I need…something…something to cover,
an animal, or a log, a leaf! Yes,
a leaf, but what kind?
Banana or fig perhaps? Or palm, from a palm tree I mean,
But there are holes, slits, why
am I so worried
about slits
on the leaves?
And where is Eve?
She must not come
Not here,
Not now,
She cannot see
(me)
like
This.
But why?
What,
have I got to hide?
I feel like hiding everything,
In cabinets and safes with locks,
Deadbolts. Chains, alarm
systems, only
the best will do.
The sky splits open, the earth
feels like a tent with the roof ripped off,
A volcano, the apocalypse, a hurricane
breezy and vast,
small. I feel small.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Utah Tourism Poem
Welcome to the state of Utah!
You might have just gotten lost on your way to Vegas from Denver, but we don’t think it’s an accident.
You’ll love our world famous postmodern architecture and French cuisine.
Our picturesque mountains and wide-open desert.
We have rocks so red they entirely sway the political leaning of our state
We have so much desert, we make Saudi Arabia look like the Pacific Northwest
But come,
Visit the city of Lehi, a quaint little European town famous for their Belgian waffles and crepes
Or take a romantic boat ride down the canals of Orem.
Come on out to the Great Salt Lake and lounge on our fly ridden, rocky beaches. Is that a woman’s hand on your thigh? No, it’s a dead birds spine.
If you like women, well then you’re in luck, because its true you can marry as many as you want, as long as at least one of them is below the age of
18 feet of snow is how much snow we get in Utah and that’s just before thanksgiving. Have back problems, well good luck shoveling.
Visit the bohemian town of Sandy where hippies and crust punks alike decorate the streets with Rembrandt-like graffiti.
Did I say graffiti? I meant to say ads for breast implants!
Did I say hippies? I meant to say people who drive hummers.
Like alcohol? So do we, which is why we made sure you can purchase alcohol at any of our three state-run liquor stores. Besides Sunday they’re open at least 12 hours a week.
We’ve also made sure that you can no longer get daily discounts on liquor or higher than 3.2 alcohol percentage in your beer, because we want everyone to see how great our Wasatch mountain river water makes the beer taste.
Sure, you could go skiing on the mountains or climbing in the desert, but who wants to do that when you could be waiting in line to get your very own nude Republicans calendar signed and autographed by Glenn Beck himself, while he holds a baby, an American flag and a shotgun in the same hand.
Do you like socialism? Liberal politics? You’ll love our progressive legislature, run by some of the most forward thinking individuals since the USSR.
These rich white men always have the best interests of the people in mind, especially the poor.
Do you like shopping centers and strip malls that look exactly like other shopping centers and strip malls halfway across the country
Do you like diversity? Or handguns? Well we only have lots of one of these and I can guarantee you that most people are scared more by one than the other.
Our state symbol is the beehive, because we’re the only state north of Guatemala to have, that’s right, killer bees.
Are you 16 and looking to get married? Come to Utah!
The 24th of July is more of a celebration than the fourth of July, but neither of these are anything compared to the amount of fireworks that’ll shoot off in your head when you discover the T.V. show Touched by an Angel was filmed right here.
You might have just gotten lost on your way to Vegas from Denver, but we don’t think it’s an accident.
You’ll love our world famous postmodern architecture and French cuisine.
Our picturesque mountains and wide-open desert.
We have rocks so red they entirely sway the political leaning of our state
We have so much desert, we make Saudi Arabia look like the Pacific Northwest
But come,
Visit the city of Lehi, a quaint little European town famous for their Belgian waffles and crepes
Or take a romantic boat ride down the canals of Orem.
Come on out to the Great Salt Lake and lounge on our fly ridden, rocky beaches. Is that a woman’s hand on your thigh? No, it’s a dead birds spine.
If you like women, well then you’re in luck, because its true you can marry as many as you want, as long as at least one of them is below the age of
18 feet of snow is how much snow we get in Utah and that’s just before thanksgiving. Have back problems, well good luck shoveling.
Visit the bohemian town of Sandy where hippies and crust punks alike decorate the streets with Rembrandt-like graffiti.
Did I say graffiti? I meant to say ads for breast implants!
Did I say hippies? I meant to say people who drive hummers.
Like alcohol? So do we, which is why we made sure you can purchase alcohol at any of our three state-run liquor stores. Besides Sunday they’re open at least 12 hours a week.
We’ve also made sure that you can no longer get daily discounts on liquor or higher than 3.2 alcohol percentage in your beer, because we want everyone to see how great our Wasatch mountain river water makes the beer taste.
Sure, you could go skiing on the mountains or climbing in the desert, but who wants to do that when you could be waiting in line to get your very own nude Republicans calendar signed and autographed by Glenn Beck himself, while he holds a baby, an American flag and a shotgun in the same hand.
Do you like socialism? Liberal politics? You’ll love our progressive legislature, run by some of the most forward thinking individuals since the USSR.
These rich white men always have the best interests of the people in mind, especially the poor.
Do you like shopping centers and strip malls that look exactly like other shopping centers and strip malls halfway across the country
Do you like diversity? Or handguns? Well we only have lots of one of these and I can guarantee you that most people are scared more by one than the other.
Our state symbol is the beehive, because we’re the only state north of Guatemala to have, that’s right, killer bees.
Are you 16 and looking to get married? Come to Utah!
The 24th of July is more of a celebration than the fourth of July, but neither of these are anything compared to the amount of fireworks that’ll shoot off in your head when you discover the T.V. show Touched by an Angel was filmed right here.
He Had Always Wanted to Go to Europe
He had always wanted to go to Europe. Or South America. The two locations held what, in his mind, were the necessary ingredients to a happier life. But they were distant, both financially and logistically, and of course, geographically. He thought of these countries in the same way as he thought of falling in love with a woman. Lovely, and yet a remote possibility. Something had always prevented him from going, he felt. There was school to finish, a career to start. His father had always pressed upon him the idea of stability. There was the time he went broke from trying to start a small business. There was the time his mother got sick, and died.
And then, there was the philosophical opposition in his mind against traveling. It wasn’t because he was a square, or neurotic, or too straight-laced, or something like that. In fact it was quite the opposite. He was adventurous, whimsical, and possessed exactly the average amount of courage, as was the norm for everyone else. Rather, it was in his nature to be different that kept him from travelling. These days, everyone traveled, he thought. Everyone studies abroad and travels to Spain after they graduate from college. His sister was in France this moment with one of her sorority friends, drinking wine and pretending they were cultured and adventurous. She had probably slept with someone, some young French artist, it would have been the thing to do.
He thought of travelling as a bourgeoisie luxury. He didn’t want to be living a life of bourgeoisie luxury.
So when someone had offered him the chance to go to Belgium for a rather unusual task, he didn’t know what to say.
“John,” they said. “We would like you to go to Belgium, our nephew, well….he broke his leg. He was drunk and missed his train to Luxembourg. He was traveling the world, first with friends, and then by himself. He was scheduled to go home the next day. He would like some help getting back. Our little precious you know, he’s nineteen.”
“Why, me?” he asked.
“Well, you’ve always been such a hard worker for us, and, well, you don’t have a girlfriend, or a family, do you?”
He shook his head.
“And well…” the woman faltered in her speech at this point “…you’ve seemed a little, well, mopey lately.”
“Mopey?”
“Well, yes, I mean sad, not like, lazy.”
Her husband shook his head in agreement.
He, John, didn’t say anything.
He was halfway to Belgium at midnight the next day, flying over the Atlantic Ocean. His employer’s nephew was waiting for him in the Hilton. John could barely contain his excitement to be in Europe. This other kid however, his name was Chad, or Chuck, something like that, was depressed and tired of Europe. They had three days before their plane left. John wanted to go explore the city. And so he did. He went on a train, he went a canal ride and he walked the streets. He ate waffles and drank coffee and smoked cigarettes on an outdoor patio. Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes on an outdoor patio beneath a Venetian sort of hanging was something he had always wanted to do. This other kid, Charlie or whatever, just sat in the Hotel watching American Reality T.V. shows.
A week later, he was back. The nephew, returned safely, his older employers happy, and he, John, had visited Europe. Now that he had visited Europe however, he was not sure what else he had to look forward to.
And then, there was the philosophical opposition in his mind against traveling. It wasn’t because he was a square, or neurotic, or too straight-laced, or something like that. In fact it was quite the opposite. He was adventurous, whimsical, and possessed exactly the average amount of courage, as was the norm for everyone else. Rather, it was in his nature to be different that kept him from travelling. These days, everyone traveled, he thought. Everyone studies abroad and travels to Spain after they graduate from college. His sister was in France this moment with one of her sorority friends, drinking wine and pretending they were cultured and adventurous. She had probably slept with someone, some young French artist, it would have been the thing to do.
He thought of travelling as a bourgeoisie luxury. He didn’t want to be living a life of bourgeoisie luxury.
So when someone had offered him the chance to go to Belgium for a rather unusual task, he didn’t know what to say.
“John,” they said. “We would like you to go to Belgium, our nephew, well….he broke his leg. He was drunk and missed his train to Luxembourg. He was traveling the world, first with friends, and then by himself. He was scheduled to go home the next day. He would like some help getting back. Our little precious you know, he’s nineteen.”
“Why, me?” he asked.
“Well, you’ve always been such a hard worker for us, and, well, you don’t have a girlfriend, or a family, do you?”
He shook his head.
“And well…” the woman faltered in her speech at this point “…you’ve seemed a little, well, mopey lately.”
“Mopey?”
“Well, yes, I mean sad, not like, lazy.”
Her husband shook his head in agreement.
He, John, didn’t say anything.
He was halfway to Belgium at midnight the next day, flying over the Atlantic Ocean. His employer’s nephew was waiting for him in the Hilton. John could barely contain his excitement to be in Europe. This other kid however, his name was Chad, or Chuck, something like that, was depressed and tired of Europe. They had three days before their plane left. John wanted to go explore the city. And so he did. He went on a train, he went a canal ride and he walked the streets. He ate waffles and drank coffee and smoked cigarettes on an outdoor patio. Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes on an outdoor patio beneath a Venetian sort of hanging was something he had always wanted to do. This other kid, Charlie or whatever, just sat in the Hotel watching American Reality T.V. shows.
A week later, he was back. The nephew, returned safely, his older employers happy, and he, John, had visited Europe. Now that he had visited Europe however, he was not sure what else he had to look forward to.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
The Weather
I wonder what we would talk about, if we could no longer talk about the weather
What other topics of conversation can you have with complete strangers that don’t begin with, “nice day” or “it’s cold out?”
What if the weather was neither good nor bad, it just was? And it was as constant as death so you could no longer say things like “hear a cold front’s coming through” because you would know.
What if there were no weather predictions or prophesies about the clouds coming in or the sun getting hotter?
What would we have to talk about?
You can’t talk about politics, you say something about being conservative or being liberal and you’re bound to offend someone at sometime.
You can’t talk about the government because some people want less and others want more and some want none at all.
I guess you could talk about movies. Movies are pretty safe, but then again you might like chic flicks and I might like art films. but then if you like Nicholas Cage he is in neither and if you do like Nicholas Cage well then I don’t really know what to say to you at all.
I guess you could talk about the stock market and whether you need a plunger for all the plunging that’s happening or a glass of champagne for all the money you’re making.
But let’s face it, I don’t really want to make small talk about the market, because then we’ll get into a discussion about capitalism, and greed, and I’ll probably disagree with you.
I guess we could talk about sports, that’s pretty neutral, but I know nothing about sports, so I’d probably make some comment about how that basket ball team needs to make more touchdowns.
Or maybe we could talk about something more personal and when I asked you how your day was going instead of responding, “well, the weather sucks,”
maybe you would be so vulnerable as to tell me about how you feel lonely, frustrated, like a bird trapped against a window,
and how you only wish you could break through the glass but those addictions got teeth into and you’re not sure if you’ll ever see sky again.
Instead of small talk we could make honest talk, but sometimes I get uncomfortable undressing in front of strangers.
Maybe we could talk about how our house needs more insulation or less, and how our closet door won’t shut right cause the damn hinges are broken.
But I think we need somewhere to direct our frustration
I think we need the clouds, whether they’re black and swirling, or white and twirling
I think we need days when it rains too much and days and days when the sun’s too hot and days when it’s so cold it feels like you could break the air with an axe.
Because sometimes, we just need to be able to say, this weather sucks.
What other topics of conversation can you have with complete strangers that don’t begin with, “nice day” or “it’s cold out?”
What if the weather was neither good nor bad, it just was? And it was as constant as death so you could no longer say things like “hear a cold front’s coming through” because you would know.
What if there were no weather predictions or prophesies about the clouds coming in or the sun getting hotter?
What would we have to talk about?
You can’t talk about politics, you say something about being conservative or being liberal and you’re bound to offend someone at sometime.
You can’t talk about the government because some people want less and others want more and some want none at all.
I guess you could talk about movies. Movies are pretty safe, but then again you might like chic flicks and I might like art films. but then if you like Nicholas Cage he is in neither and if you do like Nicholas Cage well then I don’t really know what to say to you at all.
I guess you could talk about the stock market and whether you need a plunger for all the plunging that’s happening or a glass of champagne for all the money you’re making.
But let’s face it, I don’t really want to make small talk about the market, because then we’ll get into a discussion about capitalism, and greed, and I’ll probably disagree with you.
I guess we could talk about sports, that’s pretty neutral, but I know nothing about sports, so I’d probably make some comment about how that basket ball team needs to make more touchdowns.
Or maybe we could talk about something more personal and when I asked you how your day was going instead of responding, “well, the weather sucks,”
maybe you would be so vulnerable as to tell me about how you feel lonely, frustrated, like a bird trapped against a window,
and how you only wish you could break through the glass but those addictions got teeth into and you’re not sure if you’ll ever see sky again.
Instead of small talk we could make honest talk, but sometimes I get uncomfortable undressing in front of strangers.
Maybe we could talk about how our house needs more insulation or less, and how our closet door won’t shut right cause the damn hinges are broken.
But I think we need somewhere to direct our frustration
I think we need the clouds, whether they’re black and swirling, or white and twirling
I think we need days when it rains too much and days and days when the sun’s too hot and days when it’s so cold it feels like you could break the air with an axe.
Because sometimes, we just need to be able to say, this weather sucks.
Friday, June 17, 2011
MPAA Ratings
The reshooting of Robin Hood as described by the seven year old kid I live with, will be rated PG-13 for graphics, violence, and fires, according to the crayon poster hanging in our kitchen.
Prophetic Love
Perhaps I had a few drinks. Perhaps I was very tired from opening early yesterday with no time for a nap. But I had a religious experience last night. It involved Bon Iver and a photograph. I was listening to Bon Iver’s new album on NPR and, just as I hoped, it was beautiful and sad and rich in every good way, and just as I was really getting into it, you know like how it sometimes takes a couple listens at first, I saw a photograph that my friend Justin posted. Normally I would not think much of it, maybe write something on his wall like, “Dude, cool.” But it struck me in a very profound way. As I’m sure you’ve seen by now, the photograph is of a couple kissing in the middle of the street behind a riot officer and in front of a fire. What is happening? The Vancouver Riots. Because the only thing Canadians will riot for is hockey.
The photograph makes you stop. For one, it is a bit lewd, I know. You can pretty much see the girl’s ass. But it is alarming and surprising and beautiful, because here is a couple completely consumed with their love—out of touch with the riots happening around them or the fact that there is a SWAT officer and a fire within ten feet of them. I’m not sure how long the kiss went on for, it could have been ten minutes, it could have been one second. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that this picture is a prophetic picture.
I thought of it as a metaphor for subversive love in a riotous world. How incredible would it be if our love could look like this? What if we didn’t care as the world burned around us? What if we were so consumed with our love for another person, a city, God, that our love caused others to stop and wonder “Who in the world has time for a kiss at a moment like this?”
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Good Friday Poem (Rough Draft)
My God, My God,
How did it come to this?
Blood in the garden
Fists clenched
palms of dirt
My closest friends
Tired, asleep,
incapable of even one night of solidarity
This cannot be the only way
Why are so far from saving me?
So far from the words of my groaning?
This all started out as such a great idea
Where are you now?
This doesn’t look like redemption
This looks like a boxing fight gone bad
A marriage torn to shreds
kisses turned to cold, distant stares
A broken shovel in the field
A naked body in a ditch
You cannot possibly believe that this is the way people will know?
You cannot be so naïve
For the first time, I feel utterly powerless,
Gazing over the edge of a cliff, my imminent and inevitable descent
An eternal garbage dump awaiting me
I feel it now,
It’s black gates swallowing, licking
I am a worm and not a man
Scorned by men and despised by people
All who see me mock me
Raging bulls surround me
I am poured out like water
Bones out of joint
My heart has turned to wax,
Melted away beneath me
Tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth
Like dried leaves
They divide my garments among them
Gambling for the shirt on my back
Where is your salvation?
I thought you were making all things new?
Reconciling all things to yourself?
Where are you right now?
Tsunamis, earthquakes, revolutions, human trafficking
How is this even close to what you promised?
I have never felt
so
alone
My God, My God
Why have you left us?
Where is your victory?
All I can taste is defeat, shattered dreams, my broken body hurling itself towards death,
My legs are
so
tired
my lungs
can’t
keep
up.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Last Night
Last night we met a man named Miguel. It was Friday night. Friday nights means Friday night walkabouts, where a few of us from Missio stroll the streets of downtown Salt Lake. Our purpose in walking is to be available. To talk to homeless folks, or lonely folks, or anyone who is interested. We like to think of it as carving out two hours a day to actually have time to talk, or buy a stranger a cup of coffee, or maybe get someone whose stranded a tank of gas. The wind was fierce, unflinching. On our way down Main Street we met a man named Miguel. He was probably late forties, wearing converses, with a salt and pepper beard and long, grey flowing hair. We stopped on the corner and I said hello. He nervously twitched. We asked him how he was doing. He whispered fine, and mumbled something and then asked if we had any weed. Or acid. I said, no, unfortunately. Not sure why I said unfortunately. We told him we would buy him a cup of coffee though and his eyes got real bright and he said, “Really?”
We walked to the Coffee Garden in Sam Wellers, and tried to get something out of the very broken, either mentally or drug impaired sentences that he spoke. On the way we met another man named Michael. He asked us for change and we said, sorry, we don’t give out money, but we’ll by you some coffee. He said, “Are you sure? You known I’m Indian right?” We slightly chuckled, and said we didn’t mind.
So the six of us drank coffee at Sam Wellers until they politely kicked us out because it was closing time and I think partly because Miguel had spilt half and half all over one of the tables.
We tried to connect with Miguel, but it was hard. We weren’t sure what was wrong with him and mourned the fact that we could not do anything to help his situation.
Michael was very friendly and easier to talk to. The whole interaction was very simple but it left me shaken because of something Miguel said. Through scattered bits of bible passages, incoherent questions, directions to the airport, and anxious shivering, he got real quiet all at once and said three times, “I could have done better.”
The first time slowly.
The next two times back to back, shaking his head.
“I could have done better, I could have done better.”
We walked to the Coffee Garden in Sam Wellers, and tried to get something out of the very broken, either mentally or drug impaired sentences that he spoke. On the way we met another man named Michael. He asked us for change and we said, sorry, we don’t give out money, but we’ll by you some coffee. He said, “Are you sure? You known I’m Indian right?” We slightly chuckled, and said we didn’t mind.
So the six of us drank coffee at Sam Wellers until they politely kicked us out because it was closing time and I think partly because Miguel had spilt half and half all over one of the tables.
We tried to connect with Miguel, but it was hard. We weren’t sure what was wrong with him and mourned the fact that we could not do anything to help his situation.
Michael was very friendly and easier to talk to. The whole interaction was very simple but it left me shaken because of something Miguel said. Through scattered bits of bible passages, incoherent questions, directions to the airport, and anxious shivering, he got real quiet all at once and said three times, “I could have done better.”
The first time slowly.
The next two times back to back, shaking his head.
“I could have done better, I could have done better.”
Victorian Auto Shop
To the girl sitting across from me in my literary theory class:
“I like you.”
I like the way you have two subtle streaks of color—one black, one pink,
casually struck across your mahogany hair.
I like the way your grey scarf is tossed around your neck like a salad.
I like to think that you are from New England somewhere,
from a colonial house with white pillars and thick red birch trees out front.
I like to imagine that you are perfect
But I can see in your face that you, are like me
I can see those tire streaks across your face.
I imagine you in your youth
Riding a black tricycle cascading through the backyard like a circus
Like an acrobat pretending to be a motorcycle cage rider
You had so many lights on you
I thought of a chandelier walking a tightrope
You were alive—legs pumping, knees flowing in a summer dress.
What happened to your smile?
What happened to your tricycle?
Why does your white house now look like a Victorian auto shop, the white
picket fence stained with motor oil?
I can see those tires spinning
bald eagle, spinning like an ice skating rink
You were a tire shop taking on, and taking off, different wheels like a
grease monkey shopping trip.
Trying to find some tread
Sick of never having a grip
Sick of spinning out
Sick of the way those appendages never gripped beneath
Sick of all the car crashes you went through
Sick of all the pills you popped to come to life
You opened up tire shops across the nation
Wyoming, Colorado, New York, Oregon
You bought tire jacks and monkey wrenches
You were never successful
Your business was called Tired Tires
Not because it was a trite alliteration
but because it was true
Because those inner tubes inside of you were deflated and your air pumps were broken.
I wish I could carve some tread into you
but I am bald too
And stopped carving a while ago.
“I like you.”
I like the way you have two subtle streaks of color—one black, one pink,
casually struck across your mahogany hair.
I like the way your grey scarf is tossed around your neck like a salad.
I like to think that you are from New England somewhere,
from a colonial house with white pillars and thick red birch trees out front.
I like to imagine that you are perfect
But I can see in your face that you, are like me
I can see those tire streaks across your face.
I imagine you in your youth
Riding a black tricycle cascading through the backyard like a circus
Like an acrobat pretending to be a motorcycle cage rider
You had so many lights on you
I thought of a chandelier walking a tightrope
You were alive—legs pumping, knees flowing in a summer dress.
What happened to your smile?
What happened to your tricycle?
Why does your white house now look like a Victorian auto shop, the white
picket fence stained with motor oil?
I can see those tires spinning
bald eagle, spinning like an ice skating rink
You were a tire shop taking on, and taking off, different wheels like a
grease monkey shopping trip.
Trying to find some tread
Sick of never having a grip
Sick of spinning out
Sick of the way those appendages never gripped beneath
Sick of all the car crashes you went through
Sick of all the pills you popped to come to life
You opened up tire shops across the nation
Wyoming, Colorado, New York, Oregon
You bought tire jacks and monkey wrenches
You were never successful
Your business was called Tired Tires
Not because it was a trite alliteration
but because it was true
Because those inner tubes inside of you were deflated and your air pumps were broken.
I wish I could carve some tread into you
but I am bald too
And stopped carving a while ago.
Christmas Part Three
When I get off the plane in Denver, I go straight outside to smoke a cigarette. Then I go back inside, wash my hands, open a piece of gum, go back outside to call my parents and tell them I’m here. They still don’t know that I smoke. I like to think that it’s for their own good. Mom would just worry. dad would shake his head disapprovingly.
My parents green Toyota pulls up. My parents are tired. They have been in and out of work for the last year, and right now are practically unemployed. My dad has been dragged through court (or the “in”justice system) for the last two years for a crime he never committed. They are active members in their church. In the last six months have had to help counsel and be there for their community through two deaths, a suicide, and multiple foreclosures and cases of unemployment.
They would never tell you that they were tired. They would tell you that they’re doing fine, that it’s been rough, but okay. This is what they tell me. I try to believe it.
My mom is always stressed during the holidays. I tell her not to go shopping, not to worry about it, that no one needs gifts and that she doesn’t need to rush around like a crazy person. She says, “I know,” sighs. “But I just want you all to be happy.”
On the Wednesday before Christmas I wander into the old church I was a part of in Denver. It is good to see them. While sitting at the coffeeshop they own with Brian and Sterling, Mike comes barreling down the stairs and points at me, “You,” in a loud voice, “When are you going to stop smoking?”
Mike is the lead pastor.
I am caught off guard.
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to sound naïve, nonchalant.
“When is this gonna stop?” He takes a seat.
“I don’t know…when I’m married.” Mike is a three hundred forty pound Samoan of a man, except that he’s not Samoan.
“Haw!” When you’re married?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not now?” He used to be a firefighter and lift weights for eight hours a day.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Why not?” He also used to go to Safeway and buy two roasted chickens for lunch (protein).
“I don’t care enough.”
“What! Why don’t you care enough?” Mike grabs my forearm from across the table. “Listen...you know that I only tell you this because I love you and I don’t want to see you die of lung cancer in five years.”
“Five years!” I’m only twenty-two…and I smoke American Spirits!”
“Haw! Let me se your cigarettes.” I pull them out of my leather pouch fanny pack and set them on the table. He grabs them.
“They have no chemicals,” I say.
“So?”
“So they’re better for you.”
“You know the decisions you make now are going to drastically impact the course of your life in the future?”
“Maybe. But I just don’t care.”
“Still dude, don’t you think it’s selfish?”
“Selfish?”
“Selfish.”
I think about it. I know it’s true.
“I do a lot of selfish things”
“Yeah, but this affects other people.”
“Yeah, I know, but right now I got a list of vices a mile long and this is the last on my list.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, drinking, masturbating…stuff. I’d rather smoke than masturbate. It only hurts the body.” I am trying to sound spiritual.
“Yeah, but smoking affects other people.”
“It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“It’s just that the world sucks sometimes and is very heavy and sometimes I am depressed and I could care less if I die tomorrow.”
“So…what, we just give up?”
“I’m not giving up. I still do things. I’m not chainsmoking on my couch watching Seinfeld.”
“Look, this world is a shitbasket, we all know that. But that’s why a little light goes a long way in a bit of darkness.”
“Smoking isn’t the darkness.”
“No. But you resolving yourself to it is.”
I nod reluctantly “It’s true.” I know all the things he says are true.
“Look, there has to come a certain point when you stop inwardly reflecting all the time and look outside of yourself.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m trying. I think.”
I realize that this Christmas my life feels a bit out hand. I’m terrible with self-control. As much as I want to agree with Mike, I know that as soon as we’re done I will probably go outside and smoke. I know that as much as I don’t want to I will be laying in my bed tonight and want to masturbate so I can fall asleep. As much as I don’t want to, I know that the next dark thing to hit my ears will send me into a spiral of depression, confusion, anxiety and worry, instead of into the arms of a Father who cares deeply.
“Well, I appreciate you saying something I say to him. A lot of people wouldn’t, minus my roommate Mike.”
“Yeah, look, a lot of people wouldn’t because they’d be scared of you” points to my beard and tattoos, “But we know you here.”
I know that what Mike has said is true. I realize we’re part of different cultures-him a Texan jock, and me a artsy anarchist hipster-so we’re operating on different spheres. Maybe he’d be okay with smoking if he only understood the culture I’m in. But I know that’s ridiculous. I know that there are things inside of me that have control over me. I know that there are other things of this world that I don't want to be surrounded by. All the death and hurting, and just want to escape, and not give a fuck. But I also know that I can’t resolve myself to it. Not as someone who follows Jesus.
So I’m trying to create space this Advent. And so far…it’s kind of working. I realize how screwed up I am. I realize that if left to myself I will will destroy myself. I realize my need for a savior. I think of Jesus’ coming and ask for just that, his presence so that I would not want to numb myself all the time.
I am trying to learn the secret of being content. I know the answer, but as far as how to get there, I’m a bit unsure. As far as how to be satisfied with life and God so that I will not be seeking fulfillment elsewhere. I am a bit unsure. I am a bit unsure. I am a bit unsure. Unsure. Unsure. Unsure. I am a bit.
My parents green Toyota pulls up. My parents are tired. They have been in and out of work for the last year, and right now are practically unemployed. My dad has been dragged through court (or the “in”justice system) for the last two years for a crime he never committed. They are active members in their church. In the last six months have had to help counsel and be there for their community through two deaths, a suicide, and multiple foreclosures and cases of unemployment.
They would never tell you that they were tired. They would tell you that they’re doing fine, that it’s been rough, but okay. This is what they tell me. I try to believe it.
My mom is always stressed during the holidays. I tell her not to go shopping, not to worry about it, that no one needs gifts and that she doesn’t need to rush around like a crazy person. She says, “I know,” sighs. “But I just want you all to be happy.”
On the Wednesday before Christmas I wander into the old church I was a part of in Denver. It is good to see them. While sitting at the coffeeshop they own with Brian and Sterling, Mike comes barreling down the stairs and points at me, “You,” in a loud voice, “When are you going to stop smoking?”
Mike is the lead pastor.
I am caught off guard.
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to sound naïve, nonchalant.
“When is this gonna stop?” He takes a seat.
“I don’t know…when I’m married.” Mike is a three hundred forty pound Samoan of a man, except that he’s not Samoan.
“Haw!” When you’re married?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not now?” He used to be a firefighter and lift weights for eight hours a day.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Why not?” He also used to go to Safeway and buy two roasted chickens for lunch (protein).
“I don’t care enough.”
“What! Why don’t you care enough?” Mike grabs my forearm from across the table. “Listen...you know that I only tell you this because I love you and I don’t want to see you die of lung cancer in five years.”
“Five years!” I’m only twenty-two…and I smoke American Spirits!”
“Haw! Let me se your cigarettes.” I pull them out of my leather pouch fanny pack and set them on the table. He grabs them.
“They have no chemicals,” I say.
“So?”
“So they’re better for you.”
“You know the decisions you make now are going to drastically impact the course of your life in the future?”
“Maybe. But I just don’t care.”
“Still dude, don’t you think it’s selfish?”
“Selfish?”
“Selfish.”
I think about it. I know it’s true.
“I do a lot of selfish things”
“Yeah, but this affects other people.”
“Yeah, I know, but right now I got a list of vices a mile long and this is the last on my list.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, drinking, masturbating…stuff. I’d rather smoke than masturbate. It only hurts the body.” I am trying to sound spiritual.
“Yeah, but smoking affects other people.”
“It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“It’s just that the world sucks sometimes and is very heavy and sometimes I am depressed and I could care less if I die tomorrow.”
“So…what, we just give up?”
“I’m not giving up. I still do things. I’m not chainsmoking on my couch watching Seinfeld.”
“Look, this world is a shitbasket, we all know that. But that’s why a little light goes a long way in a bit of darkness.”
“Smoking isn’t the darkness.”
“No. But you resolving yourself to it is.”
I nod reluctantly “It’s true.” I know all the things he says are true.
“Look, there has to come a certain point when you stop inwardly reflecting all the time and look outside of yourself.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m trying. I think.”
I realize that this Christmas my life feels a bit out hand. I’m terrible with self-control. As much as I want to agree with Mike, I know that as soon as we’re done I will probably go outside and smoke. I know that as much as I don’t want to I will be laying in my bed tonight and want to masturbate so I can fall asleep. As much as I don’t want to, I know that the next dark thing to hit my ears will send me into a spiral of depression, confusion, anxiety and worry, instead of into the arms of a Father who cares deeply.
“Well, I appreciate you saying something I say to him. A lot of people wouldn’t, minus my roommate Mike.”
“Yeah, look, a lot of people wouldn’t because they’d be scared of you” points to my beard and tattoos, “But we know you here.”
I know that what Mike has said is true. I realize we’re part of different cultures-him a Texan jock, and me a artsy anarchist hipster-so we’re operating on different spheres. Maybe he’d be okay with smoking if he only understood the culture I’m in. But I know that’s ridiculous. I know that there are things inside of me that have control over me. I know that there are other things of this world that I don't want to be surrounded by. All the death and hurting, and just want to escape, and not give a fuck. But I also know that I can’t resolve myself to it. Not as someone who follows Jesus.
So I’m trying to create space this Advent. And so far…it’s kind of working. I realize how screwed up I am. I realize that if left to myself I will will destroy myself. I realize my need for a savior. I think of Jesus’ coming and ask for just that, his presence so that I would not want to numb myself all the time.
I am trying to learn the secret of being content. I know the answer, but as far as how to get there, I’m a bit unsure. As far as how to be satisfied with life and God so that I will not be seeking fulfillment elsewhere. I am a bit unsure. I am a bit unsure. I am a bit unsure. Unsure. Unsure. Unsure. I am a bit.
Christmas Part Two
My mom called me to confirm the flight I was taking home for Christmas. I missed the call because I was in our Missio staff meeting (which, by the way, always begin with clips from YouTube of cheesy Christian culture). Kyle once asked Rick what the early days of Imago were like and Rick answered, “A lot of YouTube videos.” So we're trying to do the same. Josh had never seen some of the classic videos of “interesting” Christian Culture.” Kyle told him it was because he had never been part of a cynical church before. Not that we’re that cynical though, we’re trying, some of us have a harder time with it than others.
I get out of the staff meeting and called my mom on the way home.
“Levi?”
“Yeah, it’s me mom.” I hear sniffles.
“I need to call you back.” Exasperated voice. “I’ve…I’ve got some bad news.”
“K, I—”
She hangs up.
I drive home exhausted. I don’t want to hear anymore bad news. I’ve heard enough bad news in the last six months. I’ve given enough bad news in the last six months. I am trying to enter into the season of Advent. I am trying to believe that Jesus still comes today like he did two thousand years ago. I am trying to believe that Christ is with us. I am trying to believe that light has come into the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.
When I get home I make dinner. Lately I’ve been making pasta. Because it’s cheap and I have no money, and because it’s better for you than Little Ceasar’s, which Lucas however, is not above. My mom calls me as soon as I’m finished eating.
“Hey mom,” I say, with a slight façade of Christmas spirit.
“Hey Levi,”
“Is everything all right?”
“Well, no. No it’s not. Do you know the Phillips?
“Yeah.”
“Their son Adrian, who went to Uganda with us last summer?”
“Yeah”
“Well he committed suicide today. About two hours ago. He hung himself.”
I spent the rest of the night drinking a couple IPA’s, smoking a couple cigarettes. Not sure what else to do. I wished that no one had told me, I think. Not today at least. I don’t even know the kid that well. How old was he, fifteen? Yeah, I think so. Toby’s age (my brother.) Then I feel selfish for the thought even crossing my mind that somehow another kid’s suicide would ruin my day. I am a selfish prick.
When I get to airport the next day, the Utah Utes basketball team is in front of me in the security line. They are tall and wearing red jumpsuits. This is perhaps the most black people you will catch glimpse of in the Salt lake City Airport. They are stars though, celebrities. Dads and older men in business suites lean over the movie theater barricades to shake their hands. Teenage girls whisper and giggle. Little kids stare.
I get out of the staff meeting and called my mom on the way home.
“Levi?”
“Yeah, it’s me mom.” I hear sniffles.
“I need to call you back.” Exasperated voice. “I’ve…I’ve got some bad news.”
“K, I—”
She hangs up.
I drive home exhausted. I don’t want to hear anymore bad news. I’ve heard enough bad news in the last six months. I’ve given enough bad news in the last six months. I am trying to enter into the season of Advent. I am trying to believe that Jesus still comes today like he did two thousand years ago. I am trying to believe that Christ is with us. I am trying to believe that light has come into the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.
When I get home I make dinner. Lately I’ve been making pasta. Because it’s cheap and I have no money, and because it’s better for you than Little Ceasar’s, which Lucas however, is not above. My mom calls me as soon as I’m finished eating.
“Hey mom,” I say, with a slight façade of Christmas spirit.
“Hey Levi,”
“Is everything all right?”
“Well, no. No it’s not. Do you know the Phillips?
“Yeah.”
“Their son Adrian, who went to Uganda with us last summer?”
“Yeah”
“Well he committed suicide today. About two hours ago. He hung himself.”
I spent the rest of the night drinking a couple IPA’s, smoking a couple cigarettes. Not sure what else to do. I wished that no one had told me, I think. Not today at least. I don’t even know the kid that well. How old was he, fifteen? Yeah, I think so. Toby’s age (my brother.) Then I feel selfish for the thought even crossing my mind that somehow another kid’s suicide would ruin my day. I am a selfish prick.
When I get to airport the next day, the Utah Utes basketball team is in front of me in the security line. They are tall and wearing red jumpsuits. This is perhaps the most black people you will catch glimpse of in the Salt lake City Airport. They are stars though, celebrities. Dads and older men in business suites lean over the movie theater barricades to shake their hands. Teenage girls whisper and giggle. Little kids stare.
Christmas Part One
It is Christmas time in Salt Lake City. The mountains look like constant powdered triangles. Every so often the inversion hits. Salt Lake has an immense amount of smog that gets trapped in the valley that is Salt Lake, and for an afternoon or even a week, you are covered in minor cloud of pollution. It makes it hard to bike. Some people wear masks.
The winter is nice here though. Especially for those of us from Portland. For instance, it can be 18 degrees but the sky is still pitch perfect blue. The sun is like a powerful lion or a noble grandfather who watches us play in the front yard. We are unused to this. We are used to the sun being a sketchy uncle, who may or may not show up on Christmas Eve, and he may or may not bring a woman, and he may or may not be under the substance of something. We, from Portland, appreciate blue skies, and the consistency to with which they happen.
Three weeks ago we started our regular Sunday services. We even meet in a chapel! It’s the Post Chapel and sits right above campus by the dorms and the hospitals. We have about fifty people coming so far but don’t ask me how I know this. At a staff meeting the other day someone asked if any of us counted and I said I did, but was unsure whether or not I should have. I said that I didn’t want to have to choose between plague and famine (Old Testament King David reference, you know when he takes the census of Israel) and for moment everyone stared at me blankly. Then I said “King David” and they all went “Ohhh.” But someone had to explain it to Josh, he’s only a worship pastor.
At the same time as we started meeting at the chapel, we also started participating in Advent Conspiracy which Rick from Portland started a couple years ago with a couple other friends. The whole idea is this: Spend Less, Give More, Worship Fully, Love All. Most of us understand that Christmas has become vastly divergent from it’s origins and that around this time of year Christmas becomes nearly indistinguishable from any other secular consumer based Holiday, It becomes quite the barrier to us living as a “peculiar” people. The rampant consumerism and anxiety attacks are perhaps not what Christmas is about. And all of us know this. But Advent Conspiracy asks the question, “What if Christmas could still change the world?” What if we spent less on plastic trinkets, gave more of ourselves relationally, spent time together, took the time to actually worship, and with all the money we didn’t spend, gave away to people who needed it?
This year in Salt Lake City we decided to give our money globally to Living Water (clean water wells) and partner with Imago on the wells they were building in Vietnam, and then locally to give to an organization called Holding out Help. This non-profit helps rescue families or individuals who are looking for a way to leave fundamental Polygamous communities here in Utah. Many times these people are literally in bondage, held against their will either psychologically or emotionally. Holding out Help is there to offer assistance and sets these families (often young teenage boys) with mentor families in Utah who are there to help counsel and transition from a Polygamous lifestyle to what we know as normal society.
One of the main ideas about Advent I tried to focus on this year was space. Creating space to meditate and await the coming of Christ, rather than making myself unbearably busy. I was doing my best to slow down, think about the hope of Christ, get my mind into the rhythm of advent, etc. when I nearly gave up hope altogether. I finished up my last final on Monday and was looking forward to a week off. Unfortunately I realized that though I was done with school, I still had about a hundred and fifty other things to do. The whole week was slammed, and on the days I did give myself some space, I realized how exhausted I was from hitting it so hard this semester. Full time school, part time work and part time internship, girlfriend, and living in a house with seven guys will do that to you.
Also, I was pretty sure I had to break up with the girl I was dating.This is never fun.
The winter is nice here though. Especially for those of us from Portland. For instance, it can be 18 degrees but the sky is still pitch perfect blue. The sun is like a powerful lion or a noble grandfather who watches us play in the front yard. We are unused to this. We are used to the sun being a sketchy uncle, who may or may not show up on Christmas Eve, and he may or may not bring a woman, and he may or may not be under the substance of something. We, from Portland, appreciate blue skies, and the consistency to with which they happen.
Three weeks ago we started our regular Sunday services. We even meet in a chapel! It’s the Post Chapel and sits right above campus by the dorms and the hospitals. We have about fifty people coming so far but don’t ask me how I know this. At a staff meeting the other day someone asked if any of us counted and I said I did, but was unsure whether or not I should have. I said that I didn’t want to have to choose between plague and famine (Old Testament King David reference, you know when he takes the census of Israel) and for moment everyone stared at me blankly. Then I said “King David” and they all went “Ohhh.” But someone had to explain it to Josh, he’s only a worship pastor.
At the same time as we started meeting at the chapel, we also started participating in Advent Conspiracy which Rick from Portland started a couple years ago with a couple other friends. The whole idea is this: Spend Less, Give More, Worship Fully, Love All. Most of us understand that Christmas has become vastly divergent from it’s origins and that around this time of year Christmas becomes nearly indistinguishable from any other secular consumer based Holiday, It becomes quite the barrier to us living as a “peculiar” people. The rampant consumerism and anxiety attacks are perhaps not what Christmas is about. And all of us know this. But Advent Conspiracy asks the question, “What if Christmas could still change the world?” What if we spent less on plastic trinkets, gave more of ourselves relationally, spent time together, took the time to actually worship, and with all the money we didn’t spend, gave away to people who needed it?
This year in Salt Lake City we decided to give our money globally to Living Water (clean water wells) and partner with Imago on the wells they were building in Vietnam, and then locally to give to an organization called Holding out Help. This non-profit helps rescue families or individuals who are looking for a way to leave fundamental Polygamous communities here in Utah. Many times these people are literally in bondage, held against their will either psychologically or emotionally. Holding out Help is there to offer assistance and sets these families (often young teenage boys) with mentor families in Utah who are there to help counsel and transition from a Polygamous lifestyle to what we know as normal society.
One of the main ideas about Advent I tried to focus on this year was space. Creating space to meditate and await the coming of Christ, rather than making myself unbearably busy. I was doing my best to slow down, think about the hope of Christ, get my mind into the rhythm of advent, etc. when I nearly gave up hope altogether. I finished up my last final on Monday and was looking forward to a week off. Unfortunately I realized that though I was done with school, I still had about a hundred and fifty other things to do. The whole week was slammed, and on the days I did give myself some space, I realized how exhausted I was from hitting it so hard this semester. Full time school, part time work and part time internship, girlfriend, and living in a house with seven guys will do that to you.
Also, I was pretty sure I had to break up with the girl I was dating.This is never fun.
Someday I Would Like to Fall in Love with a Girl
Someday I would like to fall in love with a girl
Someday I would like to fall in love with a girl so that I would stop smoking because just the very sight of her lips would fill my body with nicotine, hiccups of short breath, my lungs would be the color of her black hair.
I’d be smoking two packs a day at least, well on my way to heart disease, with the way her simple words wound their way through my chest cavity, a like a red kite against a purple sky, or a thunderstorm in November.
Someday I would like to fall in love with a girl so that I would stop drinking
The smell of her neck would be like drinking an entire vineyard
I would stop drinking because the very act of hanging out with her would be like a divine drunken sex orgy, without the drinking or the sex or even the orgy, only the divine as she lofted through the doors of my apartment balcony.
I would like to fall in love with a girl because maybe then I would stop masturbating. I wouldn’t need to, I would catch the smiles between her teeth, drain them like fine wine into a wooden barrel, let them aerate, sift through them late at night in a wine glass, call this pleasure.
Someday I would like to fall in love with a girl so that for maybe two hours a day I would think about someone else more than I think about myself.
I would like to fall in love with a girl so that I would feel something besides indifference when I woke up, that perhaps I would feel different about all the difference in the world.
And while I’m at it, I would like to plug myself into an indoor electrical socket, so that I could feel what it’s like to have a current run through me.
Someday I would like to fall in love with a girl, someday I would like to fall in love with my neighbors, someday I would like to fall in love with the human race. Someday I would like to choose to love someone instead of waiting for this act of falling to happen.
Someday I would like to tell you what heaven is like, but no, scratch that, I will tell you now, heaven is falling in love with a girl because for two hours a day at the most you care about someone else more than you care about yourself. This is what heaven is like.
But I know that waiting for love to fall is a lot like waiting for heaven to come. So let’s bring it down, lets build ladders, get strong men with burly forearms, women with tattooed in determination, lets tear the ceiling off the sky, watch as heaven falls.
Perhaps we can capture the moon,? Cut off a slice, feed it to each other when the sky turns black and the stars are hiding,
watch the way our teeth shine when it’s night and all we can see are kites.
Someday I would like to fall in love with a girl so that I would stop smoking because just the very sight of her lips would fill my body with nicotine, hiccups of short breath, my lungs would be the color of her black hair.
I’d be smoking two packs a day at least, well on my way to heart disease, with the way her simple words wound their way through my chest cavity, a like a red kite against a purple sky, or a thunderstorm in November.
Someday I would like to fall in love with a girl so that I would stop drinking
The smell of her neck would be like drinking an entire vineyard
I would stop drinking because the very act of hanging out with her would be like a divine drunken sex orgy, without the drinking or the sex or even the orgy, only the divine as she lofted through the doors of my apartment balcony.
I would like to fall in love with a girl because maybe then I would stop masturbating. I wouldn’t need to, I would catch the smiles between her teeth, drain them like fine wine into a wooden barrel, let them aerate, sift through them late at night in a wine glass, call this pleasure.
Someday I would like to fall in love with a girl so that for maybe two hours a day I would think about someone else more than I think about myself.
I would like to fall in love with a girl so that I would feel something besides indifference when I woke up, that perhaps I would feel different about all the difference in the world.
And while I’m at it, I would like to plug myself into an indoor electrical socket, so that I could feel what it’s like to have a current run through me.
Someday I would like to fall in love with a girl, someday I would like to fall in love with my neighbors, someday I would like to fall in love with the human race. Someday I would like to choose to love someone instead of waiting for this act of falling to happen.
Someday I would like to tell you what heaven is like, but no, scratch that, I will tell you now, heaven is falling in love with a girl because for two hours a day at the most you care about someone else more than you care about yourself. This is what heaven is like.
But I know that waiting for love to fall is a lot like waiting for heaven to come. So let’s bring it down, lets build ladders, get strong men with burly forearms, women with tattooed in determination, lets tear the ceiling off the sky, watch as heaven falls.
Perhaps we can capture the moon,? Cut off a slice, feed it to each other when the sky turns black and the stars are hiding,
watch the way our teeth shine when it’s night and all we can see are kites.
New Poems!
Check them out. These are three poems I did at the Poetry Slam last month and when I opened for Josh Rosenthal at the Rose Wagner Theater on February 5th.
Poem for the Rest of Us
Poem for the Rest of Us
America may be the best Babylon…but it’s still Babylon.
This is for the rest of us
This is for those of us who are done settling
Rattling our carts of straw and brick
through the supermarkets of empire to grab power wealth and success
Comfortable houses, perfect hair
We were taught that this is what it meant to exist
Groping for pearls in the mud under pharaohs empire
But now we are wondering
So this is for those of us who are sick of having absolutely everything and yet are deeply unfulfilled, like yuppie junkies and two-bit strung out celebrities.
This is for those of us who are tired of trying to be prom queens and prom kings,
Who are tired of trying to keep up the jones’ who never wanted to keep up in the first place
This is about resistance
Resist the Empire
II.
For there are CEO’s making millions
While young children are driven from their homes by foreclosures
Because their parents wanted to keep up with the Jones’
So they took out loans and the advertiser said “Yes! Yes!” be the best
So that everyone knows your worth something
Buy buy buy
Yet I say, resist.
Resist the Empire
For your billboards may say
War is peace but
I say war is profit and we all know the
Amount of shots it takes to get there.
In Portland we had a homeless friend named L.A.
He slept on our back porch with another vet friend named Shanghai
His pants smelled of urine
His life smelled of a yearning for a life that was not this one
He drank himself to death one night,
couldn’t stay sober with all his memories of how much fighting for an empire cost him.
it cost him his liver
it cost those Idaho graveyard withdrawal shivers
yet I say, resist.
Pick a paintbrush and hush over all this billboard darkness
Paint over it with love
Paint over it with truth
For Against systems of oppression—love wins
Against materialism and greed—love wins
We are returning harsh slaps with cooked dinners
We are washing feet instead of climbing ladders
Forgiving rather than holding on
For this is not a top down-trickle-down-legislate from the top-power over-you economy.
We’ll be like torches
bursting like mustard seeds through the underbrush
we are coercing people with our potluck dinners
With a sign above our door that says “welcome sinners”
This is about imagination
Leave your chariots
Your war machines
Your military-industrial complexes
resist the darkness in your own heart.
resist the darkness of your past
Forgive your father
Your ex-lover,
Holding onto the back of a decrepit car as it tumbles through a graveyard does no good to anyone.
I know it’s hard, but resist.
making sure that before you do anything
You fix what’s wrong In here
Remove two-by-fours from your eyes like they were early morning sleep boogers
Take the darkness out of here so
You can fix the darkness out there.
I know I’m trying, and I don’t get it right all the time
In fact I get it wrong a lot
So this is not me preaching to you but me reminding myself and that’s all preaching really is sometimes anyways
But resist
Let justice roll down
As you kiss the light of the morning
Resist.
America may be the best Babylon…but it’s still Babylon.
This is for the rest of us
This is for those of us who are done settling
Rattling our carts of straw and brick
through the supermarkets of empire to grab power wealth and success
Comfortable houses, perfect hair
We were taught that this is what it meant to exist
Groping for pearls in the mud under pharaohs empire
But now we are wondering
So this is for those of us who are sick of having absolutely everything and yet are deeply unfulfilled, like yuppie junkies and two-bit strung out celebrities.
This is for those of us who are tired of trying to be prom queens and prom kings,
Who are tired of trying to keep up the jones’ who never wanted to keep up in the first place
This is about resistance
Resist the Empire
II.
For there are CEO’s making millions
While young children are driven from their homes by foreclosures
Because their parents wanted to keep up with the Jones’
So they took out loans and the advertiser said “Yes! Yes!” be the best
So that everyone knows your worth something
Buy buy buy
Yet I say, resist.
Resist the Empire
For your billboards may say
War is peace but
I say war is profit and we all know the
Amount of shots it takes to get there.
In Portland we had a homeless friend named L.A.
He slept on our back porch with another vet friend named Shanghai
His pants smelled of urine
His life smelled of a yearning for a life that was not this one
He drank himself to death one night,
couldn’t stay sober with all his memories of how much fighting for an empire cost him.
it cost him his liver
it cost those Idaho graveyard withdrawal shivers
yet I say, resist.
Pick a paintbrush and hush over all this billboard darkness
Paint over it with love
Paint over it with truth
For Against systems of oppression—love wins
Against materialism and greed—love wins
We are returning harsh slaps with cooked dinners
We are washing feet instead of climbing ladders
Forgiving rather than holding on
For this is not a top down-trickle-down-legislate from the top-power over-you economy.
We’ll be like torches
bursting like mustard seeds through the underbrush
we are coercing people with our potluck dinners
With a sign above our door that says “welcome sinners”
This is about imagination
Leave your chariots
Your war machines
Your military-industrial complexes
resist the darkness in your own heart.
resist the darkness of your past
Forgive your father
Your ex-lover,
Holding onto the back of a decrepit car as it tumbles through a graveyard does no good to anyone.
I know it’s hard, but resist.
making sure that before you do anything
You fix what’s wrong In here
Remove two-by-fours from your eyes like they were early morning sleep boogers
Take the darkness out of here so
You can fix the darkness out there.
I know I’m trying, and I don’t get it right all the time
In fact I get it wrong a lot
So this is not me preaching to you but me reminding myself and that’s all preaching really is sometimes anyways
But resist
Let justice roll down
As you kiss the light of the morning
Resist.
Conspiracy Theorists
The lights on the freeway are rain-blurred.
They come and go like passing pop stars.
The windshield wipers wipe like skinny robots.
On I-15 from Sandy to Salt Lake City all we can see are clouds.
Mountains don’t exist. Neither do we.
The moon hangs like polished silverware on a black wall
We talk in the car about authenticity, about what it means it means to be a real human being.
We talk about the weather. The rivers washing over the city.
We talk about love, what it means besides the back of yogurt lids.
You know,
I wanted to write you a letter.
I wanted to undress my thoughts in front of you
until I stood as naked and vulnerable as a white canvas on New York city street
I wanted to sew words like potatoes into a stew for you, feed them to us on our deathbed, bottle up all the things that went wrong between us, throw them off a cliff. Hear the glass breaking mix with the ocean’s thrashing.
Because I am boy, in a man’s body, looking for redemption, still scared to sleep without the light on.
And I am looking for reconciliation, between myself in the mirror and all the darkness in here, , between the world as it is and the world as we all want it to be.
But all I can see are cities burning and the things inside of me darkening.
Perhaps Peace is mythical creature that only comes out in the night with two sets of wings and a large snout, Perhaps redemption looks a lot like Bigfoot, blurry at best, only alive to those conspiracy theorists
Still, I am looking for God through the cracks of the fog, sifting through the moisture inside of me, trying to find peace.
I am pining for that sweet release, looking for that black hair on a perfume beach
I wanted to write you a letter but I was scared of letting you down.
So lets pretend just for tonight that I was the wine, and you the wineglass
Just you.
and Me.
In the dark
With a pen
And paper
Flicking ink on white
Flying kites on the blue
of living room blankets—
let’s melt beneath
the fabric
and live as lint.
Those cotton spent molecules clinging
Lets lives as rent
paid in full
the refrigerator whole.
Lets live as if heaven is on earth and the dirt on hearth of the
fireplace—
is slowly burning away.
Let’s practice resurrection.
Perhaps we can capture the moon, cut off a slice feed it to each other at night when the sky turns black and the stars are hiding
Lets, Lets be conspiracy theorists
They come and go like passing pop stars.
The windshield wipers wipe like skinny robots.
On I-15 from Sandy to Salt Lake City all we can see are clouds.
Mountains don’t exist. Neither do we.
The moon hangs like polished silverware on a black wall
We talk in the car about authenticity, about what it means it means to be a real human being.
We talk about the weather. The rivers washing over the city.
We talk about love, what it means besides the back of yogurt lids.
You know,
I wanted to write you a letter.
I wanted to undress my thoughts in front of you
until I stood as naked and vulnerable as a white canvas on New York city street
I wanted to sew words like potatoes into a stew for you, feed them to us on our deathbed, bottle up all the things that went wrong between us, throw them off a cliff. Hear the glass breaking mix with the ocean’s thrashing.
Because I am boy, in a man’s body, looking for redemption, still scared to sleep without the light on.
And I am looking for reconciliation, between myself in the mirror and all the darkness in here, , between the world as it is and the world as we all want it to be.
But all I can see are cities burning and the things inside of me darkening.
Perhaps Peace is mythical creature that only comes out in the night with two sets of wings and a large snout, Perhaps redemption looks a lot like Bigfoot, blurry at best, only alive to those conspiracy theorists
Still, I am looking for God through the cracks of the fog, sifting through the moisture inside of me, trying to find peace.
I am pining for that sweet release, looking for that black hair on a perfume beach
I wanted to write you a letter but I was scared of letting you down.
So lets pretend just for tonight that I was the wine, and you the wineglass
Just you.
and Me.
In the dark
With a pen
And paper
Flicking ink on white
Flying kites on the blue
of living room blankets—
let’s melt beneath
the fabric
and live as lint.
Those cotton spent molecules clinging
Lets lives as rent
paid in full
the refrigerator whole.
Lets live as if heaven is on earth and the dirt on hearth of the
fireplace—
is slowly burning away.
Let’s practice resurrection.
Perhaps we can capture the moon, cut off a slice feed it to each other at night when the sky turns black and the stars are hiding
Lets, Lets be conspiracy theorists
Justice
The man on meth
outside
my downtown window
tries
The man in blue
gun strapped low
arrests
—this is definitely the solution
outside
my downtown window
tries
The man in blue
gun strapped low
arrests
—this is definitely the solution
Jesus' Beard is Still Bigger Than Mine
Jesus’ Beard is Still Bigger Than Mine.
In the winter of Colorado
the snow fell perfect shapes of geometry
And I found myself outside playing Tetris with the sky
The cold of the air replaced the oxygen in our lungs
like the future cigarettes we’d smoke.
We’d hack coughs like hatchets
our nose hairs froze,
our ears as the red as our plastic sleds
—fingers numb like our parents’ marriages
This is what growing up looked like
It looked like snowforts and ugly Christmas sweaters
My father saying, “Jesus’ beard is still bigger than mine—but I’m catching up
In the third grade I was whipped with a towel in the
Pool lockeroom, it snapped like a firecracker
And stung like a wooden mixing spoon
on your behind
I was wearing Barney underwear
--You don’t wear Barney underwear in the third grade
I learned that day.
In the seventh grade I made out with a girl so hard that we had to break up
lest the school bus driver would tell her parents.
But I never forgot about her velvet lips, that squirming
tongue I wasn’t sure what to do with,
the bumps on her chest like some hypnotic spinning wheel, entrancing me.
This is what growing up felt like:
Sore asses
And spells of dizziness as she wafted through the doors of our yellow make out bus
In the eighth grade I had another girlfriend
She cheated on me by licking some other guy’s eyeball
like some sort of weird Martian space sex act I had never heard of
I would have licked your eyeball too if you would have asked I thought.
But, then I thought, would I?
Growing up now felt heavy, like cannonballs on my insides
Because we all slowly learned that growing up was not what we imagined
It was not all cowboys and Indians and snowball fights and dares to see who could jump off the most stairs
We grew up
I became as cynical as a New York brief
case filled with papers of suicide notes and receipts from liquor stores
Our faces began to look like all the adults who we never wanted to be
Like dying stars flickering out across our windshields cars
I learned then that it’s a lot easier to say to your parents, “Fuck You!” than
I forgive you
But this is only Act II and Romeo and Juliet are still in love
Because I want to live life like acrobats and diving wombats
I want to live life like the dying purple tulips in my backyard, dead for now
But alive again soon.
I want to live life like James Bond orders Martini’s—
shaken—but not stirred.
And I’m not even sure if that is how James Bond orders martinis but that’s okay because
I don’t want to live life in the box of a television set.
I want to live in the forest where the sun rests
I am trying to grow up
and all the world is crazy, except when Jesus
stops by for breakfast
After breakfast we pull the rolling papers from our pockets
and I roll my
cigarette with my fingertips
lick the seal, praying
that I might inhale life today and not death.
And Jesus’ beard is still bigger than mine, but I’m catching up.
In the winter of Colorado
the snow fell perfect shapes of geometry
And I found myself outside playing Tetris with the sky
The cold of the air replaced the oxygen in our lungs
like the future cigarettes we’d smoke.
We’d hack coughs like hatchets
our nose hairs froze,
our ears as the red as our plastic sleds
—fingers numb like our parents’ marriages
This is what growing up looked like
It looked like snowforts and ugly Christmas sweaters
My father saying, “Jesus’ beard is still bigger than mine—but I’m catching up
In the third grade I was whipped with a towel in the
Pool lockeroom, it snapped like a firecracker
And stung like a wooden mixing spoon
on your behind
I was wearing Barney underwear
--You don’t wear Barney underwear in the third grade
I learned that day.
In the seventh grade I made out with a girl so hard that we had to break up
lest the school bus driver would tell her parents.
But I never forgot about her velvet lips, that squirming
tongue I wasn’t sure what to do with,
the bumps on her chest like some hypnotic spinning wheel, entrancing me.
This is what growing up felt like:
Sore asses
And spells of dizziness as she wafted through the doors of our yellow make out bus
In the eighth grade I had another girlfriend
She cheated on me by licking some other guy’s eyeball
like some sort of weird Martian space sex act I had never heard of
I would have licked your eyeball too if you would have asked I thought.
But, then I thought, would I?
Growing up now felt heavy, like cannonballs on my insides
Because we all slowly learned that growing up was not what we imagined
It was not all cowboys and Indians and snowball fights and dares to see who could jump off the most stairs
We grew up
I became as cynical as a New York brief
case filled with papers of suicide notes and receipts from liquor stores
Our faces began to look like all the adults who we never wanted to be
Like dying stars flickering out across our windshields cars
I learned then that it’s a lot easier to say to your parents, “Fuck You!” than
I forgive you
But this is only Act II and Romeo and Juliet are still in love
Because I want to live life like acrobats and diving wombats
I want to live life like the dying purple tulips in my backyard, dead for now
But alive again soon.
I want to live life like James Bond orders Martini’s—
shaken—but not stirred.
And I’m not even sure if that is how James Bond orders martinis but that’s okay because
I don’t want to live life in the box of a television set.
I want to live in the forest where the sun rests
I am trying to grow up
and all the world is crazy, except when Jesus
stops by for breakfast
After breakfast we pull the rolling papers from our pockets
and I roll my
cigarette with my fingertips
lick the seal, praying
that I might inhale life today and not death.
And Jesus’ beard is still bigger than mine, but I’m catching up.
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