Softness

In which way did I lose you?

The softness of my thoughts led to the lack of my presence.

Empty dinner conversation with only filled plates,

quiet chews and a sadness slipped into the corner of your eye.

I created the distance we feel.

The space between our bodies on this bed is full.

My mind so knotted, knowing not what to do.

Your body,

Your body tied,  

How can we face each other and have nothing to say?

My anger paces inside my heart walls,

the frustration of having to sit still in your silence,

knowing I brood and holding this quiet tightly.

It's not you, but the way I was built to need your look.

I cannot be rejected.

I cannot not need you.

I would recede any feeling,

dash my ego on the rocks,

and unclinch all words to float lightly on your approval again.

Come back to me, please.

I won't say a word

and I will

try try try

to understand more.

To speak slower.

To cure myself of all heat

and not bother your delicacy

with such abrupt wrestling.

The softness of your back is worth all being wrong.

A thousand times more I will be wrong

to find your neck and the front of you.

 Painting by Nadia.  Words by Jordan.

Man on the Couch

Man, I've read these same verses over and over.

Till the page turned grey

and all the words mushed together

and everything was holy or destroyed

or wrathful or righteous.

It all sounded the same.

And honestly, the life on this TV

is way more exciting than the one here in this body.

Potato me, Couch.

Keep me comforted, you piece of shit.

I need you now more than ever

because Im threatening to believe I could be more

than the fabric sewn to this body.

What if I became unlazy?

Oh shit,

What if I became uncomplaining?

What if I took ownership of the plans

I always wished I made,

the plans I always saw on this here TV

and knew was part of my future.

Or did I just see myself on this here couch

watching the same TV,

thinking,--those stories raise my blood and pound my heart.

Man, I wish it was me.

I wish it was me.

So, shit, back to the verses.

A man of the Wor(l)d .

A man of the TV.

Sit back and make the show.

Photo by Matthew.  Words by Jordan 

Skinny

My limbs have grown skinny.

I forgot verbosity,

to puff up bigger than I appear,

to let fullness guide me,

so you could see me as better than I am.

But this new winter I withered, lost the extra weight.  

These arms once held beauty, bright colored love.

I'm thin now, like what you see.

Good; sure.

Useful; yes, still.

But I always valued excess over just enough.

Even if God is so specific in his finger prints,

even if the most precise touch is balance,

I've still lost the taste of Spring,

to hold more on these bones.

And I don't want to work for it.

Im waiting till the inspiration of warmer weather

cracks open a new me

and there I am, covered and heavy again.

But the seasons of life don't work that way.

Or at least not for me.

God won't send the Spring 'til I sweat.

Until I eat.

Please see me as bare, but growing.

  

Photo by Carl. Words by Jordan.

Big Ass Stick

I try to make you appear as real as possible,
the breath and simpleness mostly.
You were better to me than I was to you.
There is a reason why loyalty is prescribed to friendship,
for the sadness of me was lapped away by your panting breath
and need to be close.
You were better to me than I was to you.
As the black cascades over your eyes,
and I watch the tail end of our friendship fade,
I play catch in my mind with your memories.
Throwing out into the depths of my mind
and brining back all your wagging tales and stories---------...................

'That's a big ass stick, boy'
'Thank you,' you said,
With your eyes,
For dogs don't speak well with giant ass sticks in their mouths.
'Do you think I'll ever have someone as loyal as you, boy?'
'I hope so,' you said,
'and if not, I'll be here as long as I can be.'
Thank you, boy,' I said.'Now give me that big ass stick.'
You dropped dropped dropped it at my feet.
Over and again,
I wonder why you were better to me than I was to you.

Painting by Mary Martin.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

one of each

One of each.
And a pinch of me. That's all it takes
to scoop and seethe.
The tile is cold and creeps up the goose bumps
from my toes.
And I shake.
One hand over my opposite arm.
Warming with a breath and a shiver and shake of my head.
I'm toe stepping on my dance partner
or slow dancing with my father in the living room to old records.
I'm clumsy
trying to avoid the ice floor.
Goddamn, socks would be nice.
It's a simple craving and a goofy dance.
I stand, without shirt, in the white tile.
It feels like home in here.
A very cold home.

I wish sunshine were in each of these jars.
This morning could be the soft white light,
that kind that settles like ash over my head,
setting my eyes to lazy, I casually lean on a newspaper,
and slowly walk to calm.
Other ones can contain summer hot sun searing through curtains
and swelling sweat down each temple. And if another person is there,
when this jar is opened, you'll sweat on each other and mat hair to the forehead
when your lips talk on top of one another.
And sure, to the right, or in the back of the group,
is that cloud driven swirl of downtrodden.
But the kind of light that fits the mood.
A gray that validates your sad, not creates it.

One of each.
I don't feel like choosing because I could fit my heart into all 3 moods.
So, I let God pick and just hope there is a choice in the group that makes this
floor a little warmer because I don't feel like putting the weight of a shirt on.
I'd rather suffer the chill and wait for the sky to change.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

the monster & the dark & the light

I never wanted any of the dark I clench in both hands--
I grip dust in my palm
drip rust from my eyes

The inside of a fist is night
and seeps of sun.
I can't squeeze the hate anymore.
I'm ringing blood from my hands,
I'm committing murder suicide--
being the only victim.

So comes out the monster,
the dark
the light
the night
the evil.

Let anger lead the way.
Armfuls of all I excavated from these dirty ribs.
Let the prize of sorrows be a cup that overrun-ith over and away,
And every night I drunkenly slip on down to Dirt Town.

Come, the lost me.
The blind and refusing to see the light, me.

I'm a stumbling fool, holding onto to you,
(grips of dust)
the one who hurts me without presence.
Unable to fuck it all and kick punt my heart to the heavens.
(drips of dry rust)

There are two kinds of dark.
I'm exploring both and winding asleep into the one that's most harmful.
Soon, hopefully, very soon,
I'll be in the one that forces more of me,
the most of me,
to wonder upright,
and the light of black to seep from my palms,
like the sun, groping forth,
to bore a future of bright.

Photo by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

From in Here

I've never been here but in day dreams.
I feel small to the sounds of the street
and the quite clink or dishes inside here.
I've sat with pen pointed at paper
and little ink eeked out.
The waitress smiled at me kindly, nodding along the way,
not having a clue why I've spent the last five hours in her restaurant.
I'm not sure either, honestly,
but I've been inwardly (deeply) hoping
that my fingers would lay guide to my brain
and take away my imagination,
set if afloat on the sky and the voices of the people walking by.
But all Ive got is notes on my hoped recovery
and the idea of plane tickets.

From inside here, in my thoughts,
looking out on the movement, the next things to my day,
I don't know anymore.
I'm going to move forward,
with the clink of my thoughts,
and I don't know anymore,
don't know what I am supposed to do
or why.

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Jordan Shappell.

Cold Nights

Cold nights are holy to me.
There is a clarity to the sting of my cheeks
and the sight of my breath.
I keep my eyes open long enough
that tears find themselves built, swelled,
and fall on their own decision.
I only feel the sadness after they've created themselves.

And if no one is around I speak out loud:
“Where are you? What are you doing?”
I'll try not to listen to music,
but wait for the whispers of a distant city
to tell me something new about myself.
Give me a revelation that will set me to bed
and strive me for more the next morning.

It's on spare nights like these
that I set out to cut through the layers of my day
and my fear
and hope to answer who I am.
I get real quiet. I stand real still.
I watch my breath wisp in front of me
to know I'm still capable of life.
And I feel my chest pinch stress and release blood.
And the tears come because I haven't blinked in 6 minutes.
And my face is warm. And I feel cold.
And I still don't know anything more.

Photo by Rachel Broaddus.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

Idiot, Step Rightly

Listen to me. You're an idiot. And a fuck up.
Yes, you are a million rolling seas inside your skin.
Turning over ideas and changing feelings.
Raging an inconstant lust and self-destroyed heart.
You swallow all feelings and wash around confusion.

But do not mistake inconstancy for fear.
You see yourself tarnished, incapable of shine,
so you ensure everyone else will too.
You actualize this shitty idea of yourself
by projecting out deprecation in your relationships.
You mirror yourself through others eyes.

You're not getting better. You're pushing further away from safety.
You're a liar. And a cheat.
You convince yourself you cannot love.
You convince yourself the heart is not capable of more than itself.
It's only a machine, pulsing and pushing the blood through you.
Muscle that cannot be stretched or grown.
It beats until it withers. Shrivels into the palms of your hands,
then put it in your pockets or throw it away
because no one could surely have liked it. Its just a thing.
Not flowers that could bloom, not Spring or the seasons that change.
Just a thing.

Listen to me. From this point on, I am simply stone,
gravel under your feet to kick and pass. I don't mean anything worth sitting next to.
I cannot give any more sage advice. It's not my responsibility, nor my right.

But moving forward stop hiding behind the excuse that no one will ever- no one could ever- I can
never- no one exists- I'm just this way- I'm only confused- I'm not this thing-

You're not getting what you want.
So when you came to sit next to me for a time, I enjoyed it.
I really did.
I'm still sitting. You're not.
So going forth and step rightly.
Don't come back.
And please, damnit, step rightly.

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

what little grows here

What little grows here now needs a lot of care.

There used to live a thick tree, with chipped and stoney bark,
roots the size of a man's leg, entrenched down and coursing through the warm grip of earth.
The world and the tree would hold each other.
They used to breath and sway with the wind.
The tree was strong, the earth was loyal.
But the tree's biggest flaw was that it clung to too much,
tried to grasp too deep.
So when the storm came, when the sky opened, the weathered world couldn't handle it.
The beautiful earth found the grip of the tree too much.
It had to let go.
And that tree fell, splintered and the trunk broke like a heart.

So what's left are the tiny seeds of that tree
and an earth not quite ready.
Despite the soil's stern feel, the tree still lives through tiny sprouts.
And still finds the earth.
And still reaches out it's roots like hands,
hoping to find the grasp back.
Hoping the dirt will interlace it's fingers
and the two will find their home again.
It'll just be different.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

...For You

So, I'll be forthright, this poem is for you.

You are the sun. And I think I'm the horizon.
Hoping to nightly, absorb you, lay with the stars
and hold you till morning.
Then to let you go and watch you grow distant during the day.
And when our lips hit at dusk and dawn we whisper secrets
we've never told and melt, for a moment, into comfort.
I swear I've never kissed anyone like that.
Like that one time.
Like the sun.

And I'm the blood.
Pushing around, being cleaned.
Keeping alive.
I want to be the thing that moves you.

And we are the hearts,
unable to escape from our skin,
can't let each other in
because we don't share the same rhythm right now.
But I wish we did.

This is a poem for you.
It's not the best. And it may not be your style.
But know, these words live in me like blood,
and I'll write them down like the constant setting sun,
hoping not to be undone
'cause I have this thing in my chest.

Photo by Malay Prakash.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

Used to Be

How did I end up here?
Head half in the ground,
tattooed from all my lost loving failures,
looking crazy as hell.

There is a shadow of a man I wish to be
hiding deep in my skin.
So with blood as my zest I peel back my tough skin rind
and try to find
all that I long to be.
My finger nails first, scratch the surface
and the raw, dry skin releases easily.
My body hates what I've become.
If the skin could,
it would
slink
down itself,
like a dress fallen to beautiful exposure.
But the work is tough and true release has to come from yourself.

I want to dig me up
and clean away, not who I am,
but the mess I am not.

I am more.
I am better.
I am more.
I am better.
Someone tell me I am more.
I am better than to hide in the ground.
I am more than the air and breath me into your lungs
so I know I am worth more.
I am better than this.
I am more than what I used to be.

Photo by Nadia Hassler.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell

written (or to write)

We stand on the burial ground of all our dead ideas.
Those feelings discarded by bit and bleeding tongues.
The things we've always wanted for ourselves, but said no.
Everything fallen.
“She'll never like you, she's too good for you”
“You don't know the answer. Don't talk”
“Don't tell them. They won't love you. Not again”
“Don't commit. You'll only be hurt”
Shot down soldiers from the smoldering bullets of our own doubt.
Yes, we massacre as much of ourselves as much as possible.
We'd rather assume we are bad than good.

But self destruction is the destruction of yourself,
and someone else loves yourself.
Someone is knocking to hear the true beat of your feeling machine.
No longer dismantle yourself.
Do not take away that someone's favorite thing to look at.

Instead, let loose the broken straps of your heart and spill guts on the floor.
Sit down to write, pencil shaking to your pulse
and dance back the dead.
Give your desires mouth to mouth.
Give your heart recognition.
Give the dark your hand.
Flood the graveyard till the bodies rise.
Let it flow from the tips of tips of your fingers tips.
Don't contain your laugh
Don''t contain your love
Don't contain the childish things inside you.
Stand on heaping piles of failure and let loose on the world.
Whip out your crazy and wipe the shit from your shoes.
It most likely came from your brain
and out your own mouth when you said you weren't good enough.
do not hide your love,
do not hide your weirdness,
do not hide your you.
Sit down to write and do not destroy yourself a second longer.

Remember no one hates anyone more than you hate yourself.
And then forget how to hate.
Angels often come from recovered monsters who got sick of scary things.

(Good) Morning

Maybe the night of loud dreams and all the loud feelings would be gone.
I'd wake up lighter.

But the cave of my chest still echoed your hollow steps,
two beats with every thought of you.

I lay in bed, noticing the sky is darker
and thought the world was trying to match my mood.
It was just cloudy and the sun had begun its fight toward us.

I sat very still,
knowing that once my body moved I would have to pretend to let go of you.
I'd have to have a day.
With people.
With work.
With more than I wanted
and less you.
I didn't want to move.

I talked to the sky briefly.
“I can't do this.
You're going to have to open up a little bit if you want me to.
You're gonna have to tell me what to do
You're gonna have to promise me”

The sky shook its head
and clouds rolled closer together
like knit melting to coffee swirls of gray.
They wouldn't give up...
So I did.

The wood floor was cold on my feet.

Photo by Rachel N Broaddus.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

Ahead

I'm not often ready for what lies ahead,
but I rely on a certain endurance factor that has gotten me through most of life.
Its a small feeling creeping between my lungs,

a deep breath

that takes in all the darkness of my current situation
then breathe out,
not strength,
but acceptance.
The pain becomes regular,
another part of my skin.
I'll feel it hourly and choke back the start of the start of tears.
I breath out understanding.
I focus for a few moments when things are bad
and don't let my head take over.
Rarely, do I find myself ready for the shortcomings, the disappointments.
but I'm responsible for all the life lessons that I've been taught.
Im the cause and the teacher and the endurer.

Hardship lies ahead for all of us.
At all times.
Im sorry, but it's a part of this world.
Find peace and be overwhelmed.
And look ahead.

Photo by Sadie Whitehead.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

Where the Light is

 

I write with the blood in my veins 

because my heart pushes and pulls all that 

my mind can control while my lungs let go of

the breath I need to live out what God created me to do.

Patches of skin tingle in the wind

and my hands aren't as soft as the used to be.

I've roughed up life and have been beaten down.

I've run with tears in my eyes

and sung the loudest of songs

I've drank too much and slept too little

and prayed for absolutely nothing. 

Ive gone off, gone wrong, gone towards the light and back.

I've shaken and swayed passed the tree and right into fall.

I've tripped over you, fell in love with the lips of an Angel,

heard the hymns of temptation and felt the Holy Spirit descend

then retract when he saw what I was doing. 

I've washed my hands in mud more than water,

I've chortled and cackled, been smacked by fear,

and live a little too close to fake. 

But when I'm in the sun's shine,

it all melts right down till I'm naked in warmth

and I cry for myself. For the stupidness I'm made of. 

I love it. I love all the things that make me here in the light. 

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell

It's incredible to see you smile.
That's all we boys have ever wanted.
You watched us grow and fade away from you.
Occasionally we weaved a path back,
you know,
for money, shelter and open arms, free from judgement.
Well, sort of free from judgement.
We boys don't turn to you for advice, but you offer it freely and without guise.
Your hands were broken in from carrying us,
Caring for the things that made us cry, brought us joy.

Mother, we've now grown up, more up than you know.
And in all conviction, with as much love as sons can return, we want you to smile.
Life has treated you harshly and you've accepted it. With some good fight back.
Life has given you us. Which is more life, you say, than you could have ever asked for.

Now do what you want.

Do what sets you free and gets you off the ground.
We boys are struggling in life now and trying to pay you back.
We may not have the money, but with as much love as sons can speak back, go towards the world,
with us at your back, do not retract for fear or loss,
we are here for all your failed explorations.
We can sacrifice, because it is no longer our comfort to be worried,
but your happiness to be realized.

Mom, we want to see you smile the wrinkles deeper into your face.
The crevices, once filled with tears for us, over us, because of us,
should flow with joy.
Mom, we love to see you smile.
It's one of your boys' favorite things.

Photo by Tammy Gouldstone.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.

She likes to draw

I knew a girl who never knew how to look at herself.
She loved to draw and paint with her fingertips.
Her most startling pieces were self portraits.
They always exposed a tiny part of her heart kept hidden by stifled smiles
and the bones in her chest she layered on daily.
She hardly wears makeup, but keeps her face hidden.
This one her skin is red. Maybe she's embarrassed all the time by something,
maybe she wished she could bleed more.
Maybe she drank too much red wine, slapped herself silly and curbed her behavior.
Maybe she's lustful and longing for someone to touch her,
the passion sweats from her pores.
Maybe she just loves a lot and this red tell us that.
Her hair is always tangled. A haystack with a thousand lost needles
and only finding frustration.
Yet she shares so many memories with that hair.
It's tortured her comb, invaded her thoughts,
it's the only thing she sees in her reflection.
Her eyes distorted and colorless.
She doesn't know how to look at herself.
I see autumn green and the seasons slowly changing and falling in love
when I look at her straight forward.
But to her, she is always askew. To the side.
Her jaw is distorted, teeth oversized
and the helicopter looking thing on top of her head
is because her thoughts are always flying away from her.
She's a too fast thinker and too quiet talker.
She doesnt believe in herself and hasnt learned the lesson of too little pride.

Im not saying one day she'll ever see how beautiful she is,
because rarely people do and admit it.
Her pictures don't need to change either.
Its her truth.
I just want her to know its the best truth I know.

Art by Debbie.  Words by Jordan.

Don't let it break your heart

We got cut in the dark, caught up in the shouts,

found ourselves and raged for the rights to each other.

If your heart isn't in it, march your feet.

Your blood will eventually match the pace and passion.

One beat will guide you to me. Two beats will set you free.

Three is my hand in yours. Four gets you through the night.

Don't let it break your heart.

If we shout, spend all the air in our bare lungs

and still don't get what we want, if we don't get each other.

Don't let it break your heart.

I protest: we are still looking for love.

we are still looking for love.

we are still looking for love. 

And we will do anything to find it here on 

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.