The Rush of the Sucker River

My substance is such
That I cannot bear much
Save this short summer rush,
Save this reach down and touch.
Found no worse for the wear,
Though no better; no care.
Cost, the fear of my fare:
Lost, the deer slipping snare.
My new sister and friend,
Forgive, untake my hand.
Let's start walking again
Lest our talking should end.

Wurlitzer

I knew you well inside this house, and you allowed it all. You bore my foibles with grinning patience, and that grin, well, I tickled it.

I'll play a strange song today as we set out for our stroll. What do you know, the wind is joining right in, and the fog, too. The men on the rooftops are keeping time with their hammers. The girl with a bicycle is doing a dance. The man and his damn dog are writing their review, scathing and unamused. No one will read it.

They'll all just watch and try to discern. "Uprights for joyrides? Well, I never." Yet by we pass, me holding you up around corners, while you hold the note. Somehow, we're both succeeding, knowing each others' limits but not letting on to a single soul.

We'll likely never stroll these streets again, but... no, not now. Let's not know that right now. Let's make like it's old hat, this promenade. Here, how about that old tune, the one about old what's-her-face, in the good old key of E. A one and a two and a one two three -- red light. Driver, take a left.

Take us someplace nice, someplace with a story. Take us to the hideout of some old rum-running, moon-shining sonvabitch. Some forgotten piece of unimportant history.

Prop the doors for us, now, as we waltz in and clumsily amble down the narrow stairway. I know, Friend, that your legs aren't what they used to be. It's okay, we made it. Just rest here a while.

Single Take

This body of mine... I've only seen this thing through a glass dimly. Or on a screen, two-dimensionally. I've never, nor will I ever, have experienced it live, unfiltered, unpixelated, unprocessed.

You have, though. Sometimes you smile because you know I'm inside. I like that. Sometimes you don't. I understand that.

When you don't, is it because you can read as I do? Are you fluent in the language of surgical steel and yellow-ridged craniums? Can you make out the dichotomous standstill? Do they betray my secret struggle? They must.

Alright, then. I'll admit it. I don't know if I'm ready to put away childish things just yet. At times I come close, but stop short, asking, "Will I miss them when I only see them in pictures?"

Can you discern by these fingernails that I'm a worrier, like my mother? These nails have never seen what lies atop the fabled hill. They're confined to their little window, quarantined and allowed no further.

This mock-stubble, can you see it? (Step closer.) The clutter of my mind makes it hard to see the to-do list hanging on the back wall. Two or three weeks ago now I wrote "buy new razors" on that list.

I suppose you see right through these crooked spectacles, too? Okay, yes, like I said, I have a hard time keeping up with the detailed demands of daily life, so if I can pick them up, put the lens back in, bend the frame back into submission, then I can go another day yet without dooming them to the list. Task averted.

See how my left wrist doesn't tell me the time anymore? It just let's me go on and on until I happen by a clock and hear it say that I've lost the luxury of a leisurely pace. I can hear it now.

An abrupt end... unintentional, but fitting I suppose.

Untitled

I shaved my head today. I shaved my beard today. I shaved off my sense of distance and isolation right down to the skin and let the grief come flooding in.

My friend is having brain surgery today. I will not talk about it on Facebook. I will not throw salvo's of meaningless religious language into that void. I will shave my head and keep my belly empty and hungry.

Run down the hall screaming and crying. That's the sane thing to do. Throw your finger into the Master's face and say "If you would have been here my brother wouldn't have died." The Master calls you blessed for outbursts like that. Then the Master asks where they have put the victim, and then the Master weeps.

I love Woman

I love woman, it is her work that I love,
Her hands always toiling, her mind
dwelling just above and to the left.
The fruit turn color and ripen,
even as they sway and dangle.

Can you see her bent over in her garden?
I adore woman, no weed is left unconquered,
and her children will surely rise up
out of the ground and call her blessed,
her fingers full of dirt and moist earth.

Delicious shadows, even without my eyes
I see her sliding and moving.
She is fluid, and I drink woman in.
I take up the goblet like a drunkard,
my fingers full of hair and skin and mystery.

Shall we pour out this time upon the ground?
Will I hear your words AND their meaning?
My roots and tendrils are exposed. Safe.
I love person, person is extravagant, complete
I am fascinated and married to her.

Snacking

Oh God, I despise my impatient lips!
I hate my gluttonous tongue!
I grow fat on fantasies,
On sweet morsels made of sugar and lard.
It is not even time for dinner
And yet I cannot bear another bite!
What when the meal is served?
When I no longer need to sneak sweets
Behind her back
As though I doubt she is preparing any meal at all?
When the meat is laid out in front of me,
The scent of its wafting steam storming my olfactory?
"No, thank you. I couldn't."
Teeth already rotted out.
Diabetes begging for a sweeter course.
I snack all day.
I fill my mouth to slake the pangs of boredom.
I munch.
Devour.
I shovel it in because I cannot bear patiently
The mystery growling through my guts.
With each grumble of my appetite's greed
I respond with spoon and fork,
With happy meals,
With processed, heat-lamped products
Smothered in cheap cheese
And plastic condiments.
Gritty and crunchy.
Charred edges.
Frozen centers.
I've lost my appetite
As I wait for the dinner bell to toll.

Snapshots from my silly youth

I saw a bunch of people from high school this past weekend. Seeing them brought back a whole bunch of memories. I was pleasantly surprised that the guilt of my youth didn't all come roaring back with each memory. The redeeming power of a relationship with Jesus in action.

Here are some of the memories. Snapshots from my silly youth.

I saw Jessica Schaetzke and I remembered this: The spring after my sophomore year, Jessica and I and about 30 others went on a choir trip to Europe--Germany, Czech Republic, and Poland. Our tour was two weeks long and we sang a concert, with songs like Tanguendo and Prayer of the Children in them, every day, and one day two. We sang in churches much older than any in the US. I remember they each had stunning stain glass windows--must have taken years and years just to create and build them. In one church in Ulm we climbed over 700 steps to the top of the church steeple. We saw so many castles they almost became indistinct. We toured Auschwitz and Birkenau, sang a song at the shooting wall, and held each other and wept. I remember all I wanted at that moment was family, and I grabbed my sister Anna and we found some solace from the incredible sorrow of that place.

And every night Brian, Jeff, Zack and I would go to the local discos and bars. I had my first beer in Germany. I bought my first fifth of vodka in Prague. I almost passed out on a park bench in Heidlburg. I survived the most insane taxi ride--imagine tiny, tight little European roads, traveled at ridiculously stupid high speeds, and me and Jeff in the back seat literally hanging on for dear life. Granted we were drunk--so it was probably not nearly as bad as we thought it was. I remember the chaperone parents buying us drinks--this of course struck me as incredibly ironic, but I didn't turn down their offers. I recalled some of these memories with Jessica, and she was surprised to hear that I did any of this--I was a pretty straight-laced kid. I remember I felt horribly bad that Sparky had to sit out the last concert because he had a glass of wine with the host family--he was punished for the sins of the rest of us party-ers.

I saw Dave Luchsinger and I remembered this: We wore sparkly vests in Pops Choir in Jr. High. He always did an excellent John Wayne impersonation in math class. He wanted to become a policeman. And he did.

Neither of us were sure what to think of the other growing up. I think we wanted to be friends but there were elements of each of our character that rubbed against each other in an aggravating way. He was carefree, had no problem talking to girls, and I was a hard-nosed, self-righteous goober...who wished he could talk to girls. I think we settled all that this past weekend. If given the opportunity, I would choose to spend much more time getting to know Dave. Turns out we share a love for Mumford & Sons--so we can't not be friends.

I saw John Wiger and remembered this: In seventh grade I was the new kid in school. Heck, I was the new kid in school with the weird name who had just come from being home-schooled. Recipe for social suicide. Which I committed numerous times. Randomly around the end of the year things started looking up though. I had made a friend (Greg--whose wedding we were all celebrating this past weekend), I was learning to shut my big mouth and therefore I hadn't gotten beaten up in a few weeks.

This was the year I would discover my love of theatre. It all started when I got recruited to help on the set crew for that year's musical, The Wizard of Oz. Yeah, you heard right...set crew. I wore all black. I moved with lightning speed. I made no sound. And I moved sets between scenes. This is where I met John. He was a Sr. Higher. But he got recruited to move sets too. Oddly enough some of the theatre girls started taking notice of me--I think it was all the black, which is probably why I still wear so much of it. Anyway--my lasting memory of John was this. He saw these jr. high drama queens (on many levels) trying to talk to me and he surmised this...he said, "Asa, you're the shiz."

I don't know what that is, but I think it's good.