People I've Met (1)

Amber I met in Portland. She was Madonna. Our first time to hang out we walked for miles through the streets of the SouthEast district. She told me she really wanted kids and she tried to adopt when she was 18. She never finished high school. It wasn't for her. She never enjoyed it. She comes and goes to places but never stays too long a time. She had a smile to warm God to tears. It was pure. It was beautiful. It was holy. She was quiet, shy, intelligent. We cooked together. We made some sort of spaghetti then watched a movie. I don't remember what. I wanted to hold her but didn't want to at the same time. And I didn't. Neither of us "made a move." We were content in the company of something special. Holy. She is holy. She was small. Her hair was long, past her shoulders, and dark. She was Mexican. She had no accent. She had thin yet full lips that spread to dimples when she smiled. Her eyes were always honest and pure in light brown holiness. One day, while walking down Hawthorne, we stopped in Pastaworks, the Italian market, and bought cheese and bread and sat against the side wall of the supermarket up the road. We ate as if in holy communion. It was. We smiled holy. We laughed holy. We shared holy. We sat in holy silence. She was beautiful in looks, life, and spirit. I left her without saying goodbye. I believe she understands because every word we shared was honest.

Learn

High nose, furrowed brow passed a man crouched on the corner - clothes-drive rags - he shivers, change clanks the sides of his can, not for attention, but a jittery cold hand and the self-proclaimed Christian in pea-coat over Versaci suit continues.

Not all Christians are this way, but too many. And they faction themselves apart as Catholic, Protestant, and so on, over a thousand times, and don't see love for love and think martyrdom is ultimate love, but you can't do much when dead; Jesus' deeds are his greatest lesson.

Hightened and Enlightened

Check the news like it's a Muslim prayer schedule only to find your heart starts racing, your hopes rise, frustration abounds, and you're no nearer the headlines tomorrow that read:

None of This Matters - God Beyond Politics

"This is uh huh-storic day."

Events of the day are recorded, the day is ignored.

The headlines roar through rollers spinning the pages quicker to create demand for faster news, not better:

Truth Beyond What We Print

Weathermen watch numbers. The wind brings cold air south, but the seeds she carries are said:

Winds of CHANGE with Obama

The seasons are forgotten unless it's baseball, football, or political and Christmas is become the elections, that begin earlier each year, grow brighter each year, increase grander each year and people cheer:

Red! White! Blue!

And the papers keep rolling black ink over tree pulp pages, and people pick up the one that fits their views, like doctrine, and all any of it reads:

These Are Untruths

But it must come to some that news is not so blatant. Hands pass cash under fine table tops proudly hoisting brandy and cigars. Hark! The herald papers roll:

Red, Blue - Each Fade to White

And the bus disappears around a crumbling office, the sidewalks crack by the mighty, rumbling seedling, the papers compost for tree roots, binary evaporates, and words claim:

Of Many Gods, One Truth