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.