Dark Days

[This is a real old one. But I thought I'd post it since we are approaching the darkest days of the year, and it's been a tough week and a half for a lot of my friends and myself.]

There were whispers of them in the wind
Old men would tell stories about them around a fire
Children would lie awake at night under covers worried that they were hidden in closets
I thought they were just stories, like Santa Clause and the Easter bunny
But that was before a rejection letter, break in, and broken heater put those doubts to rest
The Dark day's were indeed upon me
The day's that grow longer the less you do
Day’s when you find yourself flipping back and fourth between the Cooking network and Animal Planet
When getting dressed makes the day a success
When yawns are the most comforting things you can say to yourself
but even those your bones don’t quite trust
When thought of any kind of tomorrow turns your stomach into a black hole
and the first thing sucked in is your courage
Days when your eyes are chained to the bricks under your feet
When sleep is the only thing you look forward to in the day
When Elliott Smith is the cheeriest music your heart can stand
When the best case scenario seems as likely as you getting up at 5 just to watch the sunrise
These are the days when you take a large pizza home at 6,
Eat it alone in your pitch black room,
Being too lazy to even turn on the lights
Roll over and sleep for 14 hours with your shoes on
These are the dark days

My Grandma

When I was small my grandma was old. She was five foot eight when she had my mom. By the time I was around she had bent over to barely five foot even.

Most of my cousins were half-raised by my grandma, but I was the youngest and when I was small, she was old. My babysitters were mostly high school girls. When my grandma did baby-sit me, I remember she was tough. Tougher than the other babysitters. Tougher than my dad. Tougher than my mom.

She limited my cartoon watching. As revenge, I gave her the silent treatment barricading myself in my room. I slipped a note under the door telling her she was “the meenest babysitter ever.”

I come from a long line of teachers. Four generations. Aunts, cousins, great parents and my grandma. After I slipped that note under my door she broke out her red pen, slipped it back under with my spelling corrected.

By the time I went to college, my grandma was still tough. Cracking jokes and standing her ground. She was still the center of the family. Even after she couldn’t get around well enough to cook, she’d pull up a chair in the kitchen, watch my aunts form the Thanksgiving meal around her.

I was a sophomore at Western when my grandma had a series of strokes. Dementia set in fast. My aunts and uncles drove hours every week to visit her. Held her hand and talked to her.

When she passed away, my mom called me and I didn’t really react. I didn’t know her all that well. I had heard stories about her and she always gave me butterscotch and saltines.

When we got to the church I was steady. I hadn’t been there since I was small, when my mom took me to see my grandma sing in the choir. Through my mom’s eulogy I was steady. I was proud of my mom (who wasn’t a public speaker). Through the first hymn I was steady. I remember it was one of the tough ones too—It is Well or something like that. But still I was steady.

Funerals when you’re not very emotional are boring. As the second hymn started, my eyes wandered through the pews on its way back to the clock. There were bloodshot eyes and tears everywhere. Still I was steady.

Right up to the last hymn, I was steady. When we started to sing How Great Though Art, I remembered seeing my grandma sing in the choir. When that last verse rolled through and we sang “When Christ shall come. . .” I started to leak. The eyes and the nose just let lose their fury. Something about music cuts straight through my defenses and knocks the wind out of me. All that stuff about heaven sunk down to my belly and I sang with a quiver in my voice. I pictured my grandma in the choir, and I saw her singing with us. And I was more than proud of her.

I want to be clear on the theology here. This isn’t some Obi Wan Kenobi thing I just pulled out of thin air. This is orthodox. As a Christian I believe my grandma was singing. I believe she is singing. And I believe when I sing in church my grandma with all the saints before her sing with me. This isn’t a sedative we Christians use to numb the pain of grief; it is the hope we use to transform it.

Within a few years cousins, Aunts and Uncles moved out of Sultan, the town my mom grew up in, and out to Arizona and up to Skagit County. Family isn’t static. This last Thanksgiving, there were no butterscotch candies or saltine crackers. But there were new babies at the table. Aunts and uncles were grandmas and grandpas. The turkey still made me sleepy, and my mom still made her potato casserole.

I don’t think about my grandma too often. I’ve got term papers, credit card bills and a fantasy football team to think about. But I can’t help but wonder if she held that note against me. And as I’m writing this, I wish I could go back, take that note back and slip this under the door. If for no other reason than to get my spelling and grammar corrected.

Graham, Did You See the Swans?

Graham, I saw seven swans flying over the delta yesterday. I thought of you. Of our bird watching drives and slurpees in Burlington. I can’t help thinking the fact that there was seven would have just pissed you off, because it was clear that God was referencing a Sufjan Stevens album.

I read somewhere that Illinoise was the second best album of this decade. Did you know that? I don’t understand why you hate the artist who created the second best album of the decade, and apparently even God likes Sufjan (and you know what a music snob he is).

I know, I know—“Jesus loves him, so I don’t have too.” But maybe you could try.

Graham, the swans were flying south; I wonder if you saw them.

For Luke and Anthony

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Psalm 23

It’s tough to concentrate in a warm basement listening to Christmas music. Outside it is snowing. I’m inside. Feeling sleepy after a hot sandwich and soup. It’s real warm in here, and I can’t seem to get my thoughts to stand still.

I found out yesterday that an old friend (Anthony) was stuck on a mountain. Later that day they found the body of another one of my old friends (Luke) who was with him.

They couldn’t send out search and rescue teams today because of the avalanche danger. Instead a helicopter is flying around searching from the air. Anthony has bright red hair, and I want him to be found so that he can joke about it being what saved him. I don’t think he’ll ever joke about it though; I don’t think anyone will.

It’s warm in here, and I’m trying to get my thoughts to stand still. I can’t seem to keep from wondering about Anthony. I look over at my bookcase and see the three-book set on the Psalms he gave to me when he left Bellingham. I wonder what scripture will be read at the memorial service for Luke.

All I want to do is sleep until I can read Psalm 23 again and actually believe it.

All I can bring myself to do is re-phrase another Psalm, and offer it up as a prayer:

O Lord, don't forget Anthony;

Don't be far from him.

Come quickly to help him,

O Lord our Savior.

Psalm 38

Long Drives with Robert

[I'm open to advice on this one, I'm not really sure what I'm getting at in it yet. But I hadn't posted anything in a long while so here it it.]

My hometown is a long drive down a slick highway. It’s a long drive, and in December it’s usually dark. The tale lights reflect off the concrete. It’s a long drive, and we have time to talk. About Luther Vandross and TS Elliott. Weezer’s fall from artistic credibility. Christ and Otis Redding.

It’s a long drive and we cover the weighty topics. The Hilltop neighborhood in Tacoma. Those officers that got shot in a coffee shop. Poverty and gentrification and soulfood restaurants.

We talk about our hometowns, old basketball teams and how good Ken Griffey Jr would have been if he used roids.

Our hometowns are long drives through a big briar patch.

Where Two or More are Gathered. . .

[I'm trying to write more about faith, and particularly the Church. This is a first go at this poem, I'm curious what people think. Does it hit to similar of note to the Honk if You're Polish?]

we talk about failed relationships
eating orange chicken and fried rice.

we pick out love songs
on old jukeboxes.

we share concerns about friends not present,
wonder out-loud where they are.

we sit, half-awake, in hardwood pews
staring down at words we’re trying to make sense of.

we fight about minutia,
throw hissy fits over grammar.

we give long hugs
help each other change flat-tires.

we hold hands and give thanks
for spaghetti dinners and garlic bread.

we have awkward conversations
with WWII veterans about “kids-today.”

we have potlucks,
share recipes, and eat casseroles.

we tell secrets we’re ashamed of,
the things we wanted to do, but didn’t,
the things we didn’t want to do, but did.

we aren’t perfect, but most are trying
some of us are trying to try
but not having too much success.

we meet You in each other
and hope others meet You in us.

Vocabulary Lessons

Middle school locker-rooms bristle with budding testosterone.
The posturing is mostly linguistic.
Boys without arm-pit hair discuss various acts
they’ve only heard referenced on South Park.
These young ones are stretching their new vocabularies:
calling each other quiefs
while the ones who know more than they should
paint impressionist landscapes
on the quiet ones with charlie horses.

Honk if You're Polish. . .

or Scottish, or English

I’ve got to admit
I’m more than a bit envious
when I visit friends
whose families have accents
and celebrate holidays I’ve never heard of.

I'm more than a bit envious
when they show me how to make food
that they’re parents taught them to make,
who were taught to make it by their parents,
who taught them to make it in a country
I’ve only seen on a map.

I’m envious because my ethnicity is mixed and
I have no clue what it means
to be Polish or Scottish or English.
I’ve never been to any of those places,
I don’t know my family’s tartan,
I’ve never had blood pudding,
and the only thing Polish I’ve ever eaten
is a Polish sausage;
which I only recently learned not to smoother in ketchup.

I’ve never heard Polish or
whatever language they spoke in Scotland back-in-the-day.
I’ve never worn a kilt or played a bag-pipe.
I’ve never pronounced the name of a Polish town correctly.
It’s hard for me to find any link between who I am
and who my ancestors were
back-in-the-day.

The house I grew up in
did not have Celtic crosses
coats of arms or Polish flags.
We didn’t even have bumper stickers
asking those with similar national origin to honk.

I know I’m not alone in this.
There are others with lost heritages.
Some of us don’t have culture
deeper than our ankles,
least not in our ethnicity.

But what I do have
is my church,
a tiny cup and
part of a cracker.

In these things
I have roots.
I have to look deep.
I have to look close, to see

the same cup
given thanks for by the same Man
whose blood would fill it.

I have to look close
to see the same cup
Peter, James and John
drank from back-in-the-day.

I have to look deep to see my heritage,
not without blemish.
I’m not about to try and make any excuses,
but I know there’s more to my faith
than the Crusades and the Inquisition.

I have to look deep into that cracker
to see the body, the gospel,
living and continuing,
passed down
from faith to faith
from Paul to Timothy.
From martyrs in the Coliseum
to St. Francis talking to birds.
From celibate monks singing Psalms in the desert
to Martin Luther drinking beer and nailing notes on doors.
From Paul writing letters in a Roman prison
to Dietrich Bonhoeffer writing letters in a Nazi Prison.
From ancient Palestine to modern Africa.
From the apostles on down the centuries
to myself, sitting in a folding chair
looking down at a cracker and cup.

I don’t know what it means
to be Polish, English or Scottish.
My family had dropped their accents
long before I was around.

But when I look down
at a tiny cup of grape juice
and a broken cracker
I’m not quite as bummed
that I didn’t inherit
the ability to play the bag-pipe
or make pierogis
or the habit of drinking tea in the afternoon;
because when I look at that sacrament
I see a one body made of all nations
one loaf made of many grains
held together by one God
in whose image we are all made
and who welcomes all nations
to come and eat
and find a new inheritance.

The Snooze Button

The errands are mounting.
They pile in the middle of the room.
The pile is a mountain.
It’s getting hard to ignore,

but I double my efforts
force my head down
and sleep a little longer.

It’s a salesman,
the snooze button,
persuasive and slick,
telling me to
worry about the it later.
It’s always later.

The errands are mounting.
I have to extend my visa.
I have to apply for insurance.
I have to find an old pay stub.
There’s a paper due next Tuesday
I need to do some research.
Credit card bills, rent checks,
library fines, parking tickets.
Floors need mopping.
Oil needs changing.
Dishes need washing.
Laundry needs folding.
Books need reading.
And I’m out of milk.

The errands are starting to avalanche.
The whole mountain is crashing down.
The raucous is deafening,
I can’t hear myself think.

But I double my effort,
shut my eyes tight,
shove a pillow over my head,
hit the snooze button
and sleep another ten minutes.

If Nostalgia Could Kill

There was the summer of whiskey and soda. And we bought big bottles of Jim Beam, with little hope of finishing. And we were regulars, with jukebox favorites and never-ending bowls of over-salted popcorn,

There were the weeks we were snowed in. When the town was Alaska. When a trip to the grocery store was a mountaineering expedition. There were Hot Toddys downtown, ugly sweater parties and German spiced wine.

There were the Thursdays when we’d read the epistles. A six-pack of beer and St. Paul guided our thoughts. We asked questions and waited for new episodes of the Office.

Dear Ryan, II

I don’t understand rubiks cubes?
Do you?
Why is it important
to have the yellow all the same side.

Ryan, I don’t know how to make gumbo.
I’m afraid to try.
I’m sorry,
but I was never taught
and I don’t trust internet recipes.

I wonder what you think
of blazers with jeans,
short sleeved shirts with ties,
the language of Prairie Dogs;
Ryan I have more questions
than thoughts.

But I think,
if we were to put our heads together
we could get to the bottom
of this global-warming problem.

Ryan I’m worried about the penguins,
they have more troubles than any animal ought.
There are seals, Orcas, broken eggs,
short legs, not enough fish
and not enough ice.

Am I being clear?
I Feel a bit jumbled.

What I mean is:
I’m having a Big Lebowski party tonight
I have Kahlua, Vodka and cream
I need you to bring the ice.

Love,
Jake

Dentry's

The Irish-ness of Dentry’s Irish Pub in Vancouver BC, is subtle. It’s not the beer, atmosphere or menu. The Irish-ness is mostly in the color scheme, Jameson banners and the occasional rugby match on the 42 inch flat-screen TV in the back corner. Oh and the five -foot-nothing leprechaun-of-a-man at the bar.

It’s not a great place to study, but after a day spent inside in pajamas watching Justice League—I had to get out of the house. With the added incentive of a pint (20 ounces here) of beer, I shuffled the block and half down to Dentry’s. Reading about the critical scholarship on the authorship of Isaiah, I sip a fancy lager and ease drop.

From the corner (by the flat-screen) I hear cards shuffling and people talking. “Did you know a metal band covered Final Countdown, and did made it twice as fast? It’s awesome.” I wonder what brought up the subject.

We Didn’t Start the Fire is playing on the radio. Piano Man is a better song. I wish someone here would make love to their tonic and gin.

On the other end of the bar the attractive waitress talks to a regular with thick black framed glasses and great big bushy eyebrows.

On the flat-screen, the Toronto Raptors are playing the Cleveland Cavaliers. I guess their showing it because Toronto is in Canada. Toronto is winning, though not by much. I think Lebron James will probably pull it out at the last second.

I’m not getting much reading done. I’m taking more notes on Dentry’s then I am on Isaiah.

I hope it comes up on the test.

The Wait

Wait for the Lord;
Be Strong and let you heart take courage;
Yes, wait for the Lord.
Psalm 27:14

It’s not like I have options. It’s not patience when there’s nothing to do but wait. Maybe it is. I don’t know. I have plenty of time to think about it. There really isn’t an alternative. My date is running late. I’m not about to go to the movie by myself. No one does that. So I’ll play Dr. Mario, and wait. Besides, I have no grounds to be impatient. She’s gorgeous and smart. She was the one who made time for me. What were my plans? If I didn’t have the date I’d be playing video games at home. So I’ll wait. She’ll come down eventually, and then we’ll go see Zombieland.

[this was based on a fictional story, by the way]

A Seminarian's Gospel Song

My toe is tapping on the bus. It’s still dark, but with the help of Otis Redding I’m wearing a half-grin. It is six in the morning. My body hurts. My hair is disheveled. I’m wearing a Seahawks hooded sweatshirt, a size too large and Simpson’s pajama pants. I should not be awake. I should be asleep, under a flannel comforter. A big blue blanket. But the alarm clock wouldn’t quit, and the homework was not about to be ignored.

With my headphones on, I put these thoughts aside, and I remember that there will be an end to the day. After the coffee does its job, and I’ve sat through 5 hours of lectures, read 55 pages of Calvin’s Institutes and parsed a hell-of-a-lot of Greek; there is a table waiting for me in the corner of the pub. And there is a pitcher of beer that will never get warm. And the girls will be all smiles. And the friends will all have stories. And there will be dancing. Lots of dancing. And there in that pub my glass will never be empty and the juke-box will never play Journey (insert whatever band you hate).

So as I hide deep in my hoody, I smile. Just a little bit. Because I know that while the coffee may last for the morning, the beer. . . the beer comes in the evening.

Amen.

Looking for My Sweatshirt

It wasn’t warm to begin with,
but someone opened a window.
Now it’s freezing.

I can’t find my sweatshirt.
I think I left it at church.

Decisions

If the rain had stopped, I think I’d have gone for a walk. Maybe to the beach. Maybe to Mcdonalds. But the rain drizzled all day.

If you had said yes, I think I would have stayed. At least another week. Maybe a month. And maybe we would have gone for a walk. Maybe your hand would have found its way into mine. But you didn’t see us like I did.

If I hadn’t bought a case of High Life, I don’t think I’d be writing this. Maybe I would have gone for a walk, or at least a drive. Maybe I would have gone by your old apartment. But I was thirsty, and now a drive would be a bad decision.

I suppose the beer wasn’t such a poor choice.

The Future's Bright

I’ve lived here two weeks now and I can still see the carpet in my room. I’m not quite out of clean clothes. My car has yet to fill up with slurpee cups and empty chip bags.

We’ve known each other for a while now, though we haven’t spent much time together. We know enough to have conversation. You know not to mention the fucking Steelers. Assholes. I try and avoid talking about zombies and the post-apocalypse.

My room will soon be unmanageable. Every other day I’ll tear it apart in a frantic search for my keys. My outfits for the day will simply be picked-up off the floor and given a sniff test. The smell of stale chip crumbs (jalapeno flavor) will soon fill my car.

Sooner than I’d like, you’ll find out: I forget birthdays, conversations revolve around me, my love of beer is borderline dependence, and I am unable of making any real decisions.

But for now you think it’s cute that the first date was a trip to the 711, followed by a couple hours in a dive bar making fun of the regular’s mullets.

And you’re probably right.

Bless this Mess

After another drink
I think I’ll wake up
but probably with a headache

That’s the way it is with these blessings
drink enough of them and they’ll turn on you
but only after you’ve had too many
so there’s no reason to stop just yet

For now I’ve got a wicked thirst
a debit card with overdraw protection
a mind to numb and a song to sing

Blessings All Mine
With ten thousand beside

In Stitches

After you left
we woke up
droggy
in a tub
filled with ice.

Our fingers wandered
to our side.
We ran them up and down stitches,
wondering what to do next.

Hard to Be

[I'm thinking about writing a poem for each song off "Curse Your Branches," using the songs like writing prompts]

I don’t know if it was an apple
those types of details are fuzzy.
I do know things aren’t right.
Haven’t been right.
Don’t look like they’re going to be right for quite sometime.

People walking
are half-dead.
Half empty
impressions
of what they were supposed to be,
or so the story goes.

There are lots of stories
most of them are sad
or not quite finished.
I’m not sure any of them are finished.

Ever since that damn apple
we’ve lost our breath,
become a pack of zombies
wandering around
with messed up gaits
eating each other.

I’m not sure on the details of the story
but ever since that fucking apple
it’s been harder than hard
damn near impossible
to be a decent human being.

But, like most all stories,
this one (if it’s true)
is only half done.
Though, if you take a look around,
that's not an easy thought to take comfort in.

Fallen Leaves

All fallen leaves
should curse their branches
-David Bazan, Curse Your Branches

This year it wasn’t even late August, it was mid-august, when the trees started showing a tint of red. When I first noticed it, I wanted to flip them off. Tell them they were quitters. Sons of bitches. There’s no going back with these things. Green turns to red turns to yellow turns to orange turns to dead—I’m not certain the order, but I know how the story starts and finishes. Those leaves will die, be swept off sidewalks and clog storm drains. There is no going back with these things.

When I was in 8th grade, I went on a class trip to New York during spring break. I don’t remember much besides being awkward. I do remember that the hotel we stayed at was across the street from an old porn theater, and that one of the streets next to the hotel was where they were filming “You’ve Got Mail.” I’ve never seen the movie, though I do like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. Apparently part of it was set in autumn. They filmed it in early spring, so I guess they had to glue or tape rusty colored leaves to the trees. I don’t imagine those leaves stayed up very long.

I’m no botanist, and I can’t explain why leaves fall from branches. They do, and this is enough information for me. I know enough that that they don’t go back, or at least I’ve never seen it. Maybe I shouldn’t be making such absolute statements like “there is no going back with these things.” I definitely have never seen it. But it’s mid September, and more and more leaves are going chameleon on me, so I suppose it’s time to hope and pray—maybe a few leaves can go back. I can think of one I really wish would.

Success

Prolific,
for now,
will have to suffice
for successful.

Mold Spots

The road map in my trunk has mold spots on it. It’s still works unless I want to get around certain parts of northern California. My Mom gave it to me before I left on a road trip. I called the trip a vision quest, partially because I thought it was funny, but partially because I wanted to have someone else figure out my life. He politely declined the offer, or used ways of persuasion beyond my abilities to detect.

I don’t think I’ve used the map since that trip. I’ve looked at it a few times. It’s detailed, but I haven’t needed to use it. Most trips I just have a general sense of direction and get myself there. I suppose the maps I had before this one gave me some of the sense of direction I have. I’m not totally sure where my sense of direction came from, it’s tough to trace those things back. Windy logging roads and frequent turns on curvy one-way roads in cities still get me turned around. But for the most part I get around just fine.

Sometimes it’s fun getting lost, just to see where I come out. A lost highway dropped me in a small, out-of-the-way town in southern Oregon that had a diner with great biscuits and gravy. I find some pretty cool things on drives where I get lost. I like to chalk that up to providence; but though those types of things are difficult to trace back to a source.

I like the mold spots on my map, they add a certain amount of flair.

Eye Contact

Sitting on a blue couch, her attention was undivided. She took drinks of coffee without ever taking her eyes out of her book.

His attention was divided between a conversation with a friend about classes, and the girl he’d had a passing conversation with a week before. Keeping her in his peripheral vision, he waited for her to look up. He hoped for eye contact. The thought of going of to her had crossed his mind, but for fear of awkwardness or being to forward he stayed seated.

Her focus was admirable, his courage was somewhat less than this.

Fire and Sunsets

[this is playing on Dave Bazan's song "Lost My Shape"]

The sky over Vancouver is lit up. A thunder-storm moved in over downtown for the fireworks show. Lightning strikes behind the colored explosions. Just after sunset, the sky is glowing an eery red—maybe a bit orange.

I used to feel like a forest fire too. But it didn’t last. Fire and fireworks are like that, they are unsustainable. I’m not sure that I ever glowed, but if I did, I don’t think the glow was me. Fire and sunsets can do funny things with color.

Shoot For the Stars

He was fond of clichés:
danced like no one was watching
loved like he’d never been hurt
shot for the stars
followed he heart.

This was problematic,
because he was not perceptive.
People were watching.
He was getting hurt with regularity.

He followed his heart,
which he always called his north star.
A few months back
the metaphor was forgotten.
He froze to death
200 kilometers short
of the Northern Territories.

World's Greatest Husband

[this poem is dedicated to Ryan and Graham]

The post-it note you left me on the kitchen table
was short and snippy
(I’ve told you before
how much I hate post-it notes
damn it).

Apparently an implied
(or inferred
I can’t remember the difference)
promise
has been broken.

Something about the dishes in the sink
collecting mold and stinking up the whole house
(though, in all honesty,
I could not smell anything
in the living room).

I distinctly remember saying:
“I’ll try and do the dishes
before I leave for work.”

I did try.
If you would have looked at the pile
closely
you would have noticed
two spoons and a spatula
missing.

If you would have taken the time to look
you would have noticed those items
scrubbed and drying
along with my “World's Greatest Husband Mug.”

So my promised effort
was delivered.

This is too long to fit on a post-it note
so I’m writing it in a poem.

123

1
Fell asleep half-drunk dreaming of biscuits and sausage gravy
2
Woke up with a stuffed-up nose, ate a bowl of oatmeal and choked down a cup of Foldiers
3
Put the day on repeat and slouched until I could find another pint then smiled

Grown-up

If I’m going to be a grown-up
I suppose I’ll have drink coffee
read a classic and watch documentaries

If I’m going to be grown-up
I’ll have to learn to pay bills
work 40 hours a week and think about marriage

If I’m going to be a grown-up
I can’t throw out a conception of the divine
because it’s not cuddly enough

If I’m going to be a grown-up
I’ll have to be okay with discomfort
hard beds and hot soup

If I’m going to be a grown-up
I’ll have to be able to articulate my beliefs
even the tough ones

If I’m going to be a grown-up
I’ve got a long way to go

Cast Iron

[If i'm not mistaken, this is the seventh post in seven days]

the room has not been lived in long enough to bear the signature
there is no layer of miscellaneous dirty laundry
stretching from wall to wall, two feet deep

the streets have not been walked enough to become familiar
directions have to be written down
each corner still concealing their secrets

friends are still a few shared adventures short of comfort
jokes land flat
histories yet to be told

people say that cast iron skillets
soak in a little flavor from everything cooked in them
this may be new place, but soon it will have unique flavors
that make eggs and hash-browns delicious

Out of Place

[this may not be a poem, but I'm going to count it in my 7 poems in 7 days thing]

I went to church for the first time in an age last night (there are valid excuses for this). It was a big cathedral looking place, with high ceilings and stained glass. I think the window had a crucified God looking down on WW1 veterans, there was a rainbow as well.
It was an Anglican church, and I was unpracticed with the responsive readings: a second late with the Thanks be to God’s. I felt a bit out place, though I don’t think it was the denominational peculiarities, or even my Seahawk jersey (I was not planning on going to church and my attire testified to this).
I felt a bit of place at church. I understand this is how many, if not most, people feel whenever they go to church but I have generally felt like I belonged, as much as anyone, in the pews. Besides being late with the readings, I was messing up the lyrics to the hymns, kneeling when I should have been stand and vice versa. It may have been lack of practice, the high ceilings or the weird window. For whatever reason my mind was wandering. When the minister (one of these charismatic young people with all sorts of potential I’m sure) began his sermon of fascinating footnotes I was thinking of slurpees. It was not a short sermon, and my thoughts of slurpees were many. This is not to blame the nice young minister, I just naturally sound a bit cynical, it’s hip like thick-rimmed black glasses and fixies. The minister seemed to make some good points (I guess slurpees weren’t my only thoughts).
This is beginning to be long, drawn out and a bit awkward, like after church conversations (Hey-OH), so I will do my best to conclude. Church takes practice and discipline, if you want to get much out of it. By much I’m speaking more spiritual than social. Over the past few months my thoughts have become somewhat free-range and are still un-used to a leash. I would be remiss of me to blame that on a particular service or sermon, as I have in the past. Now, as it nears noon, my thoughts return to slurpees and I must sign off with this blessing:

May the God of slurpees and stained glass
Cast out every misplaced thought
And give us a spirit of comfort and fellowship
In the midst of the peculiarities
In His Holy Catholic Church

Amen

The Bargain

She asked him to wax the hair on his toes
his explanation of how they looked like hobbit’s feet
did nothing to persuade her

She said he look like a monkey-man with the hair on his toes
she was not going to marry a monkey man
it was creepy

He searched for something to bargain with
something he could ask her to change
but couldn’t find anything
she was perfect, at least looks wise, and he knew it
and besides the hairy toes thing
she wasn’t an entirely unreasonable person

She could ask him to wax every hair of his body
and in his mind, he would still be getting the better end of the deal

His more idealist friends told him these types of negotiations
were strange and had no place in a healthy engagement
but they were all lonely video-game-nerds
even they had to admit the bargain was a steal

An Apology

[this is a bit more absurd than most of what I've been writing lately.]

There is no word in otter
for love, but this doesn’t mean
they don’t know the concept.
It may only be through grooming
and various fish analogies,
but Otters do express love.

It’s not that there is now room
in Otter for a new word,
it is by no means a stagnate language.
Of all woodland languages
Otter is generally recognized as
the most dynamic.
Otters have purposefully
not made a word for love.
Otters are passionate and wise—
they recognize that the concept
of love must be approached
with care and skill.
That is why they only express love
in art (through the various fish analogies)
and action (grooming).
There is much we could learn from otters.

Sadly, when I began licking your head on Friday
I fear I may not have communicated
the message I had intended,
and for that I apologize.

Unexpectant Gardeners

-this poem is for Ryan Johnson, who is an ass.

The plum tree split.
Ripe fruit is everywhere.
The rhubarb needs to be used
soon.

We just moved in.
We are not gardeners.
We did not expect this bounty
In the backyard.

But it’s there
so now, I guess,
we have to do
something
about it.

Pub Night

There are five accents
three types of beer
and at least four conversations at my table,

we eat nachos and drink.

Mike tells us about the Huskies chances this season.
Betsy explains how she became interested in plate tectonics.
Iain, Susie and Sarah talk about how to pronounce Edinburgh.
Aaron is just happy to have a real IPA again.
I have half an eye on a baseball game
while Lucas thinks of funny ways to ask for a menu.

We’re a large group,
polite and tip well.

It may not be heaven
but nights like these
make me proud
to be part of the Church.

Coffee and Newsweek

Old men complain about credit cards
over coffee and Newsweek.

A dog taxi parks
in-front of the café.

“Well, I never.”

the Rain

[I'm going to try and write and post a poem a day for a week, this is the first in that effort.]

It wasn’t so much the rain
exploding like fireworks
on the dark grey asphalt
or the wind in the trees
moving like James Brown.

It wasn’t the streams in the gutters,
the black clouds smiling
or the branches drooping
with more than they could carry.

It was the middle-aged woman
hiding under a black umbrella
unlocking her Volvo
with urgency.

It was the cringe
the cower
the shrink
away from the storm
that caused a sigh,

like the exuberance
was simply tolerated
by slightly annoyed people
with schedules and preferences
for quiet and sun.

Murder Suicide

[just wrote this, I'm open to suggestions.]

The police tape outside the rambler didn’t conceal much.
Everyone in the neighborhood heard the shots.
When the cameras showed up,
the overweight-middle-aged women were interviewed,
the story was obvious enough.
There were still details floating around,
but with these things details seldom get nailed down,
least not to the satisfaction of col de sac gossip.
The local news anchor was able to piece together
a fairly comprehensive synopsis of the crime.

A murder suicide.
Love had had enough of hope,
his adolescent behavior
refusal to accept reality
or notice her.

Neighbors mentioned that Hope seemed distant in conversation.
He was always occupied with half-finished home improvement projects.

Love hadn’t been happy in years.
Seduced by possibilities and fear of being alone,
she married the younger man
months after their meeting him.
The promise of a family went unfulfilled
as the couple struggled with infertility.
Love became increasingly depressed, and Hope paid little attention.
He became unconcerned with his wife’s needs and her fight with depression.

In a press conference the Sheriff’s office noted
the crime appeared to have been planned ahead of time
it was not a crime of passion.

A Gentiles Bad Day

[hope this doesn't gross out anyone, it isn't meant to]

There have been better days
like when I was four
and I zipped my foreskin into my onesy,
or the time my first girlfriend
gave me an inflatable heart
with the name Jack written on it.
The good times never last.
Sooner or later
somebody will tell somebody you love
they have cancer.
And then having a piece of your penis
on the outside of the white zipper
doesn’t seem quite so bad.

Heartbreak

I don’t have any new
insights
on heartbreak.
Most of what I know
everyone else knows,
but it’s good to review.

It’s familiar,
like the homeless man
you seem to run into
every time you leave your house.
The one you know
better than you’d like.

It teaches us the lessons
we never wanted to learn,
moving arduously through the text book.

Heartbreak is an asshole professor
testing first week minutia
on the final.
Every quiz and test is
cumulative.
I hope this is the final.

A forgone conclusion.

a crack in the sidewalk
walking the dog
a yoyo trick that’s getting old

The empty feeling after a kick to the junk, a studio apartment,
bad song lyrics, the fourth plate at a Chinese buffet,
a dog with cancer, a diamond ring, your first mustache.

It is not a
broken record,
it is a
broken stereo.

A rock stuck in your shoes
cavities with no dental insurance
ketchup stain on prom tuxedo.

Her voice
knocking the wind out of you.

Almost, near miss, better luck next time, plenty of fish in the sea
over and over and over and over again and again and again.

Heart break is a railroad tunnel
painted on the side of a cliff.

A pen out of ink
and a journal full
of crush-drunk gibberish and
sad analogies.

A porcupine fetus
we give birth to
every time they
brush up next to us or
laugh at our jokes.

Profanity
oozing out
from chest cavities
in sighs,
mumbles and
slow sips of thick beer.

Your stomach getting all lobsided
after she says
“you’re such a funny guy”
emphasizing such
like a twist of a knife.

The callous built up like a wall around us
with holes the size of quirky smiles and
casual conversation.

Seeing prophecy fulfilled, the land laid to waste,
and your heart on the long march to Babylon.

A mosquito bite.

It comes when hyperbole
becomes morphine
and all you can hope is that
this is
at last
the final.

I’m not saying anything new.
This is just review.
This will be on the test.

Walker Texas Ranger

[in case you're wondering why I wrote this, it was because I wanted to, and i do what i want.]

stepping out unnoticed
from behind concrete pillar
Walker surprises gang bangers

the street thugs
shot a ten year old
that Walker loved

the young black man
who the dialog has revealed
has a good heart
but simply lost his moral sense of direction
from a bad crowd
and abusive home
hangs his head sheepishly

the gang leader challenges Walker
who promptly kicks their ass
without even bringing out a roundhouse
walking away the gang leader yells
you can't do this

I just did
Walker's black cowboy hat
exits the frame

Meanwhile

the girl who got shot is on a respirator
with her grandmother by her side
as she flat lines
her grandmother prays to God

suddenly

the room is filled with soft light
emanating from the little girl
grandmother and nurses look around
amazed
the girls eyes begin to move
as the light fades

she pulls out the respirator
explains that an angel had spoke to her
and that everything would be all right

later Walker explains to the doctor,
who was bewildered as he took off his glasses
because science could not explain what happened,
science could not explain the power of faith

local news anchor
reports the story
ends broadcast
"the is Leslie Johnson
reporting from the hood"

this story ended
as the angel had predicted:
the gang bangers threw down their bandanas
joined the community members and Walker
who were enjoying the girls singing
and having a picnic.

Theology of Heartbreak

Psalm 34:18
The Lord is near the broken-hearted.

Psalm 73:28
But as for me, the nearness of God is my good

Romans 8:28
And we know that God causes all things to work for the good to those called according to his purpose.

Me
Dang.

Sun Tanning

The President went sun tanning
in-front of a grassy knoll
but the snipers didn’t show.

It hurts to get stood up.
The President tried to make excuses:
Maybe they need moving targets
I’m no JFK
Maybe they were at a different knoll.

But what he doesn’t understand is
assassins are fickle people,
an attempt was made on Jimmy Carter’s life
but GW walks away from office
without a single shot fired in his direction.

The President will be at the theater tomorrow,
if any one was wondering,
he’ll be wearing a large top hat
near the emergency exit.

Cheap Shots

It’s that lopsided feeling
after a single thought.
Where every organ in my middle:
the stomach, the kidneys, the liver
even those secret ones
roll over to the far right.

Eyes have no mind for middle
wide open or shut tight.

It’s that feeling
that stops
me
mid-stride.

That tired out,
ugly, cheap-shot thought
that stops
me
mid-stride.

In that pause
when I sigh
and wish
I could be put under
anesthesia, so I can
wake up
after the surgeon is through.

In that pause
as I wait for my middle
to balance out,
I remember that my thought
will not negate Your word.

Beer on my Breath (a prayer)

He who keeps you
will not slumber.

Beer is still on my breath
and I know
God is my keeper.

Protects me.
Guards me.
Shades me.

Beer is still on my breath
and I know
God is Holy.

He is just.
He will not
Be mocked.

Beer is still on my breath
and I am sorry.

For forgetting You.
Doubting You.
Turning from You.

Beer is still on my breath
and the Lords stands
before me.
Behind me.
Within me.
Without me.

Beer is still on my breath
and my foot will not slip
because the great shepherd
will not slumber.

He is guarding
my coming
and going,
for now
and forever.

Barbecue Sauce (Revised)

When they got to the restaurant
I was waiting outside on the bench
it didn’t take them long to comment
“So Jake, how are you doing?”
I just grinned
and tried to get up

It wasn’t my fault really
I hadn’t been paying attention
it was 96 degrees out
and I forgot to eat breakfast and lunch

I focused real hard on getting the burger to my mouth
and making sure I remembered to say the consonants
but I have trouble with those things when I’m sober

I was surprised she came
(she was real good looking
and I had spent the summer
trying not to noticeably notice it)
I don’t know why I ordered
a burger with Barbecue sauce on it,
but I did

With mesquite-whiskey goodness
settling in to it’s new home on my collar
I made conversation
I told them about the layer of cartilage
in a wombats ass
and how badgers defended themselves

I wish rolling eyes were signs of flirting
but I’m pretty sure they’re not.

Scenic Highways

Problems of yesterday persist
today came after yesterday
chapter 5 after four
punk before post-punk

But God is leading me
He is present in the dark places
in my bed at night
when the bully’s whispers
won’t leave

He is there
in my grossness—
He waded through it

It is good to reflect
on these things

Thank you God for
scenic highways on the trip
I realize I’ll go through Seattle
at the height of rush hour—
But it’s nice to see the Chuckanuts
on the way.

Deadman

Laughing
in an inflatable bounce house
the kids
are resurrecting the dead

Dead man, dead man
come alive
come alive
on the count of five
1. . . 2. . . 3. . . 4. . . 5

Running circles
around the would-be-Lazarus
they practice
their ritual

Tag wasn’t so
creepy
when I was a kid

We played TV tag,
blob tag, tree tag
candlestick tag
and freeze tag

there was no liturgy
just one person
who was it
and the rest of us
screaming, giggling
and running away

Kids these days
or at least these kids
today—running
from a dead man come alive

I wonder whether it reminds me
of a rehearsal for a Jesus movie
or a zombie movie.

Things To Remember

I need to remember
those things
resting in the back
of my mind

next to how to
find the circumference
of circles, and who
wrote Moby Dick.

I need to remember
stuff I already know,
those things I haven’t forgotten,
just placed in storage.

God is good.
He is with me.
He has plans for me.
I’m a family member.

Slowing down to grasp
at these bits of Heaven,
the comfort I didn’t find
but found me.

Coffee, Biscuits and Gravy

[i just felt like posting something, and found this]

coffee and biscuits and gravy
soaking up beer and deep-fried pickles

a walk down the street
to the noisy cataract

the place is the same
as it was before
and will be after

after what?
maybe nothing
maybe more

maybe there is no knowing
but it’s hard to say

Thankyou Captain Obvious

Someone with a big, strong voice yelled
“It’s a trap.”

At that point it was too late.
My leg was nearly severed
just below the knee,
and was already developing gangrene.

I thanked him for the warning
with sarcasm and an upturned middle-finger.

Bull Shit

I go to a big concrete church where I sit in long wooden pews as light filters in through stained glass. We sing songs in awkward-soft voices. We sing songs to God, and I think he is the only one who can hear us. This Sunday someone is telling us about orphans in Uganda (or Rwanda, or Zimbabwe—I don’t pay too close attention at church). These kids have no food, no shelter, and no money. The speaker is asking if we (the church) could help lend our support, money or prayer. It’s moving. On my way out, I walk past their booth, look straight into the big eyes of a young African boy in a picture and keep walking home, where I order some pizza from Little Caesar’s.

My bible is pretty clear on the matter, the only religion God accepts is taking care of orphans and widows in their distress. If that’s the case then it is time to quote REM, because that's me in the corner. But I’m not losing my religion in the spotlight. I’m slinking back into shadows and crowds, where I perform my illusions.

Apathy is my magic wand. I’m pulling a rabbit out of my hat, turning reality into fantasy,
orphans turn into science fiction. People turn into numbers, far away and easily ignored—like a parking ticket or library fine.

People lose their humanity. In Christian theology we have a term for this:
bull shit.

It’s a shift in focus from working to waiting. Christ taught us to pray: “Thy Kingdom come.” Instead of bringing it, I wait for it to come. In lethargy I have great patience. Heaven is supposed to come down, descend to earth. The Man himself told us
Heaven is right here with us,
in our midst.

Heaven is not someplace far away, a cloud we go to when we die. Heaven is near. It is knocking at the door. It is available
NOW.

Heaven will start to come in me when I get off my ass, fill out a 3 by 5 card and send a fraction of my tiny paycheck to buy vaccinations and education for someone who wasn’t born on the right continent with the right color of skin.

Heaven will come when we see people as what they are—
art.
Created in the image of God. Each made with divinity dripping from every pour, each the pinnacle of creation. Each made with more care, detail, attention, and love than I can fathom.

Each one carrying the image of their Creator, who after finishing, took two steps back from his art project to get a better look and decided, with tears welling up from the bottom of him, that it was good
it was very good.

Heaven will come.
When every tear is dried from tired eyes, when every head is lifted. When pain and mourning aren’t. When the hungry are satisfied and the thirsty are refreshed. When numbers become brothers and sisters. When the church finds their voice in their wallets.

So, lord haste the day
when my faith shall be sight
the clouds be rolled back as a scroll
the trump shall resound and the lord descend
and the dancers will dance upon injustice.

Bull Shit

I go to a big concrete church where I sit in long wooden pews as light filters in through stained glass. We sing songs in awkward-soft voices. We sing songs to God, and I think he is the only one who can hear us. This Sunday someone is telling us about orphans in Uganda (or Rwanda, or Zimbabwe—I don’t pay too close attention at church). These kids have no food, no shelter, and no money. The speaker is asking if we (the church) could help lend our support, money or prayer. It’s moving. On my way out, I walk past their booth, look straight into the big eyes of a young African boy in a picture and keep walking home, where I order some pizza from Little Caesar’s.

My bible is pretty clear on the matter, the only religion God accepts is taking care of orphans and widows in their distress. If that’s the case then it is time to quote REM, because that's me in the corner. But I’m not losing my religion in the spotlight. I’m slinking back into shadows and crowds, where I perform my illusions.

Apathy is my magic wand. I’m pulling a rabbit out of my hat, turning reality into fantasy orphans turn into science fiction. People turn into numbers, far away and easily ignored—like a parking ticket or library fine.

People lose their humanity. In Christian theology we have a term for this:
bull shit.

It’s a shift in focus from working to waiting. Christ taught us to pray: “Thy Kingdom come.” Instead of bringing it, I wait for it to come. In lethargy I have great patience. Heaven is supposed to come down, descend to earth. The Man himself told us
Heaven is right here with us,
in our midst.

Heaven is not someplace far away, a cloud we go to when we die. Heaven is near. It is knocking at the door. It is available
NOW.

Heaven will start to come in me when I get off my ass, fill out a 3 by 5 card and send a fraction of my tiny paycheck to buy vaccinations and education for someone who wasn’t born on the right continent with the right color of skin.

Heaven will come when we see people as what they are—
art.
Created in the image of God. Each made with divinity dripping from every pour, each the pinnacle of creation. Each made with more care, detail, attention, and love than I can fathom.

Each one carrying the image of their Creator, who after finishing, took two steps back from his art project to get a better look and decided, with tears welling up from the bottom of him, that it was good
it was very good.

Heaven will come.
When every tear is dried from tired eyes, when every head is lifted. When pain and mourning aren’t. When the hungry are satisfied and the thirsty are refreshed. When numbers become brothers and sisters. When the church finds their voice in their wallets.

So, lord haste the day
when my faith shall be sight
the clouds be rolled back as a scroll
the trump shall resound and the lord descend
and the dancers will dance upon injustice.

Every Valley (100th Post)

Every valley shall be exalted
At least that’s how the song goes
I suppose that is the hope,
though it’s tough to muster
the zeal or assurance
to make it a battle cry.

Down here it’s comfort food,
a blankie, a lullaby
a hope—but not in the strong sense.
It is a safe house
the barrel
I cling to after a shipwreck.

I'm Proud of My Eagle Scout

[this is the longest poem I've written in a long time. Any feedback would be appreciated.]

4th of July
rolls of the tongue
easy.

People tell me
the country
is all sorts of messed up.

I think they’re mostly right
but I don’t tell them.
I think it would
go to their heads

It’s the 4th of July
in Northern California
and it’s barely 70 degrees.
People are bitching.
I don’t mind,
I have a sweatshirt.

The 4th of July,
and I don’t have plans.
Nathan and I
just watched the Hangover
and now we’re sitting
outside a downtown café.
It’s quieter out here than inside,
even with the SUVs and motorcycles.

Nathan forgot to bring a book.
I offer the Bible in my backseat
and toss him the keys.

As he crosses the street,
I yell “the driver-side-back-door
doesn’t work
and the passenger-side-front-door
doesn’t unlock from the outside.”

It’s my cars 17th 4th of July.
She’s getting quirkier.
The driver-side-back-door
is a new quirk:
a result of me
trying to fix it.
Things generally get worse
when I try and fix them.

The 4th of July
and this town is quiet.
We don’t have quiet holidays.
The somber ones turn into excuses
to drink beer and grill meat.
I imagine that is what 9/11
will turn into.
I’m proud to be an American,
but even I know
our screw-ups
like our virtues are
loud. Or at least
they are today.

The 4th of July.
I wonder if they’re countries
that celebrate nation-hood
with a moment of silence
or candles or flowers.
It’d probably be a pussy-ass country—
sometimes I wish I lived in a pussy-ass country
but if I did
I know I’d miss the fireworks.

It’s the 4th of July.
I suppose things are pretty not-right
with my loud country.

But it’s the 4th of July,
and the girl awkwardly parallel-parking her suburban
behind my Corolla
is pretty damn cute;
and so is my Corolla.
The girl may even be beautiful,
despite the funny faces she makes
bumping in between the curb and my car.

It’s my car’s 17th 4th of July
and I’ll love her
even if I have to climb
through my trunk
to get in.
After all,
she is my car,
and the bumper sticker on the back
says she’s proud of me.

Barbecue Sauce

[Hey, I'd be down with any suggestions on this. The tense is weird to me. I really like story poems, so any help would be welcome.]

When they got to the restaurant
I was waiting outside on the bench
it didn’t take them long to comment
“So Jake, how are you doing?”
I just grinned
and tried to get up

It wasn’t my fault really
I hadn’t been paying attention
it was 96 degrees out
and I forgot to eat breakfast and lunch

I focused real hard on getting the burger to my mouth
and remembering to say the consonants
but I have trouble with those things when I’m sober

I was surprised she came
(she was real good looking
and I had spent the summer
trying not to noticeably notice it)
I don’t know why I ordered
a burger with Barbecue sauce on it,
but I did

With mesquite-whiskey goodness
settling in to it’s new home on my collar
I made conversation
I told them about the layer of cartilage
In a wombats ass
and how badgers defended themselves

I wish rolling eyes were signs of flirting
but I’m pretty sure they’re not
I wondered why barbecue sauce was so good in the mouth
but so bad on the shirt
I wonder if I tried to lick it off. . .
I’m in no condition to try and be sneaky

I got bored with the conversation
no wombats, badgers or barbecue sauce
just who's-dating-who
we were sitting outside
and I watched the birds fly around

Birds rule
I have a bird book in my car
I wish there had been someone there
who liked bird books, beer, and barbeque sauce
I bet we could have had a lot of fun.

When the Saints Go Marching In

Thank God for annoying people getting together on Sundays
for the tone-deaf weirdos filling uncomfortable pews
singing poorly written songs
for wandering sermons with vague points
and for U2 obsessed musicians equipped with acoustic guitars
and a knowledge of 3 and a half chords

Thank God for the old couple glaring
at the teenagers with nose piercings
for the men in their late 30’s
with bic’ed heads and goatees
and for prayers that go on too long

Thank God for finger picking and ugly carpet
for the gauntlet of smiling middle aged men
handing out programs and shaking hands
and for free bad coffee

Thank God for announcements about potlucks
and youth group ski trips
for the signs that tell the parents of child 278
to go to child care as soon as possible
and for the pastor who tells the same story
about his daughter every other Sunday

God blessed the awkward church
He breathes his into the church with dysfunctions
too great to be ignored
He comes near the church filled with uncomfortable people
making uncomfortable conversation with other uncomfortable people
He sits in the back with the people complaining about the worship
He stands with the smelly people raising their hands
He even kneels beside those who go to the altar
because everyone else was going forward

Who is like Him? And who can fathom His ways?
He fills his kingdom with the obsolete and irrelevant
and with those without understanding
All thanks to Him who counted me in that number.

God Questions Jake

Then the Lord answered Jake out of the storm
“Now, stand up like a man,
I’ll ask you a question—
Where were you when I laid
the foundations of the earth?”

I was at the 7-11
buying a slurpee
and eyeing the dirty magazines
behind the counter.

I was half-asleep
on my mothers couch
watching Maury Povich.

“Where were you
when the morning stars sang together
and all the sons of God cheered them on?”

I was at the end of the bar
half-way through my third tall-boy
singin’ Billy Joel’s Piano Man
vaguely eying a rugby match
I didn’t understand.

I was comfortable
under a flannel blanket
in Simpson’s pajamas
in an air conditioned room
surrounded by stuff I don’t need.

Who are you that you would call Me out?

I’m nobody,
but if you want an answer,
I guess I’m the guy
in the third row, on the aisle
listening to a sermon on Job
feeling nothing
but confused and uncomfortable.

The Misinformed Hip Pastor

In thick rimmed black glasses, white slip-on shoes, and tattooed forearms
the hip pastor tells the congregation “God is not weird “
he is long-winded, speaks passionately, and makes nuanced points
but misses his mark when he drills home the point “God is not weird”.

The word weird is relative
a cultural construct
accurately describing
different behaviors
in different societies
but if it wasn’t
and the Creator
was in fact
not weird
I don’t think
I could trust him
I’m suspicious
of “normal” people
and I’d be even more
suspicious of a “normal” God.

But fortunately [if weird were a concrete term]
the young pastor with his half beard
is misinformed about God’s weirdness.

If God is God, He is weird
and so are we, His followers.

We eat the body and drink the blood of a carpenter who taught that people should be re-birthed in order to enter into a kingdom that no one can see, a man who was prophesied about by another man who cooked his food over a fire of shit. A man who came from people whose most holy day commemorated a time when their ancestors covered their doorways with the blood of a sheep, specifically a one year old male lamb with no broken bones or scars.

So if the urban pastor with his seeker friendly sermons
is going to use the word weird in a discussion of God
he ought to drop the not from the statement
and testify that God is weird, His plans are weird
and we, His people, are most definitely weird.

Otter Pops and Wombats

These Otterpops got me feeling all sorts of nice. I’m double fisting purple and orange day dreaming about talking wombats. I imagine their advice being the same as the voice I’ve learned to ignore. Summer days are like that, all orange cream sodas, sun shine and optimism.

Those wombats are whisperers. They tell me about her—they don’t even know her name, but they know more than enough. “It’s just the Otterpops talking. How many have you had today? Could you step out of the vehicle sir.” They shine their fancy Maglites in my eyes, leaving me seeing red and blue blotches that tell me to come back down, have a cup of coffee and pay my bills on time. If they weren’t wombats, I swear I’d shoot them. But they're wombat and I love wombats. Besides I think they’re on the endangered species list, and I don’t want that on my conscience.

The Eye of a Needle

She tells me the boys at school are rude
they tell her about their 20 inch members
she is thirteen and they are upperclassmen
she tells me one unzipped his fly
asked her to get in

I comment on the impossibility of the suggestion
a 5’7 girl fitting through a six inch zipper
because humor relieves tension
because I can’t believe someone would say that to her
because I’m not used to feeling the urge to castrate teenagers

She says it like it’s nothing
a minor annoyance
a mosquito bite
a creaky door
a parking ticket

The conversation moves on
she’s telling me about the rabbits she raises for the county fair
I’m trying hard
to remind myself
what Jesus said about rich men going to heaven
trying to remind myself
if camels can fit through the eye of a needle
maybe pervy teenagers can fit too.

The Wink

Hey!
Hey You,
in the gray-ish Saturn!

I though you should know that
I winked
when you passed me
in my blue Corolla.

I winked
because. . .
you’re hot,

and I thought
you might be lonely?

Maybe After my Coffee

Light falls between Redwood branches
bouncing of bay leaves on it’s way to me
while the birds are still gossiping

I’m hoping I can make to my first cup of coffee
it’s too early and I’m too dead to reflect on anything
beautiful, alarming or confusing


Maybe when I wake up I’ll remember something about this
or maybe I won’t—I’m not sure how much it matters
when I have my coffee I’ll give it more thought
I hope

I’ll probably have things to do by then
things always need doing
I hardly have time to think about all the things that need doing
let alone early morning light, trees and birds
but maybe after my coffee. . .

What Dogs do on Hot Days

A beagle pees on the sidewalk in front of me.
The stream runs over the hot concrete into the gutter.
The little girl walking the small dog looks back at me.
I think she is looking for my reaction,
there’s a tinge of pride in her eyes.
I squint and watch the dog walk away.

The Asshole

[This is one of the first things I ever wrote, you can tell by some of my references, it seems especially applicable today. I did not do these things, but the sentiment applies.]

God I'm an Asshole
I don't even try
I'm a natural
someone should make a movie about me
starring Robert Redford as myself
you'd be in it
played by a heavier Renee Zellweger

In the movie I'd make jokes about your weight
I'd remember your birthday
but still not get you anything
I'd even pick out what I wanted to give you
but use the money to buy a couple drinks
for a girl who is more attractive then you'll ever be
years later I'd sleep through your wedding
even though I'd agreed to be an usher

It would be an awesome movie

The Asshole would be a huge box office success
money would pour into my bank account
girls would flock to my arms
Redford, Zellweger and I would be interviewed together
on Regis and Kelly
I would make jokes about Redford’s golf swing
and he would tell amusing anecdotes
about my alcoholism
and the subsequent nights spent passed out
in the back of pick up trucks

Tabloids would carry stories about Renee carrying my baby
we would be a media hit
Eminem would mention my height in one of his songs
Vh1 would interview me for “We Love the 90's”
I'd talk shit on 311
I would appear on the newly reborn Dave Chapelle Show
in a sketch called "Ask an Asshole"

All this would lead to a sequel
"the Asshole II: Twice the Ass, Twice the Hole"
Chris Rock would be added to the cast
as Redfords rookie partner
with no respect for the rules
the Asshole II would alienate it's fan base
who would say it had lost touch with it's original vision
Car chases and gunfights
are no substitute for a man cracking jokes
about Leukemia patients weird shaped heads
or the charm of a man describing his date
as looking festively plump

My fall from the limelight would be swift and complete
I would be left with no money
having squandered it on statues of myself, pyramid schemes
and girl scout cookies
left with nothing I would crash on your couch
drink your beer
make fun of your pudgy kids
and never, ever wear pants

Sunday Best

[I guess this should be filed under "based on a true story"]

My Sunday clothes never fit well.
They were either a size too big
or a size too small.

They were usually wool and scratchy.
On days when my Mom didn’t have the energy to stop me,
I would wear sweat pants underneath.
My sweatpants always had holes in them,
but they were comfortable.

Wool suits with clip-on ties
over deteriorating cotton sweat pants.
The perishable was swallowed up
by the imperishable.

I wish my Mom would’ve had more energy.

Awkward Sqirrels trying to make Conversation

I was at the bus stop on the first nice day of spring, minding my business, listening to Al Green on my headphones, and watching a balding squirrel eat an almond. The squirrel was uncomfortably close. I assumed it was a socially awkward creature, with no squirrel friends, so it tried to make acquaintances with humans waiting for the bus. I wasn’t in the mood to be social, so I just stared it down. An old woman with a hobble-step stopped, looked at the squirrel, then at me. Not wanting to be rude to an elder, I took my head phones out. “Everyone’s got to eat” she said, gesturing towards the socially awkward squirrel, “God made us all with stomachs.” It was then that I realized: I was rude, old women say weird things, and I shouldn’t judge squirrels eating almonds at the bus stop.

The Story Teller

Christ tells me stories
that stick in me head
on quiet evenings
when the list of things I need to do
runs onto a second page.
Christ tells me stories
with a slow pace,
full of vivid, superfluous details
and large characters.

Alexis asks for help getting up
he grips my arm in one hand
and a cane in the other.
He tells me where to go:
left, right and between chairs.
He tells me he walks by the mercy of God,
angels appear everywhere he goes
they help him—this isn’t a theory
he knows this, he lives it.
I walk with him to the bathroom.
He walks slowly, arrhythmically
with frequent pauses;
he tests my patience.

Christ tells me stories within stories;
confusing stories shared over coffee,
or on smoke breaks.
Christ tells me stories
that need to be processed slowly.

At an art show they hand out fancy h’ordeurves:
bacon-wrapped dates, lavender truffles and herb pastries.
There’s free coffee.
The painter talks a lot with his hands.
His daughter hangs on one shoulder.
The painter tells me about a tree in his back-yard
that broke in a winter wind-storm.
The daughter mentions that it was a hawthorn tree.
The painting shows a branch on the ground
with fading colors disappearing into a dark gray.
The tree stands up the left side
with another branch reaching over top
with bright reds and oranges.
He points to the distance between the two branches.
His daughter shows her braces and smiles big
as they tell me about spring in Walla Walla.

The sun is wandering up the mountains behind Vancouver.
They look like they’ve been kissed
by someone who’s just eaten a powdered donut.
Christ is still telling me stories.
I don’t understand them,
but they stick in my head.

Dead Rats and Starlings

[So I realized I hadn't updated this in nearly a month, and that I hadn't written a new poem in over month so I took time out of studying (actually watching the Colbert Report) to write this. Tell me what you think.]

There are eagles in the fields along I-5.
I pretend I don’t know why they’re there.
I make up reasons for them to be down on the ground:
he just got tired of flying
and who wouldn’t with the wind today,
he’s curious, probably saw something shiny.

But that’s not why they’re down there,
they’re scavenging,
probably eating dead rats or starlings
that could have been dead a week or more.

But I don’t want to think about eagles that way
they aren’t coyotes—their noble and majestic,
so I make up stories about them.
I’d rather have an inspiring picture
than a disillusioning reality.

How Applied Theology Applies to the Fantasy Realm--Paper Topics

1. How should our faith inform our social values?

• Should Christians buy coffee harvested with zombie labor?

• Can Christians act as mediators, or peacemakers in the centuries old conflict between werewolves and vampires?

2. How should our faith affect our politics?

• Is it right to support a political party whose social values line up with our own, but ignores or even denies the historical persecution of Centaurs living in American territories?

• In regards to safe needle programs sponsored by the government, should they be expanded to blood-for-teeth vampiric programs as modeled in Eastern Europe? This of course leads to the deeper, more challenging question: how are we, as Christians, supposed to interact with the undead?--a question which has caused deep divisions in the church since at least the time of Augustine.

3. Coming from an evangelical tradition, what stance should we take on the ecumenical movement?

• How can we seek to foster reconciliation between the Western church and the Orthodox Sea People of the southern Mediterranean?

• How have we inherited the divisive legacy of the Welsh Monster Reformed Church and the Swansea Inquisition of the late nineteenth century? Are we in fact continuing that legacy?

4. How do we do mission?

• Does it defile the Gospel to translate the bible into the accursed language of Mordor? Doesn't the translation of the Word in fact redeem the language?

• In the context of Celtic Faery people, where the class system is entrenched deeply in society; in churches, should missionaries allow Elves (traditionally at the top of the class system) receive the eucharist before Goblins and Ledrechauns? Or should missionaries seek to abolish such traditions despite their importance in society and ancient origins?

Psalm 42 (draft 2)

[I think this is a lot better than the original]

As the deer pants for the water
so my soul yearns after you

I remember hearing a sermon on that passage when I was in middle school. The preacher was explaining the word yearn; how in Hebrew, that word had a slightly sexual tone to it. Well, I was 13, that passage really connected with me. Psalm 42 has been one of my favorites ever since.

These things I remember
and I pour out my soul within me
For I used to go along with the congregation
and lead them up to the house of God

It was around that time I first started reading the New Testament. Reading it for the first time, I could hear the excitement in Paul's voice and saw myself on the shore of Galilee listening to Jesus. I used a crayon for a highlighter, and that bible is filled with blue, red, and green scribbles. Those days I raised my hands high in church and sang loud and off key. These days I remember those crayons with a sigh.

Why are you in despair, O my soul?
and why are you disturbed within me?
Hope in God, For I shall again praise Him
For the help of his presence.

I try and remind myself of the promises I have read. I try and sing my insecurities away. But my stomach (or soul, I never took anatomy in college) is suspicious of these attempts. The storm remains.
I remember a story where Jesus and his friends were all on a boat, in the middle of a crazy-bad storm. They were freaked out. Jesus was asleep in the back. They woke Him up, and He told the storm to shut up, and it did.
Sometimes I wonder if God's alarm clock is broke.

Deep calls to deep
at the sound of your waterfalls
All your breakers and waves
have rolled over me

Not all the pictures of life with God are peaceful. It's not all green pastures and still waters. Jonah got swallowed up by a whale because his shipmates thought they were all going to be killed by a storm. On one of his missionary trips, Paul was shipwrecked by a storm.
This storm has soaked me to the bone. There's no drying out. I'm sunk, shivering and waiting.

I will say to God my rock
Why have you forgotten me?

I don't get it. I pray and pray and pray. And He stands aloof, unseen and distant. Am I speaking the wrong language? Am I too quiet? If I stood on a mountain and shouted could He hear me better?
No. My God hears me, but I don't hear Him.

Why are you in despair, O my Soul?
And why have you become disturbed within me?
Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him

I do some of my best thinking in the bath: no interruptions and plenty of time to ponder. It's a good time to reflect on the promises of God, and the good times. When I take bathes, I listen to my favorite album and remember when God spoke to me with a crayon in my hand. I will remember Him and hope, as much as my stomach will let me, because I know He is faithful.

Cicadas

He's working hard at killing his liver
in dimly lit dives
frequented by girls
in tight black jeans,
bullets hanging round their waist.

He smokes in alleys
walks down dirty sidewalks
laughs when he's supposed to
knows the right people
orders the right drinks
and is vaguely liked by most.

His disease is a cicada.
Climbs out from underground
once in coon's age.
When it does
it makes a big noise.

He's doing alright
or at least
he is when he's asked.

He's sipping beer
from a cracked glass
with a slow leak.
He'll find the bottom
faster than he expects.

The Way You Rolled Your Eyes mfw (Blue Line)

[from a ryan johnson prompt]

I could see something in your eyes. You rolled them, but you rolled them softly, as if to say "come on over." I don't feel comfortable moving while the bus is moving, so I stayed put. When the bus finally stopped you left so fast I didn't have a chance to introduce myself. Anyways, you were on the blue line heading downtown. Sultry in a black-fleece vest, hand buried in your purse, clutching something. What were you holding? You were holding on so tight, I wonder if you have lost something, or someone in the past? Are you looking for someone to hold on to you? Would you let me hold on to you? If it helps, I can promise that I would never, ever let you go. No matter how hard you pushed me away; I'm very persistent. I realize that this is forward, but the way you rolled your eyes. . .

Psalm 42

[this is more of an exercise than a poem. I'm trying to pray through the psalms, here the first piece I've written from this. tell me what you think]

As the deer pants for the water
so my soul yearns after you

I remember hearing a sermon on that passage when I was in middle school. The preacher was explaining the word yearn; how in Hebrew, that word had a slightly sexual tone to it. Well, I was 13, that passage really connected with me.

These things I remember
and I pour out my soul within me
For I used to go along with the congregation
and lead them up to the house of God

It wasn't that long ago, was it? When I would stay up late, with a crayon in my hand marking up the New Testament. When I would raise up my hands in church. When I could open my bible and forget my doubts. When this world didn't seem chaotic and utterly confusing. When I sat and waited in expectation for God to show up. It wasn't that long ago, was it?

Why are you in despair, O my soul?
and why are you disturbed within me?
Hope in God, For I shall again praise Him
For the help of his presence

I have these inner dialogues. Debates with myself. My emotions have always been headstrong. It's no more use telling them to calm down than telling the storm to calm down. I try and choke them down. Remind myself of promises I have a hard time believing and stories that I feel completely removed from.
I remember a story where His friends were all on a boat, a storm was raging all around them. They were freaked out. He was asleep in the back. They woke Him up, and He told the storm to shut up.
I wish I could just wake Him up.

Deep calls to deep
at the sound of your waterfalls
All your breakers and waves
have rolled over me

You've soaked me to the bone. There's no drying out. I'm wrecked, shivering and waiting.

I will say to God my rock
Why have you forgotten me?

I don't get it. I pray and pray and pray. And He stands aloof, unseen and distant. Am I speaking the wrong language? Am I too quiet? If I stood on a mountain and shouted could He hear me better?
No. My God hears me, but I don't hear Him.

Why are you in despair, O my Soul?
And why have you become disturbed within me?
Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him

I don't think these debates are going to end any time soon. But I'll remember the God who saves. The God who spoke to me with a crayon in my hand, with my hands held high. I will remember Him, and hope--because I know He is faithful.

Reflecting on Bazan's New Material

The worship leader
is an atheist now
but I still find myself
humming along
and wishing
he'd play an old refrain.

Heaven

In heaven we'll all have floppy hair, v-neck sweaters, tight fitting jeans and vintage Telecasters.
In heaven we'll listen to the Velvet Underground, Devo and Nick Cave.
In heaven we'll be photographed looking altogether disinterested in front of abandoned industrial buildings.
In heaven we'll all eat vegan and smoke hand-rolled cigarettes.
In heaven there will be no dancing; only toe tapping and modest head nodding.

Heaven is a house party two blocks off Broadway on Capital Hill in Seattle.

Heaven is making me sick.

Empty Gym

I don't like the sound of a ball in an empty gym
the sound bouncing back and forth between the walls
if I show up before my friends
I take my ball to the corner
sit down and wait.

On my knees
hands clasped
I'm afraid
of hearing that sound
bouncing back at me
of hearing my own voice
echoing.

I don't want to confuse the voices
I don't want to see Him
at the bottom of a well
looking up puzzled.

I will take my ball to the corner
sit down and wait.

God Got Dirty

[So this is my first Regent inspired post. I haven't been writing much, but I've been thinking a lot. This is something that's been stewing for quite some time. Tell me what you think]

For the moment, my mind is wandering. I have a hard time keeping it in these pews most Sundays. Today I'm having a particularly hard time. The preacher is a guest speaker and her jokes are stale. I find it difficult to have patience for wooden humor.

When my mind wanders it doesn't take long for my eyes to follow. Fortunately, in Church this doesn't get me into half the trouble it does in bars. There's a kid in the corner inspecting the wall. His hands are tickling up and down it. His mother is sitting behind me to the left, she's trying to get his attention to get him to sit down. He's ignoring her. I wonder what the congregation would do if I went over to join him. I can't remember the last time I gave a wall a good feel.

The preacher is talking about the Last Supper. My stomach is churning. I remember one Sunday, during a silent time of confession, my stomach rumbled. I think stomach rumbles in church are more embarrassing than farts. At least with farts most people have been trained to giggle, not so with stomach rumblings. People just try and ignore it, which in my opinion makes it worse.

Now my mind and my stomach are joining forces--Taco Bell. Number 6, the two chalupas with a taco. I lick my lips. It is a particularly severe degree of hunger when I start day-dreaming about Taco Bell.

I'm called out of my day dream by the preacher messing up. She said "Judas" instead of Jesus. I giggle to myself. Pay attention for another five minutes, then my eyes start wandering again. They drift to the back corner, where I see a pile of bread crumbs. The sleuth in me ponders this mystery; they must have been left here from last weeks communion. I smile.

I like that the sanctuary has not been vacuumed in a week. I like that there is a pile left after the Eucharist. I like that it's dirty--it serves as a good reminder.

The peculiar thing about us Christians, is that we believe that God actually stepped down into the mess--our God got dirty. He probably sat through sermons where his stomach rumbled and the preacher got his words mixed up. Our God felt walls with his fingers. Our God had a mother who cleaned him up when he got cuts and scrapes. Our God stepped down out to the ethereal glow of Heaven into our weird-murky-dirty-little world to restore it to its created purpose--to serve as a place where we can commune with God. The Eucharist ought to remind us of this. It ought to remind us that it isn't just in the bread and wine (or grape juice) that we can experience God in physical things; the whole world exists for us to experience his awesomeness. We can experience it in mud-pies, sand castles, beer, mountains and puddles.

As I stare at the pile of dried bread crumbs in the back of the sanctuary I have to thank God for all the ways I can get dirty experiencing God's glory.

On Flossing

[Just a little something I've been tinkering with]

It's a frustration
with being average
soon forgotten
and seeing it
owning it
repeating it

It's a frustration
with being overshadowed
like Donatello was by the other Turtles
like Ringo was by the other Beatles
like Luigi was by Mario

It's a fear
of being less than average
the weak link
aimed for in games of Red Rover
picked last

It's a fear
of being the inept brother
the Fredo Corleone
and seeing the family realize it

It's living next to the cavities
in the back of my mouth
it's hiding
just out of the reach
floss and toothbrushes

I'm not sure it's going away
I don't know much about it
I've looked for informational brochures
but haven't found any answers

Friends tell me I need to start floss more
I can't say that their wrong.