I don't want you to go I don't want you to go. Look me in the eyes when you tell me. I want you to see my heartbreak.

Slide with your soul, from you to me Slide with your soul, set me free

You're too good for this world You're too good for this world You're too good for this world You're too good for this world

Creatio Ex Nihilo (Dozen) Paul Soupiset 6 june 2014 : dozen, draft XII. The last shall be first. I. A Fredericksburg farm, A graduation day, A matryoshka factory, A Seattle hospital room, A faceless imaging lab, A labor & delivery room, A makeshift confession booth. (My twin. Birds. Eggs. Beauty.) II. When we were still inside the womb A shackled, fearful symmetry, Like Esau’s odd fraternity with Grasping Jacob’s epitaph Our frames were hidden not from God, Though frames without a photograph. III. We all like Russian nesting dolls Or layers of an onion-skin Are blind to who we once had been And ever-bearing what befalls: The brave Salutatorian, the would-be mother, nursing wounds IV. And near the Whitworth’s Orchard loam They watch and wait for ripening These tiny buds that blossom unto Pitted peach and nectarine To walk again among the rows Of shady trees; to pluck and pull and Place them into cardboard boxes, Bushel-halves of mid-July. VII. Brother hawk and sister robin, Aviary, nesting, free Calling out like Jean-Baptiste, “Level then the path ahead, Once-serpentine, now straighten, ye!” VIII. Nests are empty oftentimes, Their baby birds have flown away To test their own wet wings amidst The burning noonday helium These twigs and stems encircling The orbed impression of an egg IX. ( Some have fallen prey or fallen down or fallen short) Ovoid ripened bird-like dreams, Horse hairs Woven prayers into the Hollow saddle of her nest Avoiding talk of stirrups or bridles ( Eggs and fruit and ovaries, Nests and verdant gardens, these Will in their own appointed time Be players in your work sublime) X. The photograph, the ct scan, The darkroom and the aperture Belie the beauty deep within. Exposure’s harsh, but harsher still The liminal entablature That presses down and presses in XI. Brother, Mother, Sister, Friend, Blood-kin, In-Law, Married-In, Sinner, Saint, Confessor; God (Breathe, child. Say what you mean.)

KEATS: "Every sole man hath days of joy and pain Whether his labors be sublime or low The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct; Only the dreamer venoms all his days Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve."

I'm just a feather on your breath.

(Your Conscience) You are what you've done You are what you've said You are your past You'll never get ahead You are in a cage you are filled with rage You're just another singer Standing on another stage You are what you hate You are what you ate You're everything you said You never want to be Somewhere along the line You truly lost your mind You can't forgive yourself no matter How many times you've tried You are really good You're a little bad But the bad that you've had Makes you sad makes you mad You are getting ugly You are getting old You are getting tired Of dealing out your soul You are getting dull You are getting mean The mean at the top and the bottom Crushes the kindness in between You see it all so clear Through your clouded eyes You see God in every face Behind his disguise (But Love Says) you are who you are who you are, who you are I am who I was Now I'm standing in the doorway of life

Clementine Vulgate (Psalm 112) Latin.png Latin text 1 Alleluja. Laudate, pueri, Dominum; laudate nomen Domini. 2 Sit nomen Domini benedictum ex hoc nunc et usque in saeculum. 3 A solis ortu usque ad occasum laudabile nomen Domini. 4 Excelsus super omnes gentes Dominus, et super caelos gloria ejus. 5 Quis sicut Dominus Deus noster, qui in altis habitat, 6 et humilia respicit in caelo et in terra? 7 Suscitans a terra inopem, et de stercore erigens pauperem: 8 ut collocet eum cum principibus, cum principibus populi sui. 9 Qui habitare facit sterilem in domo, matrem filiorum laetantem. The text, "Verbe égal au Très-Haut", is a paraphrase by Jean Racine (Hymnes traduites du Bréviaire romain, 1688) of the pseudo-ambrosian hymn for Tuesday matins, Consors paterni luminis. Verbe égal au Très-Haut, notre unique espérance, Jour éternel de la terre et des cieux, De la paisible nuit nous rompons le silence: Divin sauveur, jette sur nous les yeux. Répands sur nous le feu de ta grâce puissante; Que tout l'enfer fuie au son de ta voix; Dissipe le sommeil d'une âme languissante Qui la conduit à l'oubli de tes lois! Ô Christ ! sois favorable à ce peuple fidèle, Pour te bénir maintenant rassemblé; Reçois les chants qu'il offre à ta gloire immortelle, Et de tes dons qu'il retourne comblé.