But He Can Always Speak

From here
on the floor
with the grains of the wood
and the stains of blood
and whiskey
from here is where I rise.

Splinters in the wood
and scratches all around
become the grain of life
and so we find a path
and pattern
in the most unlikeliest of places–
on this floor.

There are lines that speak of order
even down so low as this
and it is God’s sweet grace
to open our eyes that we might see
the lines beneath the whiskey
and dirt
and blood.

With Our Chance

They flew me to a jungle
And kicked me out the door
And I did not stop falling
Until I hit the floor.

I looked around expecting
Devils holding guns
Instead some señorita
Asked to have some fun.

I stood up off the floor
And checked my pants for cash
Finding none I told her, “no”
And thought to make a dash.

But gunmen never came
And she offered me a job that night
And so I live around the world
With very little thought or sight.

After several weeks of peace
I asked her to dance
And we had all the fun we could
In the jungle with our chance.