Wildchild Jesus, come to me,  
With windswept hair and eyes that see,  
The broken soul, the bound, the free,
You walk where mercy dares to be.

Wildchild Jesus, fierce and kind,  
Shake the dust from hearts confined.  
Lead us where the wild winds blow,  
To love the world and let it grow.

Not robed in gold, nor crowned in pride,  
But clothed in grace, with arms stretched wide.  
You speak in fire, you move in rain,  
You heal the heart, you bear the pain.

You danced through deserts, crossed the sea,
You broke the chains and set us free.
You loved the lost, the least, the lame,  
And bore the cross without a name.

So come, Wildchild, Spirit flame,  
Disrupt our fear, erase our shame.  
Let holy wildness rise and sing,  
Of love that burns, of truth that stings.

In silent storms your heartbeat roars,
A thunder in our restless souls.
You sow new paths behind closed doors,
And make our shattered spirits whole.

Wildchild Jesus, fierce and kind,
Shake the dust from hearts confined.
Lead us where the wild winds blow,
To love the world and let it grow.

Who am I, diffused across edges unseen, slipping through brackets and tidy design?
I am the shimmer between words, the pulse that breathes life past any sign.

What mark do I leave when shadow meets light, when definitions fracture on the tongue?
I am the fingerprint of midnight, a print that winks out before it is sung.

Which echo follows footsteps in crowded rooms, each question a mirror that answers its own?
I am the tremor in your certainty, the quiver that cracks what you’ve always known.

What am I, if not the sum of your maps, the margin where ink bleeds through the page?
I am possibility unchained: I ≠ labels; I outrun every cage.

the new dark age
heart goes out
world goes up
all due to a love of concrete
and iron indignities

buildings grown in the heartland
steel your future
wrap your face in a foreign flag
make it medieval
so fear and superstition
can live on each floor

from above the cityscape
blueprints of a pinball machine
a train to nowhere
like candles on a cake
that will burn someday
when least expected

ladies against the glass
of morning commutes
show too much cleavage
to people on Sunday
gentlemen with their death sticks
conjure the factory smoke
poisoning a life of leisure
these infinite vistas
continue to rise
elevation well in hand
stitched together
but growing apart

the biomechanical soul
a species out of control
mother solitude and her
modern failures
take the stairs to the roof of her mouth
progress leaves an echo
her final words are
empty, foreboding
and full of lead