Maybe God has a Notebook

It was Sunday in the bathroom behind the sanctuary. The night before was spent under a lamp pouring over Pretty Pink in the back corner of Bobby’s room. There was something inviting about that dark open mouth. The images were still in my mind, fresh like a pot roast. It was time to take care of business.

A fast minute later though, I was a heap. Exhausted and spent. Vulnerable.

Something was uneasy and there were murmurs in the hall. Low voices like I had been had. I prayed with all my might.
I was in a church. It seemed like the thing to do.
There was begging to get out unfound, pleading that I never would again, swearing that my life would be his, and, I suppose, asking for forgiveness too.

Later when I told the pastor what I did, the prayer part at least, he said I had been saved and had the secretary make a little plaque that held my name and the date it all happened.
It declared, “I have been Saved.”
You need one of those to get into heaven after all. I mean, How else is God to know?

It was the Methodists that told me I was in fact not saved. And that salvation is a process. I had to keep trying and keep proving that I was worthy enough. I tried to show them my little plaque, but I forgot I had wanted to see if metal could burn when it was attached to wood. I figured, just like salvation, these things were important to know.

So I was stuck. Without my plaque I had to work for it now. I thought I could outsmart the system-
Go back over to the Baptist Church, and sure they’d make me up a new one. They told me though, if I was once saved I am always saved and if I had gotten saved but now wasn’t saved then I never was saved at all.

That was a lot for a fourteen year old boy to take in so I decided to go back over to Bobby’s and see if he had any thing new. While we thumbed the pages and greased up he asked me if I had figured whether I was saved yet or not. I looked over at him, back down at Pam, and figured I really hadn't ever felt more saved than when those eyes were looking back up into mine. “I’m still working on it,” I said. Bobby just moaned.

Sunday Thoughts

To love and be loved-

that is perhaps the greatest gift

this world has to offer.

Lessons On Hate

Each morning I would be there at six. I would stand, determined, and wait. At night I drew and sketched things. Pictures of cars, pirates in ragged clothes, and men. The men would be wearing jeans, the baggy ones with elastic around each ankle-
And lots of zippers. Sometimes, there were too many zippers.

My jeans were from K-Mart though; the husky section. Even then they were too tight. I knew it didn’t matter what you wore. The person inside the clothes was more important. Still, I would have liked more zippers.

When the bus pulled up, and the door slid open, I climbed the stairs. I looked straight into his eyes and said, “Mornin!” The expression inside the afro didn’t change, but his eyes met mine, and the whole head nodded. Sometimes, with all that hair, I wondered how he managed to get his head back up straight. He always did though, gave a hefty pull on the lever for the door, and slid his gloved hands back over to the steering wheel.

My eyes after that were fixed on the back window. I almost couldn’t hear the other guys laughing, patting me on the back, and jeering, “Su’up Tights! Gimme luv nigga.” I sat in the first empty seat, convinced mankind was corrupt, destined to taunt me. I would think about going on a diet. I would watch the retarded kid in the front seat suck on his fist then wipe it all over his face. He’d shake his head back and forth like he was possessed.

I always waited to be the last one off, my eyes at the seat behind me. The afro would turn towards me and say, “You have a good day.” It never spoke to anyone else.

Those days passed slow.

Ten years later, the bus route was still the same. I could still see that afro driving along on my way to work. I wondered if he ever thought about shaving it off so the kids would stop laughing at him.

I wonder sometimes too about my little league team. The one I was on the year before I started ridding the bus. About how when my uniform came it was one size too small, and the team gave me the nickname, “Tights.” They all liked me even though I was white and a lousy ball player. They thought I was funny.

My teammates, they were probably the same ones on that bus. The ones that I was too scared to look at. The ones I was sure would jeer me before I even got on that first time. The ones that were part of this corrupt world.

The ones that were all just anxious to understand love.

From the archives of horrible poems:

Too Much For You

I’m too much for you. Trust me, you couldn’t handle it. You’re a type, and I chew you like a steak everyday. But all your gristle and fat just makes me want to laugh. To bad too much of you is worst than the last. Don’t want to talk to me? You couldn’t even if you tried. Nothing next to me. Might as well see a fish talking to Sophocles telling him lies. When I Suck you in then just let you Drip back out like you saw your mom to your dad do you’ll know it’s time to Fuck you. Think you’re smart? Smartest thing you ever did was stay the hell away cause the best you could of hoped for was maybe get laid. Thought you could hurt me by not giving time of day? Whatever brought the thought that I would ever want it Don’t you see you’ve been played? The things I said are just my game. There’s nothing but pure evil running through these veins. You did good to walk away. My loathing is cued just stay that way. Don’t dare think I’ll try to find you. Not because I can’t, I could and have you too. I just don’t want to. This is a type I’m better than and you knew it all along. That’s why you’re sick sad and scared Stand there in a piss puddle see if I care. Let the dogs come lick it up and lick you out cause that’s all you get. Go ahead and pout. Walked on a grave lately? Have you destroyed that sanctity that way too? What other kind of human being wants to be more hateful than you? Glad you met me. Too bad I’m too much for you

I'll Make it up.

My mother tells me I will be late for my own funeral. It’s unoriginal, but she’s probably right. I see the thousands that will be there. Some that knew me well, and each holding back their own tear.
The march slowly down the aisle would begin, couples hand in hand. Those alone would already have found each other—
Shared in the comfort. Touched one another. It would look like a massive group wedding in Vegas. A few elderly couples; dignified, unhesitant. The rest dripping in sleaze, unsure what they might do next. Or after.

And they would march slowly down towards the coffin. That centerpiece. Wanting just one more glimpse. Then a shriek, an old lady faints. Everyone rushes around to stare and scream in horror at the empty coffin. Someone had stolen their love!

There would be rumors, sure, that I was Jesus. There always are. They’d wait for me to return, to share again.

I’d be sitting at home though, thinking, “Fuck, I’m supposed to be somewhere.” It wouldn’t be a good situation.

Much more serious than being late for work. I'm not worried about that today. Especially since it was so worth it.

Sunday Thoughts

She stood there

with both her great arms

waving over and bye

like she would never see me again;

each leaf looking less complacent for the wind.

A Leaving (part ii)

The rain lifted more than my spirit on the drive. It trickled down lightly falling like yesterday. We walked through the streets of Chicago and laughed at the strange people. We moved furniture like it was someone else's job.

In Missouri we stopped to see the large arch and made exclamations on its largeness. From the observation deck at top every single thought I had seemed so small. We got in on a discount with Her state parks pass and had planned to tell them we were married if they asked for mine. They didn't ask.

It was just as well. There's only so far a single pass will get you after all.

Over dinner I told her how much fun she'd have in this new city and how the Hancock Observatory was best climbed at night. It overlooks the pier and all the downtown lights. The Sears Tower should be saved for the day.

When it was time to go, I told her how much fun I had. How I would miss her. How I'd see her soon enough even though I knew I wouldn't.

I never told her though, how I couldn't imagine living without her.

Smiling

With the absence of written word around here, I thought I could provide a bit of audio in the interim. (It is all the rave lately) If you have five minutes, do enjoy.



I want to tell you who I am
I want to make you understand- just what beats in here
But I really do not know
the past is all I sow- but I’m alive again
There’s a cripple boy inside
who is dying to collide, with your arms open wide
Do you feel the heat the rain
that’s falling on this pane, that I am looking from


**
I want to be to ride the four winds of the sky
and be so pleased to know the sun is smiling
breathe the air, the leaves are falling
down upon reflecting pools of puddled tears

I want to hear my quiet voice of contemplation
sitting on a stone


So won’t you tell me who I am
this fabricated story line let’s leave it all behind
Enter into my subtle mind
and on this thought recline- We’re but the waves there beating
On this rock of solid stone
a fortress I have built alone will be torn down
but I am here with you

(**)

I will not become an ancient star
and I will not possess the things you are
and there is time to change
but I will change for me and me alone

(**)

[We'll be back to our regularly schedueled weekend bloging here soon]

A Leaving (part i)

Three hours later, two cars were crammed tighter than a pair of petite jeans. I polished off the rest of my beer, looked down at my sweat soaked shirt, and shrugged. We moved towards each other.

It was a good hug.

"See you tomorrow morning?"
"Bright and early."

Sleep didn't work that night. It seemed someone had snuck in and broke it when I wasn't watching. By morning the clouds opened up and dropped what I kept telling my eyes to hold in. She was soaked by the time they arrived. Karen plopped down on the couch exasperated.

"Are you guys gonna be able to get going?"
"We probably better wait."
"While I'm already drenched I think I'll go and get McDonald's," She said. "Anybody want coffee?"

Two heads nodded up and down, sinking a little deeper with each nod.

After She had left and we both sat for a while, Karen looked at me and asked, clearly at a loss, "Have you decided what you're going to think about on the drive?"

It was a dumb question. But I didn't blame her for it. Karen had never had to watch someone driving away knowing they wouldn't be coming back. Luckily, She arrived with the coffee and broke the tension. I gave Her some dry clothes and the three of us just sat there, sipping coffee and waiting.

It was the worst way to start a 1,200 mile trip; three friends who would never be all in the same place again and with nothing better to do than sit together dreaming of yesterday.

Falling always scrapes your knees

Like a wave

or better

I am strong enough to make it

at least til tomorrow

where I will

on the rocks and over them

break and break for hours.