The Rant of Prisoners

sometime in 2010:

I will be one day the sum of all my missing, my most non-existent parts
I will one day thrive--out of a barren, shriveled seed, a crusted soil, a poison rain.

{I will decide what I am today}
{and tomorrow will stick to it}

This will happen somehow--in what men of old would call a miracle--when out of my nothing a something is born
when out of putrescence glory will appear, when the sum of everything I lack will culminate in His infusion.

{No--I will pick a self for this body this afternoon}
{and tomorrow will follow through}

I will die in the misery of marriage to this flesh, and entrapment in a sick sin/feeble mind
unless the Something comes for my nothing

Why is it--really, I'd like to know--why is it that this shriveled soil delights in its infertility? Is there comfort to be found there?
"I canot be shaped into glory because the stuff I am made of is not worth shaping, I can bloom no fruit or flower because the soil is simply not the right kind; plant something else"

Is there pleasure, some sad blankie, that I draw out of worthlessness?

Have I not seen and worshipped worth? Who could forget worth once she has met Him? Once Worth has infused her?

The God with 700 Names

My hands are red; my hands are dark
My hands are dirty, black, and blue
They're anything but lily-white
They're full of anything but you

Oh God, my God, please watch my back
This crooked back of polio
These crooked feet on paths of mud
These legs that are diseased and slow

Oh Father, Papa, Servant-King
I am the Princess of the Shunned
So wash my inside and my out
And straighten me till I can run

Your cross, it is a gurney wide
An intravenous saving thing
You word, it is a wheeling chair
Your grace, it is a mineral spring

CHORUS
You are the antidote to me
You are the antidote to me
My eyes, my mouth, my heart are free
You are the antidote to me