double you


These assembly line double-you’s:

w w w w w w.

or the a’s, they have it: a, a, a, a

followed always in my mind

by a distant long ago echo

s, d, f; j and k, l and semi ;


The nails in the coffin of something hard to express

Was that moveable type.

It took all these centuries for the thing to die.

And for it to be dragged into that waiting pine box.


And that death

Means that I am removed from this thing I create.

I sit back in my chair and right now

As I write now.


There is this keyboard on my lap.

My fingers dance across the keys.

My fingers just danced across to strike out

“m,y, (space bar) f,I,n,g,e,r,s (Space bar) j,u,s,t, (space bar)”

and so on.


They come up on the screen.

These assembly line m’s.  and y’s.

Why?’s   perhaps but not wise.


They are meaningless on the screen.

Perhaps they will take on some new afterlife online in some self-indulgent blog.

Perhaps they will reborn after being shat out the printer.

Maybe I will hold that paper in my quaking hand and read it in a coffee shop.

Or pass it on to a friend.

Or just read it and crumble it up and throw it away forever.


I am removed now from the thing I create.

It is not like before.

I used to write in this leather-bound journal.

My hand writing is bad.

But each of these m’s and y’s they were my babies.

Each a little different than the other.


Unconsciously mostly I might draw them out lengthwise to fill the line.

Mostly unawares I might cheat a little of the space between words to fit it all together.

Now they are all the same, factory-made.

I wait and I watch passively.

Wondering if it will fit in the way that I hope it will fit.


It is a testament to this age that I think even in terms of defaults.

Now the default is that it will be spelled correctly.

The first letter in the line will be capitalized.

There are orphans and widows no more.


I might undo them now.

But that’s different

Than having to do them all

In the first place.



We don’t understand

What it means that He is The Word.



They didn’t either.

But we don’t understand it.

In a new and deeper way.


Our poetry doesn’t rhyme anymore.

This is both the fall out

And the plutonium that sat unexploded

In the pregnant warhead before the blast.


We don’t understand what it means that He is the Word.

Our poetry doesn’t rhyme.


We have this idea that Adam reached into a primordial pouch of scrabble letters.

And that he pulled these little tiles out.

And that he arranged them haphazardly on his the little blue rack.

And then he declared that the beast that had been paraded before him.

Would be christened forever with his name.


Perhaps we believe this because there was this tower once that fell.

And then language was confounded.

Ironically, We began to babble

After the tower fell.


God said

“It was Good.”

And “it was very good.”

And “It is not good for man to be alone.”


He said these things before he made Adam outside the Garden.

Before Adam named them all in the garden.

Adam floundered into language.

Or he fell into language.

Or he flirted with language.


But the words existed before him.

It was not only The Word.

But all of the words.

All of the words.

For everything that would ever be.

They existed before him.


Our poetry does not rhyme anymore.

We should lament the loss of something precious in this.

Once we believed that all those sounds participated in the meanings.

Once we believed that sounding right implied rightousness.



They buried the coffin with nails made of moveable type.

I saw them do it.


They did not stop for a cigarette break.

They began to dig a whole right next to it.


Sometimes when a man watches his wife die,

He wants them to prepare a space next to her.


I’ve never known of them to dig that hole to get it all ready.

Right after the funeral.

They,  must have known it wouldn’t be long for him either.


He was never the same when they realized that there was not one language.

And not a hundred language.  Or even a thousand.


It did not help that languages died.  And then they were born.  And then they died.


They evolved.  Languages and creatures evolved.


And they saw that there were these terrible masters of language, too.

They saw how they could put words together, sometimes, so beautifully.


They could build these rythmns and rhymes,

Paint these pictures with the words.  Say things with out ever saying them.


Only in the wordless time, near sleep.

Did it struck the gut with unassailable certainy.


These words were not right

Not right at all.



This is why we think

That if there was an Adam.

He must have named them all by reaching into a scrabble letter bag.

This is why our poetry does not rhyme.

This is why it is a new flavor of meaningless.

To proclaim that he was The Word.


We don’t believe in Words with a capital double you anymore.

We think it is just a group of lines, a scratching on the page

Imbued with meaning only because we have agreed upon that meaning.


That is why we make them all the same and we think that this is not just o.k.

But all these letters, made from a factory, and living in limbo on the screen:

They have become the ideal.


Published by


The stories that speak to our soul begin at a home where things are good. Cinderella is happy with her father. The three little pigs have grown up and are ready to move on. Bilbo Baggins knows his shire. Adam and Eve walk with God in the garden. My story isn’t much different. There was a time and a place where it was so good. There was a community for me. And there was joy. We were filled with a sincere desire to do what God wanted us to do. We possessed explanations and understandings that went a certain distance. We offered security and tradition and laughter. For a lot of years, that was enough. I have this sense that it was also necessary. I have this surety, now, that it certainly wasn’t everything. There were some things that became increasingly problematic as time went by. There was a desire to package things up so very neatly. Sunday morning services were efficient and strategic. Responses to differences of opinion were premeditated. Formula began to feel more important than being real. A real desire for everybody to be one of us, but also a real sense that there is an us, and there is a them. They carried a regret that it has to be this way, but deeper than this regret was a surety that this is how it is. I began to recognize that there was a cost of admission to that group. There were people who sat at the door, collecting it. Those people wished they didn’t have to. But I guess they felt like they did have to. They let some people in, and they left others out. There was a provisional membership. My friends did possess a desire to accommodate people that are different… But it would be best for everyone concerned if they were only a little bit different. I did make many steps forward in this place. Before I went there, there were lies that I believed. Some of the things that I learned there, I still hold on to. But that place is not my home anymore. Those people are not my community anymore. There were times it was hard. I am engaged in a different community now. And I am working hard at finding a place in many different places now, embracing many different kind of families. I don’t always get it right. I am trying and I am learning and I am moving foreward. I have this sense that I am not alone in these experiences. I believe that we are tribe and we are growing. We are pilgrims, looking for a new holy land. Perhaps we won’t settle on the same spot of land. But if you’ve read this far, I am thinking that we are probably headed in the same general direction. I have begun this blog to talk about where my journey is taking me. In every space, we find people who help us along. And maybe we can get to know each other, here. We embrace ideas that provide a structure for the things we believe, and perhaps we can share these too. Maybe we can form a group, a tribe, a community, if we can figure out a way to work through the shadow of these kinds of groups, if we can bigger than the us-and-them ideas that have caused so much trouble in the past. As important as they are, I think the very nature of online interactions will lend itself to something equally powerful. I am stumbling onto these practices that my grandfathers and great grandfathers in the faith engaged in. I am learning about these attitudes and intuitions are so different than the kinds of things we call doctrine today. I don’t know about you, but I am running out of patience, and even interest, in conversations about doctrine. I hope that maybe you’ll share a little something about where your journey is taking you, and maybe our common joys and challenges might help each other along, and we might lift each other up. Thanks for doing this journey with me.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s