Daydreams of Putin

I hid behind sunglasses,

when tears pushed through

I thought of Vladimir Putin shirtless.

My thoughts were cloaked,

but I’m not so sure she didn’t guess. I wondered

what dreams the Russian president let go,

if he made mixed tapes

for American presidents

but kept them for himself,

if he saw Chechnya as a metaphor

for some recurrent heartbreak.

My thoughts bent around

cheap plastic rims, back

to the problems I’d been avoiding:

there was no outcome I could label success.

She was my Chechnya.

The Spirit is Not Willing

“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,” he said to them. “Stay here and keep watch.”

Mark 14:34

They hauled my corpse home in a wheel-barrow, planted me

under rhododendrons. I slept heavy—scowled out

at the side-walkers: stroller-mothers and joggers.

Crows chased them off with havoc

screamed from over-hanging limbs,

swooping down in sneak attacks.

I slept-in: cold, unmoved, frozen;

patiently waiting for the earth to stop.

But the ground warmed, and I dreamed

a kaleidoscope—tossed and turned

while the azaleas raced the rhododendrons.

Soon they’ll be awful pastel-ed children

giggling and rifling through budding bushes

in search of plastic eggs housing candy cloaked in foil,

and I’ll reach for the snooze button.

How We Became Youth Pastors

We trade high school stories
of Christian rock bands,
bands that toured
with Christian rock bands,
or any band that played
all ages shows in the late 90’s--

so many questions? Do you remember
Five Iron Frenzy or Roadside Monument,
Waxwing, These Arms Are Snakes,
when we stopped liking ska,
when skanking ceased to be cool, but
hardcore dancing still, somehow, was.
Older siblings talked of Soundgarden,
Nirvana, or Modest Mouse--handmedown
musical taste mixed with youth group piety:
Church youth rooms became venues,
ping-pong tables were folded-up
frankenstein-half stack amps wheeled in,
cops called on noise complaints: the legends
that got youth pastors fired and worshipped.

More questions: were we actually cool?
When was the last time you listened
to a Tooth and Nail band? We were cool.
Thrift store Doc Martens, Dickies slacks,
and band t-shirt with unrelated graphic.
We were seeker-sensitive-missional-
emergent-artisan church before it was...

We’ll be thirty soon, and then what
will be cool? More bands? Or singers from old bands
new solo project? A collection Motown on vinyl?
Scotch whisky, homebrews, secret garage stills?
Werner Herzog documentaries? May it never be!
Will the category cease to exist, and all the scenesters
turned socially-conscious progressives
ease into poorly paid professions
dress sensibly, eat ethically
raise poorly behaved children
with aspirations to become artists,
or worse yet, poets.