zero hero

2012-02-08T20:53:00.000-08:00

My blog is beautiful now.

And no, I had nothing to do with it. But I do approve of the facelift.

I am thinking through a new (to me) definition of music. It's simple, really: music is language. A medium of language, to be specific. Speech and writing are other examples that come to mind. But I suppose any art form would need to be part of this definition if I am to be consistent. So yes, visual art is language.

We use language for many purposes. We use it to communicate ideas or emotions. Sometimes we just use it because we are not comfortable with silence. We use to exclaim, to celebrate, to grieve, to vent.

Occasionally, the actual words that we choose when using "word language" add to the meaning. The sound of a word can Mean. The rhythm of a sentence can Mean. Poets are generally adept at this use of word language. They can pick their words, phrases, and syntax carefully so as to communicate as specifically as possible. In the same way, some musicians can make the very music Mean. The choices they make in melody, tempo, and timbre can Mean.

However, just as many people use language at its simplest level (to communicate via shared definitions of words), so many musicians use music at its simplest level--as a vehicle, and nothing more. In this way, I feel that many popular (pop) musicians use music. However, instead of communicating quick ideas or commands, these artists use music to create a shared sense of culture, of togetherness. Why does a blues musicians play the blues? Often, it is because he is part of a culture that is defined by the blues...and he comes out of a culture that has defined the blues. Why does an indie rock star play...whatever it is he plays? He is part of a culture that is defined by indieness...and a culture that is constantly redefining indieness (but that's another discussion by itself)

The waters of this discussion become murky as many songs combine word language and music language. To sum up my point, however, I would say this: music can be played on several levels, just as words can be use on several levels. To only use one level is not wrong. Using multiple levels merely opens more possibilities.

What does this mean for me, the humble connoisseur of music? It means that I don't have to shun music that has no instrinsic "message" built into the tune. Unless, of course, I'm willing to shun all prose for the same reason.

2012-01-19T18:14:00.000-08:00

Hurry. It's a habit I have, a lifestyle I live, an attitude I have adopted. Perhaps it is genetic-- one of the many oddities I have inherited from the Eastman/Cornelius clan. I find it more likely, however, that it is a practice I have picked up over time. On a scale from nature to nurture, I would place this particular trait much closer to the latter.

It all began in elementary school when I realized that if I finished my schoolwork quickly, I could go outside and play. Given the choice, I believe most ordinary boys would choose playing with toy soldiers over copying vocabulary words. This realization coincided with a second and possibly more disastrous realization that school work was easy-- too easy. There was absolutely no challenge to it. It became merely a race to finish quickly so that I could move on to the important things of life.

This shift created a false but very believable dichotomy in my head between what was important to me and what other people thought was important for me. I would do what they wanted, to keep them off my back, as long as it did not interfere with my free time too much. This division created a state of war between work and play. Work became defined as that which was drudgery, monotony, dullness. It was forced onto me by others and was thus to be avoided if it all possible. Play was exciting, freeing, creative, and fun. I chose when to play, how long to play, how hard to play, and when to stop. Work and Play became, in my mind, mutually exclusive activities.

As I grew older, this division began to affect many areas of life. I categorized music as Play, and would therefore never Work at it with the intensity and perseverance demanded of it. Whenever practicing guitar became difficult I stopped or played easier tunes that I had already learned. Without Working at the instrument, I was never able to progress past a very primitive level of musicianship.

Or take drawing, for another and even more abysmal example. I drew constantly throughout middle and high school. I tried so hard to express what I was feeling through drawing, but I absolutely refused to take lessons, study the art, or practice preliminary tecniques. Therefore, all of my drawings were stunted--unable to become what I wanted them to be due to my refusal to Work at drawing.

Writing may be the only area where this habit did not do irreversible damage. Somehow, I still enjoyed to write despite the fact that I was forced to Work at it in school. After studying grammar and vocabulary all day at school, I still loved to come home and write stories and poems. This intersection of Work and Play greatly improved my writing skill (in my opinion--you can be the judge of that of course), and gave me what may be my only refined skill.

College did not change my habit of hurry. I worked hard at school--hard enough to get by--but I almost never Played at my Work. Seldom did I put my creative, individual, playful humanity into my assignments. But there were moments: a few projects for Hubele, a presentation for McAllister, and a smattering of speeches for various worldview classes. It was in these moments that Work felt most like Play, and I began to wonder if I was really in college at all.

Could this be what our teachers were trying to teach us all along?

2012-01-07T18:45:00.000-08:00

I finished a journal. It feels nice to have done so. Every page filled with thoughts, verses, sermon notes, jokes, and a lengthy entry by guest writer Danny Johnston about halfway through which makes me smile every time I read it.

Speaking of Danny, I miss him. And his wife. And the Harwells. Yes, I even miss Kevin and his sarcastic pessimism. And the Freels, though we see them now and again--but never enough. And others, many others, whose absence from my life does not go unnoticed. Separation from such friends is hard stuff. Hard stuff, indeed.

I have a rabbit in my lap who begs for my attention, making it difficult to type. So, until next time, God be with you all. And happy new freakin' year.

2011-11-21T07:57:00.000-08:00

Life is an unbelievably varied experience.

2011-11-08T09:57:00.000-08:00

"When is it not about the big questions of life?" Thank you, Josh Goeglein, for reminding me that the big questions of life aren't math problems to be solved, crossword puzzles to be filled in, or Sudoku books to be completed. They are the big questions of life, and they must maintain their terrible tension. They are necessary, somehow. And oh how that fact grates on the soul of a perfectionist.

Big questions floating in this person's brain right now:
Politics--is it worth the time when every politician I've actually studied has turned out to be a corrupt liar? why are so many people so enthusiastic about politics? aren't democrats and republicans just two sides of the same coin, using their alleged "enmity" to keep themselves in power and spread a smoke screen over the citizenry?
Church--is a big church really fulfilling its mission? have we created too many rules and methods, and are these rules and methods harmful or helpful? should we have pastors who preach? where does heresy come from and how do you protect against it while allowing for individual freedom of interpretation?
Scripture--how does the Holy Spirit protect His Words against misinterpretation? how do we approach translating the Bible on the spectrum of loose paraphrase to word-for-word literality? can we draw parallels between David and Christ--how many? when do they become too much of a stretch?
Life-- what is more important, being right or being good? how do you live when you are still in shadows on most issues? why are there not enough hours in a day?

2011-11-01T19:06:00.000-07:00

My wife and I are now baristas at Seattle Drip. I confess it was a little rough at first. Once or twice I may have despaired of life. It is not an easy job, for sure, but it can be quite rewarding. The "can" is very dependent on the effort I choose to put toward the day.

2011-10-28T21:03:00.001-07:00

I am now dying like our herbs.

And wishing the process was quicker.

2011-10-24T09:49:00.000-07:00

I don't work for Mr. Mcdade any longer. No more fruits and veggies for me! Things I will not miss: cold hands, bad greens, heavy boxes, being beardless. Things I will miss: coworkers, fruit sampling, the moment just after crafting a fruit tray when I could see the finished product and think "Man, that looks gooood!".

One and a half years is a long time. Well, almost two years, actually. I feel...unearthed. Perhaps I feel like our herbs felt after we had dug them up and were preparing to put them in a larger pot, so they could have more room to grow and flourish.

I hope I don't die like our herbs did.

2011-10-22T09:53:00.000-07:00

Reading the book of Judges is hard. I keep hoping to find that loving, personal, compassionate Savior that we encounter in the gospels. He is there, certainly, but it seems that His presence is almost eclipsed by the wicked darkness of the people of Israel. I don't believe I had ever noticed that only a few generations after settling in the land, the people of Israel begin murdering and fighting each other (in addition to bowing to idols, marrying evil women, etc...). They almost immediately begin besmirching that "God's special people" nametag and become just like the perverted, violent, unstable tribes around them.

Then there's Samson. As a kid, I always thought of him as a sort of Bible hero, a man to be imitated and admired. BUt the Samson I find in the BIble is a lying, cheating, quick-tempered, promiscuous man. He doesn't fight the Philistines because they are the enemy of God, but instead his motive for attacking them seems to be a private vendetta....that came about because he touched an unclean carcass, told a tricky riddle, and tried to marry a Philistine. Each story about his life begins with an illicit relationship with a woman and ends in bloodshed.

All the while, God continues to be present with Samson. He answers his prayers, gives him his strength back, and grants him a death wish. Is that the lesson, perhaps?

2011-10-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

If you haven't read Chesterton's Father Brown stories because you are too in love with his more "serious" work, you need to think again. Over and over, he blows me away with his short, rotund Catholic priest. Are these theological treatises or short mystery stories? Does it matter?

"That is the real difference between human charity and Christian charity....It seems to me that you only pardon the sins that you don't really think sinful. You only forgive criminals when they commit what you don't regard as crimes, but rather as conventions. So you tolerate a convention duel, just as you tolerate a conventional divorce. You forgive because there isn't anything to be forgiven....We [priests, Christians, etc...] alone are left to deliver them [the true criminals] from despair when your human charity deserts them. Go on your own primrose path pardoning all your favourite vices and being generous to your fashionable crimes; and leave us in the darkness, vampires of the night, to console those who really need consolation; who do things really indefensible...things...none but a priest can pardon. Leave us with the men who commit the mean and revolting and real crimes; mean as St. Peter when the cock crew, and yet the dawn came."

--G.K. Chesterton "The Chief Mourner of Marne" The Father Brown Omnibus

2011-10-07T10:32:00.000-07:00

After witnessing the Jordan River dry up right in front of them, after seeing the walls of Jericho crumble, after watching as the Lord halted the sun in the sky and threw rocks from heaven at their enemies, some representatives from the house of Joseph come to Joshua and ask,

"Why did you give us just one allotment, one solitary share? There are a lot of us and growing--GOd has extravagantly blessed us."

Joshua agrees that there are too many of them for their allotment, so he instructs them "climb into the forest and clear ground there for yourselves in the land of the Perizzites and the Rephaim."

Their reply? "There's not enough hill country for us, and the Canaanites who live down in the plain...have iron chariots."

I can almost hear the patient but authoritative tone in Joshua's voice as he replies, "Yes, there are a lot of you, and you are very strong. One lot is not enough for you. You also get the hill country. It's nothing but trees now, but you will clear the land and make it your own from one end to the other. The powerful Canaanites, even with their iron chariots, won't stand a chance against you."

We are made of the same stuff as these sons of Joseph. We complain that we can't find ways to use our gifts and talents to spread the kingdom, but we see those iron chariots, we suddenly become die-hard pacifists, wanting only a quiet life and a happy home. We measure our enemies by worldly standards-- wealth, political power, social status. We forget that we serve a God who can throw rocks from heaven, can split a sea in two, can tear the walls of a city down, and can achieve the ultimate victory over the strongest of our enemies by dying on a tree.

(quoted scripture taken from Joshua 17 in The Message)

2011-10-05T13:48:00.000-07:00

By the time 6 months (or 5000 miles) has passed, I always forget how much fun it is to change the oil in a car. Ah, the smell of warm engine lubricant, the heat of the sun radiating off of the pavement, the giddy feeling of accomplishment. There is nothing quite like driving around the block in a car that you've recently serviced yourself.

This does not mean, however, that I want to change your car's oil. My own cars will do nicely.

2011-09-19T18:10:00.000-07:00

Keep these things in mind, wayward soul of mine:

If God is inside of all believers, then no believer should be ignored. Would I be so bold as to risk ignoring Him? I look on the outside and see Pharisaical attitudes, semi-heretical beliefs, disjunctions of doctrine and life practice, glaring defects, obvious iniquity. I assume that I have nothing to learn from "such people." I assume that "such people" could not possibly be pleasing to God in any way. I assume that I am not "such people." In all of these things I am wrong.

I don't know everything. Two years from now, I will not know everything. Twenty years from now, I will only have begun to realize how very little I know. (this is, of course, assuming that I live that long).

God does not ask us to be successful. He asks us to be faithful. The results are in His hands.

2011-09-14T11:27:00.000-07:00

Would your idols die for you?

Or maybe the better question is, could your idols even live for you?

money is paper, pleasure is fleeting, security is illusory
family and friends will fail you
your health is balancing on a razor's edge
the better the reputation, the easier it tarnishes
the higher the position, the greater the fall

don't shoot for the lesser and miss the Everything.

2011-09-11T18:47:00.000-07:00

It's so crazy to think that the The Lord of the Angel-Armies, The King of Heaven, The Most High GOD...is for us. He is on our side. We don't have a puny guardian angel. We have a Guardian God. A God so powerful that He causes the sun to stop in the sky, He closes up the clouds for 3 years, He splits a sea asunder, and He uses one man to massacre the military might of a nation. There is no end to His power. There is no end to His wisdom. There is no end to His love. And all that power and wisdom and love is focused on us, those He has adopted into HIs family.

Sola Deo Gloria

To the East!

2011-09-03T06:42:00.000-07:00

We have continued to think about this missionary prospect. Now it seems that most of our thoughts center around Eastern Europe. Specifically, the Balkan Peninsula. However, it is hard to move ahead with these thoughts. I look at our lives and I wonder--are we fit to be ambassadors for King Jesus? Are we radical enough? Are we holy enough? Are we willing to sacrifice...everything?

Reading John Piper's Let the Nations Be Glad has been both encouraging and discouraging. It is encouraging because, unlike many of the other books I have been reading recently, it aims deeper. Piper doesn't just say "GO!" He analyzes why we should go, how we can go, and what it is about God that would make us want to go. There are so many aspects of Piper's message that I could summarize, but I don't think it is worth doing. If it could have been summarized in a paragraph, it probably would have been.

However, it is discouraging to read a book about missionaries while sitting in an air-conditioned apartment in the center of a fairly modern city with all the amenities of life within easy reach. In just these early days of thinking, I have already discovered that "going" is not that simple. There is bureaucratic red tape, correct procedures, proper periods of waiting, etc... I can't even volunteer at a children's hospital without filling out an application, going to an orientation meeting, and making sure I look clean and well-mannered. Now, I do understand why all of that caution is needed. But it still frustrates me that this world is so messed up that it is necessary.

I've been reading the gospels and trying to get a clear picture in my head of what Jesus was actually like. Have you ever tried doing so? It's hard. He slips between your fingers like water. He can't be pinned down, categorized, summed up, or separated into a list of carefully constructed doctrines. He's a living, breathing, zealous, righteous, caring, sarcastic, honest, harsh, generous, forgiving, unrelenting, fearless, faithful man. And, it just so happens, He's also GOD.

DId He really say that we were supposed to be conformed to His image? Whoa.

2011-06-30T07:50:00.000-07:00

The time has come to reevaluate. My wife and I are currently thinking through all that it means to give our lives up completely to Christ. We have some thoughts (Bible translation, inner city ministry, etc...), but at this point we are completely open to anything. Well, maybe not completely...yet. But we are trying to get to the point of complete openness, absolute reliance on the providence of God.

Lord, I trust you to direct my steps, help my lack of trust.

2011-04-25T13:52:00.000-07:00

What are we waiting for?

a new job?
a better job?
respect from those around us?
more love from our family, our friends?
marriage?
a new car? or perhaps just a fix on the old one?
dinner?
an after dinner scotch on the rocks?
the end of the day?

Shouldn't we be waiting for the return of Jesus Christ, the man who begged God to forgive us while we brutally murdered him, the man who made it possible for us to be human again?

I, for one, am usually hoping for all the wrong things.

2011-04-14T11:51:00.000-07:00

I have become convinced that having a job that I completely detest has been extremely helpful to me. In my opinion, too many people grow to adulthood thinking that all jobs are equally awful and soul-sucking, and so they mistakenly assume that the only choice involved in picking a career is choosing how much money the awful, soul-sucking job will put in their pocket at the end of the day.

This is not true. Let me repeat. This is NOT true. I currently hold two jobs, one of which I hate with every fiber of my being and one of which I love. I hate security. I love produce. This gives me hope that there are in fact jobs and careers out there somewhere on this planet that I can enjoy.

I don't believe that people are as lazy as we think them to be. Could it be that most people are lazy and irritable at work because they don't have enough to do? Or, in a related point, could it be that most people are stuck in jobs that they aren't good at, or jobs that they don't see as important? It seems to me that humans will work very hard at what they feel is important. Look, for instance, at how hard we work to entertain ourselves in America. We write sitcoms, film epic movies, put on huge sports events, buy really expensive equipment...all to entertain ourselves. Humans were built to work. And work we will...at something.

2011-04-08T14:19:00.000-07:00

1 week until the month countdown begins
2 weeks until our first wedding shower
3 weeks until I am no longer a security guard
4 weeks until...something else exciting. a bachelor party maybe?
5 weeks until the 1 week countdown begins
6 weeks until I marry the most beautiful woman in the world

until then please bear with us.

2011-04-06T14:59:00.000-07:00

New Things:

Renter's Insurance
An Electric Stove
Window A/C unit
cigarette smoking neighbors
a missing ipod (if anyone finds a black classic ipod packed with awesome music, let me know. it might be mine)

2011-03-29T09:21:00.001-07:00

"Doctors are the same as lawyers; the only difference is that lawyers merely rob you, whereas doctors rob you and kill you too." (Anton Chekhov)

2011-03-26T05:36:00.001-07:00

sometimes survival is the only goal

2011-03-19T13:52:00.000-07:00

Today I am sad. Sad for our society. Sad for our culture, or lack thereof. Sad for our directionless country, our poverty-stricken state, our sinful city. Sad that a man can grow to "maturity" in this place and find nothing unusual about saying "They've got strip clubs down there [in New Orleans] that you and your girlfriend can go to together...man and woman strip clubs." Sad that a holiday (translation: Holy Day) that was designed to be a remembrance of a missionary bringing the gospel to a pagan people is celebrated by a disgusting display of drunkenness, illicit sexuality, and consumerism.

Wouldn't you agree, dear reader, that this is sad? My heart is heavy this St. Patrick's Day.

2011-03-15T06:29:00.000-07:00

Imagine...

          You are a poor as dirt London city-dweller with a criminal record and a pile of debts larger than your tiny apartment. One day you come home from a day of pick-pocketing and job-searching to find the King of England sitting on the floor (since you actually don't own any furniture). He rises and offers you his hand.
           "Hello, sir, I am the King. I hear you owe some money. Is this correct?"
           "Why, yes, Y-y-your Majesty." At this point you're trying to remember what kind of reverent gestures and words citizens are supposed to greet their sovereign with, but all coherent thoughts have escaped your mind.
"Consider them paid."
"W-w-w-what?"
          "Paid. In full. Surely you don't doubt my ability to pay your debts? Remember, I am the King."
"No. Y-yes. Of course."
          "Come, I have prepared a banquet. I would like you to sit with my family and I at the table tonight. But we must get you some new clothes, first. Is this agreeable?"
         As the absurd reality of the situation begins to dawn on your muddled mind, you find the gumption to ask a one word question-- "Why?"
The King smiles.

A fairy tale? A daydream? Wishful thinking?

2011-03-14T07:19:00.000-07:00

If you have ever been a fan of southern gothic, Flannery O'Connoresque storylines, funeral speeches, beards, stubborn mules, or great cinema, then you should immediately watch Get Low. The movie progresses about as fast as a muggy summer evening, allowing the audience to soak up every deep south detail. A perfect part for the aging Robert Duvall. A script that rivals the work of Faulkner. Camera-work that adds instead of distracting from the heavy themes. Music deep fried and slathered in southern seasonings. Yep, there just ain't no reason why you shouldn't be watching this movie...right now.

"I heard you killed three men in a fistfight."
[pause]
"Is that all?"

Rich and Hearty?

2011-03-08T21:04:00.000-08:00

Progresso: Rich and Hearty, beef soup in a can. Sounds good, right? Or at least palatable? Well, let me inform you, it is most certainly not. It would be a stretch to call this conglomeration of components "food." Basically, I opened the can to find a few potatoes and soggy green beans floating around in salty water along with something that I was supposed to believe was beef.

To be honest, I didn't expect it to be good. After all, it came out of a can. But I didn't expect residue of hell, underside of a shoe, abandoned house bathtub grime disgusting. And that's what I got. Not to mention that there wasn't even enough of it to feed a full grown field mouse. I would have had more luck eating the dead spiders underneath my front porch.

I want you to know, Mr. President of the Progresso Company, I hate your soup. I hope you go bankrupt. I hope you rue the day you pretended that you were making a quality product. You tricked me once, it's true. I assure you that it won't happen again, no matter how many irresistible adjectives you attach to your sorry excuse for soup.

2011-03-07T12:13:00.000-08:00

I had nearly forgotten the expressive powers of the electric guitar. Within the rather simplified structure of the "blues" (loosely defined by a white suburban male), there are many emotional subtleties to be discovered. I always expect to hit a wall...and never hit it. There is always more ocean to dive into, always more territory to be explored. That is not to say I always find something new. Often there is staleness in my music, often there is mindless repetition. But isn't this true of all things? Is there not staleness in the worship of God sometimes? If we were honest with ourselves, I think we would have to admit that there is. But the problem is not with God. There is always more of Him to be found, more of Him to be praised, more of Him to be understood. The problem is with us.

What is the point of making this analogy? The point is simple: we must persevere. We must not stop worshiping God because it isn't a mountaintop experience every time. We must not stop playing music because we feel incapable of writing anything new, anything groundbreaking. Push through the doldrums. Keep going through the desert. Remember: an oasis only becomes truly breathtaking when it is surrounded by sand.

2011-03-05T07:16:00.000-08:00

I love the book of Proverbs. After the roller coaster ride that is the history of the Israelites, just before the desperate woes and bizarre visions of the prophets, a simple man named Solomon sits us down in his office and tells us a few things he learned during his life. This is good. This is bad. Do this. Don't do this. Thank you, Solomon, this is quite refreshing.

For some reason, I can't stop listening to "Louder Than Ever" and "Royal Blue" off of the new Cold War Kids album. None of the other songs. Just those two. It's becoming an obsession. "From now on, I'll wear my love for you loose, from now on I am just passing through..."

70 days....is a long time.

2011-02-27T15:15:00.000-08:00

The Lover wants what is best for the Beloved. Is this not how we define True Love? What, then, is best for the Beloved? To be trapped in this decaying body for decades, struggling against sin and injustice and the wickedness of this present evil age? If we were honest with ourselves, we would have to answer in the negative. No, certainly not. This cannot be what is best. The best for the Beloved is perfect communion with Christ, is gathering with the heavenly host and praising God, is enjoying the indescribable pleasures of Paradise.

I am not saying that we should wish for the death of the Beloved. But we must not fear it above all else, we must not make the frail life of the Beloved our greatest goal or our tallest idol. If we truly Love, then we will be willing to let go so that the Beloved can be perfectly Loved by the perfect Lover.

2011-02-25T15:16:00.000-08:00

do not judge security guards. don't do it. security is one of the most difficult soul-sucking jobs this world has ever created. every night i work as a security guard, i consider quitting (if you are my boss reading this, don't worry--i'm going to stick it through, but i don't claim to enjoy it). it's exceptionally hard to remain alert in order to deal with possible dangerous situations. perhaps if there was an imminent situation.... i thought cashiering was bad. it was. but this might just be worse. in conclusion then: i'm having the time of my life being about as miserable as i can be and learning all kinds of things about myself, God, and the world.

fried eggs covered in mayo. the worst dinner idea i've ever had? possibly. but delicious nonetheless.

it's annoying to have such widespread musical taste. i never feel like i own enough music. then again, i suppose some purists would have a problem with the term "owning music." suffice it to say, i spend too much money on it. from B.O.B. to Phil Wickham and Jars of Clay, then down to Cage the Elephant, Spoon, Cake, and all those guys, then up around Mason Jennings and Sean Hayes, then over to Olafur Arnalds, Son Lux, and others like them after a brief jaunt with Led Zeppelin and the Allman Brothers (along with the Jimi of course). Can't forget about Devotchka and Leningrad, now can we? Or Astronautalis and POS?

All while my guitar gently weeps...for lack of attention, i suppose.

2011-02-24T12:31:00.000-08:00

whew, what a relief. got that dang car tag renewed. there's nothing like having an expired car tag to make a citizen feel like a criminal every time he gets in the car.

there are so many experiences to be had in this life. and i'm not talking about hallucinogenic drugs. i'm just talking about bizarre everyday occurrences. conversations, good meals, shopping trips, books, rabbits, rental properties, weddings, dreams... so many experiences.

oh, and more stuff just keeps popping up on the Story Shepherd blog. you should check it out.

A List

2011-02-19T08:05:00.000-08:00

1. Led Zeppelin is like an old, loyal friend.

2. Coffee and dark chocolate is a divinely inspired combination.

3. Everyone should spend time on the bottom rung of the employment ladder.

4. If you haven't checked my new blog, please do so. http://storyshepherd.blogspot.com/

dinner is served

2011-02-12T06:11:00.000-08:00

The opening stage has begun. we have a place, a process (of sorts), and a growing portfolio. Excitement is in the air. Still working on the details, but if you want to take a look, be my guest.

something big this way comes

2011-02-11T12:19:00.000-08:00

Check around. Look under those couch cushions, open those closet doors, search through that sock drawer. I'm cooking up something different, and I'd love for you to be involved. It won't be here, but it will be near.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. But are a thousand words completely worthless? Have we lost language? Let's bring it back before our children forget what a bedtime story is.

That's all for now. I'll keep stirring the pot.

2010: A Year of Surprises

2010-12-24T06:41:00.001-08:00

It hath been a year worthy of remembrance. Permit me to share with you just a few of the momentous occasions that made this a special time in the life of Jonathan W. Eastman.

On January 1st, 2010, I lay in bed most of the day watching reruns of The Matrix on television while recovering from the undesirable effects of my close friend's New Year's Eve/Bachelor Party. Admittedly, it was perhaps not the best start to a year I've ever experienced. Shortly thereafter, we successfully got my friend good and married, then headed back to Jackson, Mississippi.

I arrived in Jackson with no car, no home, and no job, laden with only a few bags of belongings. The first few days I spent in the apartment of some dear friends who were out of town. When they returned, I decided to crash the couches at another friend's house. At the time, I was in the final stages of finding a teaching job in South Korea. All that remained was the complicated and convoluted Visa process. And then... a miracle happened.

Emily Potter Fraiser decided that she missed me. See, back in the ancient history of 2009, Emily and I had made a run at a relationship which had never quite gotten off the ground. But, through some incredible glitch in the universe, this unspeakably gorgeous girl wanted to give me another chance.

However, if you will recall, I was preparing to leave for South Korea in just a few weeks. So what was I to do? Well, quite naturally, I decided that the South Korean children could teach themselves to speak English, as I had more important matters to attend to. And so, I stayed in Jackson to see what happened. It was at that moment that God decided to open the floodgates of heaven and send me a deluge of blessings.

In the first week after deciding to stay in Jackson I found a job at Mcdade's Market, bought a car for $1500, and became a permanent resident of the house on Harding Street.

It didn't take long for Emily and I to realize that we wanted to get married...to each other! And so, in August, I took a deep breath and threw all my chips on the table. The strangest thing happened--she said yes! We are now happily engaged and looking forward to a wedding in May of 2011. Next year you can look forward to a year-end letter co-authored by Emily, whose long-term memory just happens to be about 100 times better than mine.

The months after our engagement day are a rather steady blur of throwing vegetables around in the produce department (at Mcdade's Market), teaching children about the variety of ways that rich people oppress poor people (in my history class), and learning how to pretend to be an adult in a fractured, post-modern world.

And so, in the spirit of the holidays, I wanted to slow down and take a moment to thank all of you who have showered my year with prayers and gifts and laughter and conversation. Life would not be the same without all of you. I thoroughly enjoyed my semester of teaching and am so grateful for the warmth and sincerity of all those involved with that program. My Mcdade's family has brought me so much joy this year--I truly am blessed to have the opportunity to work with people I love. I look forward to that glorious day when we will all gather around the Lord's table and stuff our faces with heavenly food.

Don't be afraid, don't back down, don't give up. God is big. And He's good.

2010-10-05T12:02:00.000-07:00

Trying to pick the novel back up. However, I find that it's like picking up a water-logged mattress. One that is just covered with mildew and small creepy crawly things. In other words, it is quite difficult. The passage of time makes all the great and wonderful ideas seem...much less great and wonderful. And caffeine makes it hard for me to sit still.

2010-09-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

Work as a cashier--go home physically half-tired and mentally/spiritually exhausted.
Work as a produce clerk--go home physically wrecked but mentally/spiritually stimulated.
That. Is the difference.

2010-09-22T04:58:00.000-07:00

We were all very content to shoot at the target we made with hay and wood and human ingenuity. But then Christ came. He lit our target on fire, threw it off a cliff, and told us "Never again. We've got work to do."

2010-06-07T05:51:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since we've let the synapses run wild. Animal carcasses trucking across the United States of Ambition scrawl the names of fallen comrades on rest stop bathroom walls. We'll never truly die, because we were never really alive. And in the end, I suppose it's fitting in the land of the fearful and the home of the blind.

2010-06-03T14:56:00.000-07:00

Writing is like hunting.
You wander around in the woods for hours,
days,
weeks.

Stumble across a pack of ideas in an unlikely place,
Follow them for a while, watching.
A particularly fat one attracts your attention.

Isolate it from the pack
Circle it slowly, carefully (don't move too fast,
it must retain the illusion of freedom).
Tighten the circle, still giving the idea
Room to move.

Then there comes a moment when plans
must become actualities.
Be confident.
Aim well.

2010-05-16T06:25:00.000-07:00

With love
comes the capacity for loss.
With height
comes the danger of a fall.

2010-05-07T20:38:00.000-07:00

The Decision Has Been Made.
Repercussions Will Follow.

I will reap these consequences
with a sharpened sickle
and gorge myself upon them
bitter
or
sweet.

No matter where the road leads,
I will go
As long as You and you go with me.

I know two things in this grand and gloomy world:
1) God
2) Her
And that is enough.

2010-05-05T08:24:00.000-07:00

Jehovah Jireh. I must believe that He holds me in His hand, or I will fall to pieces. I throw my hopes and dreams at the foot of His throne and ask only this--that He do what is right, what is good. In between jobs, in between places of residence, in between health care providers, in between lifestyles, in between despair and joy--this is a scary, scary place to be.

2010-04-30T11:04:00.000-07:00

Where will I live?

What will I do?

How will I
   make enough
      do enough
       say enough
        be enough?

God will provide.
(and again for good measure)
God Will Provide.
(and again because I am forgetful)
GOD WILL PROVIDE.
It is who He is. He can't help doing it.
We breathe, even when we sleep.
God provides, but never sleeps.
We fail, because we are broken.
He does not, because He is not.

2010-04-24T20:40:00.000-07:00

I will hold on.

And when chaos crowds the streets
And the life that was is no more
I will hold on.

And when the hospital holds no hope
And the photographs are fading
I will hold on.

And when the culmination comes
And the spade strikes the sand
I will hold on.

Hell itself could not pry apart
My broken, bloodied fingers.
So what makes you think
you can?

I will hold on.

2010-04-17T11:37:00.000-07:00

Is trust really trust unless there is a reason to doubt?

2010-03-31T08:45:00.000-07:00

God is at the center, The Everything expanding out from Him. At the very core of the core is light, the pure blinding light of love. At the edge of The Everything is darkness, shadows, the deep freeze. As we move toward the light, our frozen souls are thawed, our imprisoned minds released from icy captivity. Out from unknowable blankness we move, and into the warmth and glow of the Godhead. Here, in the light, we can see. We can see Him and we can see ourselves. At first this is painful. Our eyes hurt, our skin is scorched. But through this hurt, healing comes. At last, our isolation is at an end, for the closer we move to Him, the closer we move to each other. We know and are known.

2010-03-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

I cried at work today. Wept, actually. Openly. I was just overwhelmed... So then I decided to stop chopping up onions and go do something else. I did manage to fill a rather large mixing bowl with exquisitely cut onion slices before the fumes got to my tear ducts, however. I'm quite proud of that bowl.

Indeed, it was quite a delightful morning. Arriving at work at 7:00 in the morning is so...satisfying. The store hums quietly. The other employees sip their coffee and nod good-naturedly. It's so peaceful before the customers show up.

2010-03-15T15:47:00.000-07:00

I encourage you all to go find an open position in the produce department of a small grocery store. It is the best career choice you will ever make. I feel so incredibly lucky to have been given this chance.

I spent the morning chunking vegetables into bins and slapping fruit around. Certain displays are stubborn (the cabbages and the lettuce) and refuse to look nice no matter how much you manhandle them. But even that is somehow fun. I'm all about taking Disorder and shaping it into something that looks like it could be a distant relative of Order.

In other news, the previous post was the 100th post. That's special or something, right? Yay for Zero Hero and for the number 100.

2010-03-14T12:34:00.000-07:00

The Kingdom-centered life is uncomfortable. It does not jive with my American democratic ideals. I want a grand-daddy in the sky, not a king on a throne. I want a Santa Clause, not a Sovereign Lord. I want to pursue my own dreams, set my own goals, live my own life...while professing with my lips that I am doing it all for the glory of God. Rubbish. Christ changes everything.

2010-03-13T18:08:00.000-08:00

First Day of work in the Produce Department. Whoa, awesome.
Spent four hours getting trained...then was left alone with four hours to go and the whole department in my hands. Yikes. Really enjoy arranging the goods, love the guys I'm working with, and a big fan of the slower, more relaxed pace. Can't wait to get comfortable with all the little details. Details are actually extremely important in the produce section. And after a pretty solid day of work, I don't feel terrible...but I am sleepy. Yawn. Perhaps I should make coffee...

2010-03-10T17:42:00.000-08:00

I told you I would do it: Citizen Cope and Derek Webb reviews at http://quartertonereviews.blogspot.com/

Got 10lbs of chicken today for 5 bucks. Pretty excited about making some tasty dish(es).

2010-03-08T17:02:00.000-08:00

Morning shift = pure awesomeness. There is something special about walking to work early in the morning. Something human. Something timeless. Clocking out and going home while there is still daylight is rather nice as well.

2010-03-07T07:03:00.000-08:00

The life of a wage worker is much different than anything I've done before. In a way it's much less complicated than high school or college. Go to work, eat/do laundry/pay bills/buy groceries...then go to bed. There are a lot less choices to make, really. A lot less identity-crises. Who am I? Jonathan, the friendly cashier. Or Jonathan the tired bacon-bringer, back from a long day of work. I rather like it.

I have 3 morning shifts this week, for the first time since I began working. I'm excited. Having an afternoon/evening free after a morning of activity will be delightful, I'm quite sure of it.

Look for a few new posts on http://quartertonereviews.blogspot.com/ soon, hopefully tomorrow. Citizen Cope for sure. Derek Webb (if I finish it). Broken Bells (if I get around to it). Something else entirely (if the mood strikes).

Cheers

2010-03-06T06:34:00.000-08:00

Sleeping on a sofa in one's own living room provides just the right level of...adventure. Plus, it isn't nearly as cold out there as it is in our Arctic bedroom. And it is much easier to get out of "bed" as the sunlight comes bursting in from all 50 windows (give or take a few) and the other residents of the house move about and clank things in the kitchen. A good experience all in all.

2010-03-04T14:49:00.000-08:00

never before
has the floor
seemed so far

away.

2010-03-03T22:26:00.000-08:00

A train ride to the edge of the world
dodging and diving just to stay alive

Breathing is hard here in the heights of heaven
Earthquakes are shaking the seat of my soul.

2010-02-26T05:12:00.000-08:00

It's a little like poetry

a lot like falling

and something akin to the apocalypse.

Centering, centering, centering...

2010-02-20T10:30:00.000-08:00

Life is slowly slowing to a more reasonable pace. Things are getting done, experiences are being understood more fully, routines are being set... this is all quite good.

For any of you familiar with my work with the Quarter Tone, or anyone who likes good music or movies, please check out the blog that A.H. and I are working on at http://quartertonereviews.blogspot.com/

There isn't much there yet, but I will be pouring more effort into it soon. The review of Richter's album is one that I have been looking forward to writing for some time, and while I realize it isn't quite to the level of my past work, I feel it will do. Please comment, send suggestions for artists, etc...

2010-02-13T09:29:00.000-08:00

Jumping rope bare-chested in the snow-covered backyard of the formerly Awkward Situation = quick way to run out of oxygen and a barrel of fun (if "fun" is loosely defined as self-induced pain for the purpose of being able to inflict said pain on yourself longer and harder the next time).

Work

2010-02-05T12:14:00.000-08:00

Worked 30 hours (give or take 1 or 2) my first week at Mcdade's. Then immediately began working another 30 the next week. Now I have two days off. I'm halfway through the second of those two days. Strange to think that this is the new normal.

Work at Mcdade's is completely contingent upon what expectations and attitudes and desires I bring with me. I can have a bad day any day, or I can choose to enjoy every minute. Much like life. But even more focused. Work is to life what poetry is to writing, perhaps. Everything is heightened, exaggerated, distilled down to its essence. Which makes it quite the adventure.

Sometimes they let me stock shelves or retrieve buggies or sweep the produce section. All of which I enjoy immensely. I don't think there is a single job at McDade's that I would dislike. I'm sure they're saving the worst for some point in the future when I make them very angry. I wonder what it will be...

Being a cashier is stressful at times, but quite rewarding now and again. As one man told me-- "everybody has to eat." Indeed, I do meet all sorts of people at the checkout line. Old folks, poor folks, friendly folks, tired folks, angry folks, rich folks, lonely folks...all kinds. To all of them I can bring the same thing--a smile, a kind word, and their change and receipt. What could possibly be better?

The time is short.
The days are evil.
We have nothing to fear,
We have infinity to gain.

2010-01-31T06:29:00.000-08:00

Every day is a Friday. That captures some of it. Every day, as I walk back to the chilly recesses of McDade's and stick my time card into the magical machine that records my work time, a strange feeling assaults my brain. I'm done. There is nothing more to do. There are no papers to write, books to read (unless I want to), tests to study for. I'm done. And, oddly enough, a sudden burst of energy swoops down upon me at that moment. What? I've been working for seven hours...I should be at least a little tired. At least, it seems like I should be. But I'm not. I want to go out, get rowdy, blow something up, party til the sun comes up... all that jazz.

Perhaps it is the afternoon/evening shift. Having the meat of a day at the end of a day is just quite discombobulating. Plus, closing isn't especially exciting. It's rather slow, honestly. But that means I get to dust things and clean my area and arrange all the candy on my register's aisle...which I enjoy quite a lot. But it is slow. Maybe I'll figure it out soon...

2010-01-26T10:44:00.001-08:00

It's too much, all at once. I need time to let it steep. Then I will talk about it.

2010-01-21T09:10:00.000-08:00

When I was a small child, my mother would take me down to Giant Foods on Highway 49 when she needed groceries. There was a man who worked there, a short, thin black man with a huge smile, who was always stocking shelves or taking a smoke break out on the bench out front. Inevitably he would be whistling or laughing. He always greeted me by name. Even then, I thought to myself, "I want to be that man." It appears I might now have the chance to do so...

2010-01-19T08:20:00.000-08:00

It isn't the big, dramatic decisions so much as it is the tiny choices made every minute that define you.

Stop thinking in circles, get out there and define yourself. I dare you.

2010-01-16T10:16:00.000-08:00

Quiet afternoon hours spent on the couch reading Chesterton aloud as the sun ducks down below the horizon and the sounds of a hungry stomach begin to crescendo... Paradise? Perhaps.

Grabbing Life by the Horns

2010-01-15T07:45:00.000-08:00

...woke up on a sofa at half past eight, shook the sleep out of my head and grabbed a book (the Good One, incidentally). Mixed some vegetable juice and Louisiana hot sauce for a wake-up drink. Hard to move quickly when you've got all day, that's a fact. An hour later...and breakfast is done. That's about the extent of it. Carpe Diem, if you know what I mean.

2010-01-13T08:06:00.000-08:00

This city speaks to me.
In dark corners it asks to be
set free.

How can I ignore the plea?
Even evil judges judge right
eventually.

Why are these stores filled to the brim
with wigs? Are they trying to impress him,
him that can't walk straight
due to the added weight
of the gun and the guilt
from the life that he built
On lies and lovelessness.
He drinks the cup of bitterness
every night on his fourth floor flat,
clutching the handle of a baseball bat,
scared that the ghosts of those he's killed
Will sneak in to his room and steal
his soul if he falls asleep
everyone knows he's in too deep.

2010-01-11T10:40:00.000-08:00

Question badgered
in the mid-morning calm.
Washing dishes
is my soul's healing balm.

2010-01-08T19:22:00.001-08:00

Kept company by the clank of plates
And the steady dripping of the sink.
Waking up to the same old dream
So full of thoughts I can’t think.

2010-01-07T10:57:00.000-08:00

It's a gift, it's a gun
when you are the only one

out

on the road you made
with two hands and a blade.

The big silence is everywhere,
scraping the horizon's edge.
Free-falling without a care
tip-toeing on the dizzy ledge.

2009-12-26T17:56:00.000-08:00

An Apology: the following is probably a direct result of my recent fixation on Eminem (who, in his entire career, has managed to craft about 6 songs that are actually listenable...but those six are so perfect that I feel he still deserves some serious respect). Then, of course, there was life, which naturally influences this sort of thing.

Don't think for a moment I was headed inside
the last thing that I wanted to do was confide
with the myriad of voices living in my mind
whispering that my choices had been unkind

I can make the tapes rewind
but no matter what I never find
the place where your face is placed
cause all i got is space and a bad case
of static. It's fairly tragic, and I need some magic
to make this twisted tale go to hell but every time I try I fail.

I needed something to do,
needed something new
and I needed it soon
sitting and staring would kill me
Alone in my room I didn't need to be.

So I sauntered down the center of the sleepy street
a picture of desolation and defeat
the heartbreak hero of my own sappy story
straying down the center of the road
laughing at the foolish games
that I play to stay straight on the way

On the way I punched a stop sign or two
blood from my knuckles started to ooze
I may have accidentally roused a few
light sleepers in the area who
maybe opened an eye, said "fuck you"
then conked out and promptly started to snooze
they forgot that they thought that my shot at the stop
sign was utterly uncalled for when they started to snore.

My dizzy steps took me to the coke machine
I thumbed through my wallet, not a lick of green
credit cards don't work on these ancient things.
Mcdonalds was closing and just as I was moseying
up to the door of the super-sized store,
they closed the door and locked it
even though me and jason rocked it
they closed their ears pretended not to hear
we were calling their names, I guess they're not to blame
they had killed the flame but all the same
I just wanted a burger and a fucking coke
simple joys when all your bones are broke.

Jason's the bum that I ran into
I figured he wouldn't think it a sin to
rob me and leave me like a half-hearted joke
to him I'm just another white bloke
who got lost on the way to a bar uptown
and wound up downtown with a nervous frown

He and I cut through some backyards
headed for the nearest late-night bar
at 930 blues I got a cheap light beer
and soaked up the sounds that were assaulting my ears
I clapped when the other drunks started to cheer
but I knew that what I wanted would never be here.

Boo.

2009-12-23T19:03:00.000-08:00

Excessive introspection is like a spider's web. The harder you struggle to free yourself from it, the more entangled you become.

Or again, like the sound of another person snoring in a room. You're fine until you notice it--but once you realize it is there, it becomes the only sound in the room, it invades your consciousness, and it beats relentlessly upon the door of your sanity.

There is no cure.

The only solution is to forget about it. Which, of course, is impossible barring any fortunate external stimuli like car crashes, burglaries, sudden drops in altitude, wildfires in the near vicinity, etc...

So, I hope I haven't accidentally wrecked anyone's mental stability or plunged anyone down the road to navel-gazing lethargy. If so, go do something dangerous. Or write about it. The trick, however, is getting somebody to pay you to write about it. If you can do that, you will never suffer again.

2009-12-12T11:59:00.000-08:00

We opened wide our door
and watched the guests pour
in and out and through.
We could never guess who
would step across our palm tree
welcome mat, exchange hellos,
snatch an apple from our stash.
Friends and friends of friends,
mysterious bearded fellows,
the occasional strong mustache
looking for a place to crash

Some came searching for God.
If they found Him, I am
glad. Men must not take it
upon themselves to be
the conjurers of Christ.

We scolded the thieves
when they stole a drink or two.
But laughter always followed,
After we all had a few.

2009-12-11T13:20:00.001-08:00

There are things in this world that are good for the soul but bad for the body.

This is a great tragedy.

Mother/Father

2009-12-09T12:12:00.000-08:00

Father:
a pair of grizzled hands gripping the wheel,
heavy stomping of mud-caked boots on the porch,
fumbling of noisy keys at the front door,
the smell of dust and old sweat and leather and wood shavings,
ratty t-shirts and paint-splattered pants well-worn from years of work.

Stamped across his face
is the stern, weary gaze, arms crossed.
Through the crack in the doorway, I spy
the bowed head in the bedroom,
the unflinching giant in whose shadow I reside.
A mystery to me.

Mother:
As I drift asleep, I hear
the steady tap-tickety-tap of fingers clobbering a keyboard.
I wake in the morning
to the clanking of dishes in the kitchen,
and know I have several more hours to slumber.
As I round the final curve of the race,
the shrill voice screaming my name from the stands
gives me hope.

In the hot Georgia summer:
wet hair piled under a ball cap after a difficult day
deep smell of earth
a bountiful blueberry harvest
after patient wielding of the life-giving hose
She is the barefoot matriarch: queen of 267 Keys Rd.

*I apologize if I have already posted this poem, but I honestly cannot remember. I recently gave it an overhaul anyhow, so consider this an updated version...

Truth (Part IV)

2009-12-05T13:04:00.000-08:00

     A kindly, middle-aged police officer with a rather pronounced belly dropped John off at his apartment an hour later. “Keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t leave again” he told a curious Jeff. “He doesn’t seem to have any inhibitions right now. I just picked him up for his own safety. Found him walking down the center of Thornhill Blvd. and thought I should escort him home…” The friendly cop exited the building, leaving the roommates alone.
     Jeff was, to say the least, surprised. “You smell like whiskey! How much did you drink?”
     John, reclining on the couch with a smug smile held up three, four fingers, then shrugged. Jeff shook his head, pursed his lips disapprovingly, and returned to his computer to finish his most pressing business project. It was a doozy of a project, and nothing was going to stop him from snagging an A on it. Especially not a drunk roommate.
     “There are knives… swimming in my blood.” Jeff glanced up from the computer. Had he heard correctly? Had John just said there were knives in his blood?
     “I’m drowning in a… bitter flood.” What on earth? Reluctantly, Jeff got up and went to check on his roommate. John hadn’t moved. His legs were still propped up on the purple ottoman they had bought on a lark a year ago, his head still sunk back into the cushion of the dirty but comfortable Salvation Army couch. His eyes roved the room, then settled on Jeff. “You like my poem?”
     “Are you making that up?”
     “I wouldn’t say that. It’s the truth.” John’s face grew serious. “It’s the truth.”
     “Are you drunk?”
     “Not even close. I wish to God I was, but I’m not.”
     “Then what’s wrong with you?” Jeff’s voice was skeptical, but he did notice that John’s actions seemed fairly steady and planned—not the actions of a drunk so much as the actions of an unhinged person.
     “I’m hungry. Jeff, my soul is starving.”
     “That so?”
     “It is. It’s the truth…” John seemed ready to keep talking, but instead he trailed off and sank into a deep thoughtfulness. Jeff lifted his hands wide as if to say he was not to blame for the situation, then returned to his project.

     As Jeff continued working, John wandered into the kitchen. Jeff thought little of it—John had a right to fix himself a sandwich without asking for permission. Then he heard what sounded like the crackle of a fire. “John? What the hell is going on in there?”
     John emerged, still masked with that same sly smirk. “I think… I think we should probably… leave now.”
    Jeff brushed past him and into the kitchen. He could not believe his eyes—John had stacked up empty cardboard boxes and bottles of cleaning chemicals on the stove and lit the whole pile with the burner . Already, the fire was spreading up the walls, filling the room with dense, toxic smoke. Jeff sprinted out the door and into the hallway, screaming “FIRE!” as he ran.

     John, meanwhile, stepped quickly into the back bedroom and grabbed his Remington 870 and a box of shells. Shoving the shells into his coat pocket, he smashed out the window with the butt of the shotgun and clambered down into the back parking lot, just ahead of the smoky inferno.

     Out in the yard, Jeff turned to look at the apartment. Smoke had filled the place, was pressing out against the windows. Other residents were spilling out of the front door in various stages of panic. Mr. Rinsward had grabbed his television, Henry (the pizza delivery guy) hadn’t found time to completely dress himself, and the impossibly aged Mrs. Joiner seemed more annoyed than frightened. Several small explosions rocked the complex—glass shattered and smoke billowed out into the atmosphere, eager to be free.
     While Jeff stood watching the fire, John sneaked out behind the adjoining apartment complex and slipped around behind him. He brought the shotgun up to his shoulder, pumped it once to load a shell into the chamber, and fired a shot in the air. Jeff jumped, then turned slowly. “John?” A look of utter incomprehension spread across his face.
     John seemed content, joyful even. His smile widened, his eyes glittered. This is real life. This is it. This is life! He was feeding the hunger, drinking up the flood. He fired again, sending a spatter of BB’s just over Jeff’s head. Jeff and the other residents took this opportunity to turn and run, screaming for help as they went. John let them go, pelting their fleeing backs with insults.

     When the local police arrived, John was still in the front yard, dancing. Behind him, the hungry fire had eaten the roof, was climbing into the heavens and edging down into the yard. John was holding the shotgun over his head, firing off rounds at random while spouting nonsensical phrases: “I trickled down canyon walls and never noticed waterfalls!”
     As the police pulled up to the sidewalk, he peppered the sides of the squad cars with bird shot, laughing between each volley. When the shotgun was empty he calmly began reloading in full view of the officers who were hunkered down behind their cars. Lieutenant Perryman took careful aim with a shiny new AR-15 and placed a bullet in his heart.
     John’s dancing slowed as his life poured out through the hole in his chest. As the fire watched solemnly, he crumpled to the grassy ground and lay face up like a child taking an afternoon nap. No more hunger, no more poetry, no more westerns. No more soccer or Samantha or boring classes or Danish wedding cookies. No more grapefruit juice or hot showers. No more. Just truth.

Truth (Part III)

2009-12-04T12:14:00.000-08:00

     His car was quiet. He was chewing his fingernails again, working at them intently as if they held the answer, the answer to the question he had posed to his body that morning. He cursed angrily, clutched the steering wheel in a death-grip. On the way back to his apartment, he accelerated unnecessarily fast between each stop sign while John Lennon sang “I need a fix ‘cause I’m going down, down to the bits that I left uptown...”

     John waited until the shower was nearly boiling before stepping into it, then stifled the scream in his chest when the pain hit. Clenched like a body-builder, he braced himself against the burn of the hot water. When he became accustomed to the heat, he switched to pure cold. His heart threatened suicide and his muscles shuddered, but he refused to relent. After five minutes of such torture, he was exhausted. He slumped into the bedroom and lay on the bed, trying to recover his breath. The clock read 12:45. Time for class.

     Mrs. Terpstra was late: "Sorry class, I got stuck in a traffic jam on 55..." The lecture commenced at 1:10 and by 1:15 John's attention span had shot itself in the face. By 1:20 he had begun twiddling his fingers spastically. The teacher noticed. "Something wrong, John?"
     "I'm bored."
     "Excuse me?"
     "I'm fucking bored. This lecture is complete hogwash and I don't want to be here and that dress looks terrible on you."
     A supernatural hush descended on the room as Mrs. Terpstra's face twisted itself out of surprise and into a decidedly unfriendly frown.
     "Will you please leave the room now, Mr. Reynolds?"
     "Yes, I think I will. Yes." John cleared his throat, cleared his books off the desk, and cleared out of the room. A tense silence followed him all the way. Once in the hallway he paused for a moment, glanced back, glanced forward, then set off toward his car, sending an obscene gesture to the world at large.

      His car was cold. He headed for McFadden’s Grocery with no clear goal in mind. Midway through a left hand turn, he mashed the gas and wrenched the wheel hard. The car slid gracefully on the wet pavement and spun to a stop, facing the opposite direction. As it spun John felt his heart jump. A laugh sprang to his lips.
     John glanced about to see if anyone had seen, then pulled the car around and continued on his way. At the next stop sign, he did it again, skidding to the right this time. A little thrill was growing in his heart. And it was hungry.

     At McFadden’s he wandered up and down the aisles like an artist in search of inspiration, waiting for the spirit to move. It moved on Aisle 8. His eyes brightened with sudden comprehension when he saw the box of Danish wedding cookies perched on the top shelf.     Angels blew their trumpets as John's outstretched arm gripped the prize and pulled it down to earth. If the cashier was surprised that a young man was purchasing seven boxes of Danish wedding cookies, she didn't show it.
     "Have you ever seen God?" The cashier glanced up at John, squinted her eyes, then asked him to swipe his card. He did so, then repeated the question.
     "Sir, I just got off my lunch break, there are seven people in line behind you, and I have a long day of work ahead of me. No, I have never seen God."
     "Well I'm gonna hunt him down and if I find him I'll drag him in here so you can see him." In response, she handed him his receipt and a pen to sign the merchant's copy. He scribbled down Caesar Augustus in outrageously scripted letters, handed her the receipt, and departed with a suppressed laugh.

     His car was gone. In the space where it had been parked, a few shards of glass lay, guiltily telling their sad story. For all the world as if he had expected the theft, John popped open a box of his recently purchased cookies and started munching. After a few mouthfuls, he shrugged his shoulders and set off on foot for home.
     By the time he made it back to the apartment, Jeff had returned from class...and had noticed the mess in the living room. "So, John, what's the deal with the glass on the floor?"
     Instead of answering, John just stared at Jeff's nose.
     "Did you hear me? What's th--"
     "yeah, i. yeah i heard you. are you. a jew?"
     "What?"
     "are you jewish? you have a very... large... nose."
     Conversation became rather tense after this statement. Several bitter exchanges and a few vague threats later, Jeff stomped back to his bedroom and John sat down at his desk, still chuckling to himself. Jeff always had been touchy about his nose.
     Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed the Scotch sitting on his desk. It had sat there quietly all semester, a 21st birthday present from a friend. He had tried it once or twice, disliked it, but kept it on the desk because of the degree of sophistication he felt it added. But now, perhaps... He poured himself a small glass, sipped it carefully. It burned—like the shower but better. He blinked, shook his head like an animal trying to rid itself of a pesky insect. But the insect was inside him. And it needed food.

Truth (Part II)

2009-12-03T09:22:00.000-08:00

     His car was cold. This time he didn't turn the heater on. He rolled the windows down and let the chill burn in his bones, let the air scorch his lungs. The roar of the wind numbed his ears and his mind. Back in his customary parking spot at the apartment complex, he lingered in the car with his hands resting on the wheel, his eyes vaguely staring ahead, the dumb smile still hanging off his face like a "Yes, We're Open" sign at a barber shop. He felt good. But he wanted to feel better.

     The apartment was quiet except for the gentle strains of gangster rap seeping up through the floor from the downstairs neighbor's stereo. John stood in the living room thinking. The remains of the grapefruit glass still lay on the floor like a corpse. Odd. Then he realized he was chewing his fingernails. He never chewed his fingernails. And he was still wearing his book bag, still standing in the center of the room, shivering from the cold, with a heavy book bag. He dropped the book bag on the floor and pulled out his cell phone to make a few calls.
     "Hey, McWaters? Hey, this is John. Yeah. Whatchew doing? Oh not much. Just wondering if you want to get some guys together and play some soccer. Yeah. Out on the practice field? Half an hour? Yeah, I'll be there. Give Robby a call if you can."
     The sounds of a sleepy Jeff stirring in the back bedroom caught John's attention. Jeff and John had shared their apartment for a year and a half. Between them they kept the place moderately clean. Both were moderately successful students with moderate political views majoring in moderately respectable fields (English and Business).
     "Hey, Jeff?"
     "Yeah...?"
     "You want to play some soccer out on the practice field? McWaters and Samson are coming, and they're gonna bring some other guys. Should be pretty sweet."
     Jeff slumped down the hallway and into the room, rubbing his eyes with his right hand while scratching his disheveled hair with the left. "Wait, don’t you have class?”
     “I skipped it.”
     "Oh? What for?"
     “Just needed a change. Had to do something unexpected. A man’s entitled to skip a class once in a while.”
     "Cool. Yeah. I’ve got class at, uh, 11:00, but I can play for a bit. Hold on—I just need a little wake-up shower.” Jeff closed the bathroom door behind him and turned on the shower. His muffled cries drifted into the living room where John was surveying the shards of glass that had once been a cup. Moments later, Jeff emerged, towel-clad and shivering. "Nothing like a good cold shower to get a day jump-started!"

     They had to keep moving to stay warm out on the field. The wind came down across campus like a frozen slap in the face. A couple of trash cans turned over on their sides served as makeshift goals, and due to their diminutive size and the relatively slender skill of the players, the score remained low.
     John was playing hard and well—better than he had played in years. The ball responded to his touches like a well-trained woman. John mulled this metaphor over in his head and decided that it would be best kept to himself, especially since Samantha had shown up. For a girl, she wasn't a bad soccer player. Though she did have a nasty habit of stabbing at the ball when she played defense. But she wasn’t bad.
     A half hour of hard play was enough to take the air out of their lungs. McWaters shouted "Next goal wins!" and everyone agreed, everyone tensed up for the final effort. John got the ball at midfield, dished off a neat pass to Jeff on the wing who managed to juke one defender and send a well-placed cross back into the middle. One lucky touch later the game was over and John was celebrating like a professional, shirt lifted, finger pointing triumphantly at an imaginary crowd...
     This celebratory outburst was quickly followed by a general collapse. Everyone sagged, stretched, shook hands. They gulped down water, collected their things, and scattered.
     "Hey Samantha!"
     "What?"
     "You eaten lunch yet?"
     "No, I haven't..."
     John thought briefly, stared down at his shoes, gathered himself: "Want to grab some burgers or something?"
     "Yeah, sure. I'm pretty nasty though." (she is smiling--that's a good sign).
     "As long as we both stink, it doesn't matter, right?"
     "I guess not..." (Cha-ching, I'm in!)

     Wendy's was busy. Really busy. They had plenty of time to survey the menu before ordering.
     "What are you getting?" asked Samantha.
     "I'm not sure yet...I've always enjoyed trying to piece together a meal from the Super Value Menu. You know, maybe a chili, a burger, some fries, and a water. That's where they make their money, you know, the drinks. Doesn't cost them hardly anything, but they charge a dollar for it, even if you get the meal. It's a racket."
     Samantha smiled and nodded. "I always get a number one."
     "Why on earth would you do a thing like that? that's exactly what they want you to do!"
     "What's wrong with that?"
     "Well, only everything. What they want you to do is obviously the wrong thing to do."
     "Oh?" she said with that sultry tone peculiar to certain members of the female species. John felt himself melting. And he didn't mind. She wasn't that bad-looking at that. And she liked him, or at least he was fairly certain she did.
     "See, when I go to a restaurant, my goal is to eat my money's worth, no matter how bad it hurts."
     "...And you think by buying off the Special Value Menu, you're getting your money's worth?"
     "Well, no, but closer to it than if I bought a number one."
     "Okay then, what should I get?"
     "Fries and a frostie?"
     "No burger?"
     "I would have said a burger but it didn't start with "f" so it messed up the alliteration. There's something special about alliteration, you got to admit. Actually, I'll get yours so there's less confusion..."
     The cashier looked at them expectantly. John turned and with newfound confidence ordered three burgers, a big helping of French fries, two waters, and a frostie. They ate their food like co-conspirators, congratulated themselves on beating the system.
     After the demise of the final fry, John grabbed the trash and led the way to the exit. In the car on the way back to campus they jammed to the Beatles’ legendary white album (a favorite of John's). At the door of Samantha's dormitory, John felt a sudden urge and leaned in expecting a parting gift. Instead, Samantha confronted him a wary look and a hesitation. He nodded and turned to go, waving. She, feeling like she had hurt him by her reticence, tried to force friendliness into her voice as she said "Thanks for lunch, John." Both left feeling uncomfortable.

Truth (Part I)

2009-12-01T11:48:00.000-08:00

The following is Part I of a story tentatively entitled "Truth," which will be published serially here in the next week or so. There will be more parts. And don't worry, it's completely finished already, so you don't have to worry that it will trail off and leave you hanging. Enjoy.

     Sleep scurried away from John at approximately half past four. He groaned his way out of bed and into the kitchen where he fell flat on the dusty floor. By the time his eyes struggled back open, two hours had slipped past and a little puddle of drool had collected by his mouth. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs of his mind, John picked his tired body up off the tiles, poured himself a tall glass of grapefruit juice, and shuffled into the living room. There’s nothing like a bitter-sugary concoction to wake up the cranky nerves in the morning. Presumptuous sunbeams sidled in through the blinds, gaining ground with every passing minute.
     A particularly dazzling western found its way into the DVD player and tickled John's fancy for a few minutes. Westerns had always held a special fascination for him. Something about the tight jeans and leather holsters and alcohol-induced brawls just never failed to entertain. But sadly, after a series of absurd gunfights and some equally absurd dialogue, John lost interest. He rubbed his stubbly near-beard and wondered what had happened to him. Not interested in a western? The world must certainly be on the fast road to destruction…
     When he got up to switch the television off, his grapefruit juice glass tottered and fell onto the hardwood floor: shattered. The sudden crash startled him. Startled him out of himself. He stared curiously at his body and looked into his eyes and tried to ask himself questions but found he had no answers.

     His car was cold. Hunched over against the chill, John blew warm air into his palms and waited for the lazy heater to come rattling to life. When the temperature became bearable, he carefully reversed out of the apartment complex’s parking lot and eased onto Jefferson Street. A light drizzle had hovered over Jackson all night, making the roads slick and shiny. Almost unconsciously he adjusted for the conditions, driving cautiously through the maze of neighborhood streets that cloaked the entrance to his college.
     Fortunately, his customary parking spot had not been taken. He slipped into it with a pleased smile. Ah, routine. A kind mistress, certainly.
     A gentle hubbub of voices greeted him as he entered the student center, stole a quick drink from the water fountain, and made his way to class. As usual, John was the first to arrive. He sat in his desk and pondered the graffiti his predecessors had etched into the wood. Primitive utterances, like paintings on a cave wall: “Fuck school; I love Jaimie; Pierre for President.” Into the blender of his mind went the phrases, and out came something strange and wonderful: “President Fuck, I love school.”
     A few students trickled in, began conversing in loud whispers. It was warm in the class—the unbearable warmth of a dry, overheated building. Couldn’t they open some windows and let the brisk chill in?
     Professor Gentry came in just as the clock struck eight and, after a great deal of paper shuffling and roll calling, began his lecture. The topic of the day was the German invasion of Russia. Who knew that such a wild and intoxicating time of history could be made so boring? Guessing whether or not Dr. Gentry’s glasses would fall from their precarious perch on his nose was the most exciting aspect of the class.
     John doodled and tried to keep himself from falling asleep. The other students were glazed over, tired doll’s faces arranged in lines. Puppets, the whole lot of them. John imagined strings from the ceiling moving their hands and nodding their heads. Meanwhile, the teacher babbled on about casualties and conditions and Communists. At least the class wasn’t hard. That’s about as much as a college student can hope for anyway. “It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t too hard.” A real win-win situation.
     The students began packing up their books at 8:45. By 8:49 the Dr. Gentry got the hint and began wrapping up the lecture with that exasperated tone of an intellectual faced with ungrateful delinquents who don’t give two cents about their own education. No, Mr. Professor, you are wrong. We do care, but we have to be across campus in ten minutes for our next class, otherwise we get points off. Maybe if your system was a little less rigid, or maybe if you actually cared two cents about making your lectures half-interesting…
     John made it to his second class on time. He sat down in the usual seat in the second row—not too close like a teacher’s pet, but not in the back with the athletes and the no-goods. He glanced through the pages of his English Literature book (seventh edition) and realized that he had absolutely no desire to sit in a desk for another hour. And so, at two minutes ‘til nine John suddenly stood up, grabbed his bag, and left the room. Once outside, he breathed deeply, then smiled sheepishly.

2009-11-28T18:46:00.001-08:00

Indians abstract actual countries where 400 million live with electricity. the soul of India has accused middle-class killers of village fatalism. the weak massacre has financed insurgent winter crops.

2009-11-23T14:05:00.000-08:00

Something Is Not Right

   He never stood a chance against my love. Even the instinctual cautious nature of a squirrel could not compete with the superior intellect and insatiable appetite of a middle school boy. Especially a middle school boy with no siblings and truckloads of free time on his hands.
    Perhaps it was the gray fur stretched soft and easy over the slender skeleton, or maybe it was the careful movements of his busy hands. Then again, it could have been his fluffy tail or the way his head bobbed when he was munching acorns. Whatever the case, I wanted him—wanted to touch him and hold him, wanted to suck out his essence and drink the warmth of his being.
    When my parents bought me a break-action pellet rifle, I discovered that I finally had a way to make him feel my love. From a distance I could send him a personal message of love that he could not ignore.
    For weeks I prowled around my backyard with the sleek black rifle slung over my shoulder, peering up into the tops of the pine trees, searching for the miniscule movements of beauty. I soon realized that he could feel my presence, could smell my desire. He made himself scarce. I countered with a new tactic—cutting a rifle-barrel-sized hole in the screen of my bedroom window, I waited patiently for him to wander into my field of vision.
    It was only a matter of time. His search for food eventually brought him back to our front yard, and I was ready for him. I cocked the gun as quietly as possible, carefully slipped up to the window. Through the sights of the rifle, I eyed him for an eternity as he snacked on acorns and cast furtive glances all around. He was nervous. Did he know?   In that pulsing moment of power I feasted on him, relishing the bond that connected us, the bond of the hunter and the hunted, the lover and the loved.
    With a twitch of my trigger finger, I splintered the slender moment. Shocked by the sting of the pellet, he jumped two feet in the air then dashed up a tree while I ran out the front door to follow up my shot. I found him seeking refuge in a twenty year old oak, the same beautiful oak that I had hacked and scarred with my machete earlier that year.
    I aimed and squeezed the trigger—he jumped again, then scampered into a neighboring tree. We continued this elegant dance for nearly half an hour, with me shooting wildly and him scampering desperately from tree to tree.
    Eventually he grew tired of dancing and hunkered down in an abandoned bird’s nest. I sent several pellets whistling up through the intertwined twigs and pine straw. Nothing happened. He didn’t move or poke his head out. He was done. But I was not satisfied. I grabbed a ladder, climbed up as high as I could, and began shaking the top of the tree.
    He popped out of the shelter of the nest, clambered down the tree trunk, and began a halting, diagonal dash toward the edge of the yard, clumsily dragging one of his back legs behind him. My stomach sank. This had gone too far. I grabbed a pick-axe to finish what I had begun.
    Despite his severe wounds, he made it all the way to the base of another tree but couldn’t muster the strength to climb. I aimed carefully and slammed the pick-axe down on his spine, expecting instant annihilation. Instead, he made an odd gurgling sound and kept trying to climb the tree. I slammed the axe down several more times. After every blow, his movements grew slower and slower, until he finally became quite still.
    This, then, was the end of my mad courtship: a crushed body and a sudden, sickening stillness. I sat down in dead leaves and stared at the remains of what had once been beautiful and realized that something was not right.

2009-11-18T17:38:00.000-08:00

Time and time again
I find I cannot win

the fight against myself.
The whiskey on the shelf
beckons to me when I wake,
and by the afternoon I find
my thoughts are lead weights
I am alone with my mind,
paralyzed in between
things seen and unseen.

The noonday devil wins
Time and time again.

2009-11-13T11:20:00.000-08:00

“Poems about a weak pine tree”

I clamber up confident,
Her arms my native habitat,
Rest easy in her embrace.

She is a wild woman, rough
around the edges. I scrape
my skin on her
sandpaper exterior.

Long years of abuse and neglect
take their toll on her slender frame.
She drops me.
I fall six feet down
and land square
on my rump amidst the heap
of my broken dreams.

* * *

He scampers up my side,
Bony hands and tender feet
and lofty imagination.

How can I tell him
that I grow weak?
His weight will prove too much
and I will splinter.

2009-11-09T04:40:00.000-08:00

I beat the sun at his own tricky game
throwing confetti by the light of street lamps
please forgive me, I am so ashamed
but it's so early, can't remember your name

2009-11-06T10:17:00.000-08:00

knick knacks gathered under the stairs--
defenses built against the rabid glare
of an apocalyptic sun on the run
a trick, a tick, an ick(y) sensation
sent as our humble oblation
to things bigger and badder than us

2009-11-05T12:01:00.000-08:00

Good is the new bad.
frozen addictions clink in the fridge
rattling their bones on the bridge
over quiet waters, over lovely daughters
blushing through the prayers of hypocritical mayors

2009-11-03T12:31:00.000-08:00

He came, saw, conquered my couch
Can I crash here? Mind if I bum a smoke?
A wild wind brought him
A wild wind will whisk him away
The only payment I receive-- a joke
scrawled on a napkin; a gentleman's goodbye.

He left under cover of night. My couch is bare
without his furry face poking out
from beneath his authentic Mexican blanket.

2009-10-31T07:40:00.001-07:00

A Morning Run

        My lungs scream for mercy as I dash over the dirt path and lunge into another briar patch. Behind me their calls crescendo. I double back, five feet to the left, and watch them sprinting past, noses to the ground, dripping of slobbery desire.
        They are too close. I leave an easy trail, scented with my fear. Already, I hear them turning—they will fall for no tricks.
        At the end of my strength, I turn to face them in the meadow of my choice. A cataclysm of raucous noise pours out of the forest, a panoply of jaws and teeth and claws and saliva tumbles toward me.
       I see the bold hunter step into the meadow, shotgun raised. Behind, his son stares in disbelief and I am glad that when he eats of my body he will remember.

2009-10-28T09:27:00.000-07:00

kanser uv th sole kuts depe
th hert uv urth make mee wepe

2009-10-22T14:01:00.001-07:00

After a brief apocalypse, Harold found a twisted trumpet in the trash. We made him king (naturally), then threw him off the balcony. As he fell to the pavement below, I heard a mockingbird whistling Dixie.

Trumpets coil like snakes. Like intestines. Kings go splat when they hit the ground. Mockingbirds align themselves with underdogs.

2009-10-15T12:26:00.000-07:00

If life is a riot, I want to be the crazy guy out in front of the main crowd sporting a red bandana and a molotov cocktail. The guy that gets slammed to the ground by the body-armored riot police, the first victim of the tear-gas attack, the one with his hands cuffed, being led to the paddy wagon.

Let me at 'em.

2009-10-14T16:33:00.001-07:00

"Recipe for a Party"

Preparation is key.
You have to be
sure that every
piece you need is close at hand.

Start with a proper place,
decorated if possible.
Throw in a thick batch
of people, fresh and sweet.
Add a late night and a
touch of tipsiness.

2009-10-11T16:38:00.000-07:00

good must die to win

athletics are good for the soul

alcohol is dangerous

mike campbell

selfishness comes in many guises

2009-10-04T14:40:00.001-07:00

1) Today we sacrifice
our beloved mongrel
to the obliteration of deep sleep.
A decade has been ours
to have and to hold
to feed and to scratch.

2) The form politely requests
we pencil in her name.
Beauty Queen Eastman.
We had other names for her:
          Beauty-bop
          Beauty-baker
          Beauty-boppy-baker
          Zimbabwe
Sometimes the least logical
is the most logical of all.
Zimbabwe is what we called her
unless she was being bad.
Then she was Beauuuuuuty.

3) We sit and socialize with other pet
lovers, we who will leave Zimbabwe
here with the white coats and the needles.
The drive back is long. It is quiet.
We roll the windows up, try to imagine
a Beauty-less day.

2009-09-30T05:04:00.000-07:00

The Rise and Fall of a Musician

that Christmas morning
the trunk held a new
guitar, my nervous
hands struck the bright strings
tuneless but joyous

cramped in the practice
studio with him
of the thick fingers
and endless smile
i plucked out a tune

alone on the stage
cradling the stool
like a mother's eyes
while my shaky hands
picked out my own tune

cresting the wave i
played lead in the band
that took the show, my
blood hot i wanted
more i wanted more

now i shuffle down
empty avenues
pluck at memories
there was a time when
tunes were simple joys

2009-09-23T11:44:00.000-07:00

     Drinks are adult security blankets. Any two people can carry on a conversation, provided they both have a drink to sip periodically . Hot or cold, sweet or bitter, alcoholic or not: it doesn’t matter. The key is that a drink gives the nervous adult something to do with at least one hand. No one wants to be caught standing around with nothing in their hands.
     Do I cross my arms? Do I stick my hands in my pockets? Do I hold them relaxed at my side? These questions can be avoided with the purchase of a beverage. With one hand I cradle the bottle/can/cup, with the other I can comb back my hair, scratch my beard, point in various directions, etc…If worst comes to worst, I can hold the drink with both hands, a maneuver that is much easier when sitting.
     To be fair, I must admit that alcoholic beverages have certain peculiar advantages all their own. Besides the tactical advantage, they also have a physiological benefit. After a few drinks, a general loosening up is possible. A happier outlook on existence follows close on the heels of a cold beer. Wine soothes the soul, makes a gathering seem more refined. Scotch warms the body and the soul simultaneously.
     However, along with these bonuses come a whole string of dangers including but not limited to the following: unwanted children, bruises and/or broken bones, sexually transmitted diseases, death, and temporary digestive complications. The possibilities of enhanced conversational opportunities are real, but so are the dangers of excess.
     If you are prone to excess, you should probably stick to the more innocent of beverages. Even water will do, in a pinch. There is something a bit too ordinary about water, but, like I said, it will do. Tea and coffee are both good. They generally last longer than cold or sweet drinks due to their heat and/or their bitterness. That’s the key—longevity. There’s nothing worse than running out of a drink just when the conversation starts to fall apart. Unless of course you use the age old excuse—“I’ll catch you later, I need something else to drink…”

2009-09-17T09:47:00.000-07:00

When the pushes turn ugly
and evil sits snugly
in the front seat of the car.

When the devils in your heart
are tearing you apart
and you don't know where you are

When the light begins to fail
and it's getting hard to tell
if these wounds will leave a scar

Remember the day that the sun turned black
Remember the day the Father turned his back

2009-09-14T05:16:00.000-07:00

A Theft

People often take
my breath away:
a spontaneous smile
from a tired cashier
at a local grocery,
a firm handshake
after a tense discussion,
a moist loaf of banana bread
placed on my desk
by a secret saint.
God only knows
how I resisted planting
a kiss on her lips
as she, working so hard
to keep back the tears,
reached out for an embrace
whispering I will miss you.