 

something to believe in

looming death yet i’m still dreamin’ 

so you keep singing 

keep on shining

listen to: 'to she:'

in pickup trucks and the least of these

i am a weak soul
and i believe the good lord knows so
because he does things


yes i believe he takes pleasure
in restoring
that soul to its place of strength -
when it walked in the garden with Adam;
i was there,
with him;
as a skin cell,
or perhaps
his index finger nail,
but there
for nameless amounts of sunrises,
naming animals
and attending to the earth,
there when god came, and
opened us up to make Eve,
when she,
took part in our flesh;
and when we
thought we
could be like God.


it was then
i fell
with him, and apart
cast to the earth;
swept up in dust blood
of a younger son
and falling rain;
drifting through the firmament
in flood waters and ebbing tide,
washed ashore a beach in texas;
to wait within the sand
for a man
deep beneath his hands
digging into the loose grained floor -
till skin tore,
for me
to enter his blood stream
while he found love and camping,
the road back home ending
his spring break and singleness;
he laughed at her stories
and thought her the firework,
an explosion
from which our face glowed,
and i grew
from love to boy, now man
in the blood stains
of imperfection -
and the memory of my first home,


he wants to restore me to,
so he does things,
like sending bus drivers beyond my eyes
on a morning where there is only one,
then pours grace into my upturned thumb,
he does things,
like cause the sun to press gently
into a sunday sky
and hide its glow inside
a hawks breeze,
he does things,
like harmonize the compassion
of heat and wind,
and rest it on my exposed eyelids,


from which the sight flooding my present
is full rainbows
at every bearing of the compass,
the world is spinning
and God is watching,
like he does see after all,
like he knows that i need that kind of attention,
even if only for a downhill;
like he knows my memory of the garden and he wants to remind it's still waiting,
like he knows i'm desperate to find it and so he's leaving clues,
like he hears me losing and wants me to feel what it's like to be picked first,
to score the game winner
at the buzzer
with a girl in the bleachers,
like he knows my X's are bureaucrats and intellectuals
and he put the treasure in pickup trucks and the least of these,
in the unseen,
in the small things,
like roundabouts and handshakes,
their shotgun holding uniforms,
now fathers coming home to mothers,
the 24 hour shifts,
and the 24 hours later,
their so-long smiles and companion hearts.


God put his treasure in hearts,
and sometimes, on missed bus mornings
he lets it glow,
like stars when the power's down,
like white teeth against a black light,
as new as everyday
as bright as always


like the kingdom of god is here;
it costs us everything,
and we can afford it,
because there's treasure hidden,
still to be discovered,
and it's not in our t.v. screens,
and it's not in the church pews,
not in lady gaga's lyrics,
nor the third chorus of 'mighty to save',
it's the love we have for others,
and it's only ever known fully when
everything is forsaken, but love for our brother,
and sister.


if the kingdom of god is the edge of town;
i keep imagining myself as the guy
showing people houses,
not making sales or anything,
just taking people around the block;
and i'm meeting folks
that need grace,
like it changes something,
like it makes them wealthy enough
to shop on this side of the tracks,
and their eyes light up
like they've never known luxury,
like they've never knowing something
that couldn't be taken away
by something or someone else,
and i just get to walk them around all day,
and enjoy their smiles and faces;


and when we're all finished with the tour,
we each hop out the back
of a white nissan frontier
slap hands and pound it, before
saying our 'see you mondays,'
as they head toward families,
and i to the other side of the roundabout
to flag down the 202 to San Salvador.

Coffee Dry Milling: Parchment Remover

The task for today was to complete the two remaining videos of the different components within the hulling station at Beneficio El Manzano, and as I began my day, I attempted to look up a credible source or two that might lay out a somewhat scientific explanation of the happenings within two of the machines we were focusing on. 

I scratched and pawed my way through cyberspace, only to find vaguely worded descriptions of this process. Upon emailing the manufacturers however, Emilio and I scratched our heads for several minutes attempting to make sense of the complex description we’d received, of exactly what is happening within the density grading process of green coffee processing. (Seriously, they sent us a book). 

Now, to the layman, we present a scientific explanation of each of the different components within green coffee processing, from parchment to export, without sailing anywhere near the top of your head. 

The first aspect of dry milling we’ll focus on is the hulling, which simply refers to the removing of the outer skin from the green coffee; before it is  graded, categorized, and sorted by other various machines. 

Parchment Coffee

Within hulling the task is two-fold. First, since the coffees are coming to the machinery exactly as they were bagged from the patio, they, must be screened of any foreign objects, be they rocks, leaves, sticks, etc.  Therefore, as the parchment coffee is loaded into a hopper, it is first transported to a machine within acts as a screen and destoner. This machine is a metal plate containing multiple holes, that allow the parchment coffee to pass through, while retaining all foreign objects. 

Screen/De-Stoner

Secondly, the task within hulling is the strip the green coffee of its external parchment. As coffee leaves the screen/de-stoner, it is transported via bucket elevator to the huller itself, which receives the coffee from a hopper located above. 

There are multiple types of hullers; however the function is to use friction as a means of separating the coffee bean from the parchment without damaging or cracking the bean, and allowing it to continue processing and sorting, while removing and channeling out, the now removed parchment. 

Green Coffee

To accomplish this, parchment coffee is put within a cylindrical chamber, which contains a second notched rotating cylinder; meaning the parchment is only able to pass within the space between the inner wall of the stationary cylinder, and the outer, notched wall of the rotating cylinder. It is at this point where it comes in contact with both, and the friction caused by the pressure and rotation, forces the parchment off of the green coffee. 

Parchment Remover

Gravity naturally pulls the green coffee down, however the parchment is removed by a vacuum positioned above the rotating cylinder which, as the parchment is separated from the bean, draws out the parchment and channels it out of the machinery, and deposits it into a holding tank to await later use. 

Rotary Plate

As it exits the cylindrical huller, green coffee is sifted by a rotary plate, which sorts out any parchment coffee still remaining in the batch, and cycles it back up into the huller for a second pass. The green coffee continues through the cleaning process, exiting a channel in the rotary plate, and into the machine which will grade the coffee according to weight. 

the ones you keep

Kiddo: Kerrington Lynn Smith
Established:  January 23, 2010
by: Rusty & Janice Smith

you better believe i kicked myself when i realized i only had 3 photos, outside the cell phone i used in the states, now abandoned at the farm with me in san sal. for tonight we have the memory, of a princess who turned my heart liquid when she let me help her pick out what dress she would wear one morning i had stopped by the house; the memory of a girl who was the first to make me truly want to be a father, and feel but a fraction of what it must be like to be one, and have she for a daughter. 

Green Coffee Processing: Size Grading

Video from this weeks dry milling at Beneficio El Manzano. 

Set to Idioteque by Radiohead. 

instagram that shit

(i don’t really care to blog about politics, but it’s a timely place to start, considering how pelican crazy everyone went talking about the supreme court today. nor will i claim to be a christian church analyst or expert, i'm simply free-handing ideas that come to mind, with the realization that many of them are flawed, but realizing that there has got to be some insight into our infrequent, sporadic political and religious fervor, and i want to figure it out, and perhaps ask myself why i don't really do anything about the things i claim to care so much about, and perhaps discover that it is because i haven't learned how to truly care about them, and maybe if i did learn how to, life would no longer be as easy or trendy, but rather challenging, but no less, good, and god-glorifying). 

i sincerely love how political we’ve become today, and rightfully so, a major piece of legislation is upheld by the supreme court, for which, whether we like it or not, our lives will be affected in some way shape or form, i suppose, if they haven’t been already; but perhaps, perhaps our political bantering today is just the social consciousness of a few months ago, when most of us pretended like we truly wanted justice for African children, but didn’t actually physically move there and look for places to start working, nor do anything for that matter, like we all liked pogs, yo-yo's, and silly-bandz, but grew out of them, when they no longer fit that intrinsic perception that there is a need to be entertained, to love what others love, have what others have, or more simply, be noticed, looked at, thought neater, bigger, cooler; or when they no longer made us happy. 

i don’t want church to be talked about like i do a coffee shop, and truth is i don’t hate on what is popular, in fact i recently joined twitter, bought an ipad and I love it, i want people to do and be near to wherever and what makes them happy, and then divorce themself from the idea that this is always how the christian life is lived, that this is somehow the way god intended his people to gather, in a place that entertains, and lets them love what others love, have what others have, be noticed, looked at, thought neater, bigger, cooler; or that makes them happy. 

i can’t think of one time in the gospel where Jesus had the disciples lead three songs before he preached, and i don’t want to be a crazy person, because truth is i like music, but lets honestly consider how much church happens within that often awkward span of time, how near we feel to god during the fourth accapella repeat of the bridge; because i think there's something to the mad emphasis; and I know some language scholar can help me out with this, because it just feels too right, that worship has little to do with singing, or about how 'refreshing' the preaching was, but about living, and probably not even always within the walls of a church; and i also know it’s good to feel near to god; and perhaps the church you like now does that for you, but perhaps that nearness is like the passion we feel in political ranting after a supreme court ruling, like the blood in our veins for our strongest opinion about gay marriage or some hot topic, the jinkos, chain wallets, or bell bottoms, of the present church; and it fades quickly; so if we take one element of the nearness away, i imagine most of us move on. 

so perhaps the church is sustaining a fad, that changes every so often, like hymnals and pews, projection screens and fog machines; but actually accomplishing very little; and not little in the bar graph, comparitive sense, because i realize we do a lot, but little in the potential sense; in the fact that maybe we're changing more to suit our attendees and less to meet the needs of the world. 

I don’t mean to downplay the work of many, who give their lives to spread Jesus, but don’t try and convince me that this is the norm, i would bet it’s entirely the opposite; that they are the extreme few, and when they become the norm, i’ll happily change my tone; because the money we give to support them, i imagine we individually spend significantly more on skinny jeans and angry birds, really, i imagine my own life is so right on that point it should disturb me.

i imagine that the average christian today spends more on fads than he does on the gospel, and if thats true in our spending habits why would i think it any different in our ideas of true worship; but i'm not condemning myself, as much as i am finding reason to believe that giving money cannot in fact be the whole story to living out the gospel; i must believe that physically living out the gospel, is direct, and whole; meaning that it is our chief portion of living, not some indirect, well i work at Lowe’s and I smile a lot, so people see Jesus in me. do i want to live out my life like Christ intended me to hopefully, and indirectly show him to the world, or do we want to live our lives in a way that demands our entire physical selves; all energy within our minds and hands, directly working to act justly and love mercy. 

Am I doing that, no, am i aiming in that direction, hopefully, will I get there, absolutely; and, i’m certain that if we thought more about true worship, more about actually physically doing, with our own hands, the things we feel so strongly for; the church could transform into what the world truly needs; it can feed the hungry, it can write bibles into every language, it can end social injustice; but the question is do we really want that? 

excuse me, it just started raining outside and i want to instagram that shit. 

Anis Mojgani - "equal parts science & magic"

so call this the year of no mistakes 

the year of the heavy sword

but stronger hands 

the year, where we are no longer stuck in the street 

but found somewhere between the asphalt and the moon 

inside a sheath of arrows turning itself into wind 

the year where we turn our hearts towards light 

with the realization and acceptance of not only how utterly magnificent

everyone of us is, 

but that this magnificence is something that we cannot help but carry with us. 

there is joy inside of you waiting to be heard 

listen for it 

and to the spaces it speaks from 

follow those spaces

do not tremble before the boulder blocking the entrance into yourself 

do not tremble before the boulder blocking the entrance out of yourself 

you cannot fall 

you are noble 

the universe is a part of you 

and you apart of it 

and every piece of it is made of science and magic 

every part of you is science and magic

come thou fount

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace
Streams of mercy, never ceasing
Call for songs of loudest praise
Teach me some melodious sonnet
Sung by flaming tongues above
Praise the mount, I'm fixed upon it
Mount of Thy unchanging love

Here I raise my Ebenezer
Here there by Thy great help I've come
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure
Safely to arrive at home
Jesus sought me when a stranger
Wandering from the fold of God
He, to rescue me from danger
Interposed His precious blood

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I'm constrained to be
Let that grace now, like a fetter
Bind my wandering heart to Thee
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it
Prone to leave the God I love
Here's my heart, O take and seal it
Seal it for Thy courts above

'Homeward Bound' - live cover with gino antolino

through jacksonville and after

arguing about marijuana 

jail time and legalization 

he was fifteen, 

the center and heat,

the brains and the reason

within debate,

but in a jam, 

with the law, 

and he wore a white wrist band 

to prove it;

which commanded

the conductors attention 

as he passed by

before the next station

'do not get off the train' 

he said, 

and the embarrassment 

cast from eyes

were an open

invitation 

to a conversation

worth having. 

and the five other exiting bodies 

created a window 

for me to see deep into your soul 

as you swore time and again, 

attempting to convince us both

you didn’t steal that cell phone,

and i wanted to say i forgave you 

but instead let you believe your acting 

was on par.

but at least when they expelled you from school 

they couldn’t expel you from grace 

and all i hope is that you felt like it was true

in our ten minutes; 

after which you went back to your 

fighting words and hard core 

back turned hat 

and bull shit 

faking of a rebel headliner 

without the hardest years of life 

ahead of you 

and nothing and no 

one behind you. 

but then again maybe 

you had no choice, but to

play that part to make it,

and i’ll give you entertainer 

you had us wall to wall 

enraptured 

by that story of the german 

you met in the city

and the legal drinking age,

what makes law you asked,

and how our laughter 

became belief when you said 

he was the only father 

you really had 

god damnit, 

if i knew a thing or two; 

i might have said more than

peace kid, 

i might have given you my wallet, anything 

and at least told you to make something 

of your mind 

something of your potential, i could have

called your mother in ft. lauderdale

and told her hang up 

the booze 

and enroll you in language class

i could have,

asked for a name, 

to put beneath the face 

of the kid that just may

smoke 

himself broke

and third offense his way 

into a place with metal wrist bands, 

so what makes law? 

in the end, 

it didn't matter 

so much as the laughter,

the commonality

through jacksonville and after 

and you created that, 

i just hope you don't forget it.