Bored with the rosary beads
and anxiety of agendas
I gaze up from the corner chapel in my
9th floor imaginary tree house home.
My blurred vision moves from the cross to the obnoxious glow of the golden arches and
hallows the hope
that once was fire
warming my heart over the violent city.
Yet, I still seek to
prayers of hope, faith, love, healing
like ironic bombs and blast the gang violence and super BOGO sales into garden compost piles.
I was in jail yesterday scammed with truth that sent seizures of confusion down my spine.
Prayer transforms into an awkward move:
tripping over my own feet- because celibacy is sometimes solo- I bruise as I dance
through the constant clashing hymn
“trust in the Lord with all your heart” and “give glory to God.”
I listen and I remember
the song offered harmony and grace before.
Today it hurts my ears.
The pacifist dreams are a war within.
I sob over (non-organic) coffee-stained non-profit grants
and realize the stench of hope is stale
because I am learning
the truth transpires and collides with the desire
to believe, bless, and be
loving presence around a cluttered holy supper table carved with “never simple, never clear.”
I yelp; my flesh bubbles, burned by the flame which jumped out of
the Sacred Heart pillar prayer candle.
As I cringe with “ew,” my spirit mysteriously stills and hears a hopeful Spirit whisper:
my body hurts.
I was in Kindergarten yesterday and I climbed over fences and sung happy made-up songs.
Laughing, I turn up the volume on the alleluia chorus
of “be not afraid” and “I am with you”
and let the hallow, hurting hope guide me back home to “Here I AM.”