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

My greatest flaw - discontent - My greatest value

A Few Days of Thought

It took him forty days, forty nights. In hot desert sin, his heart was warm, his body cold - his feet were bare. Dust storms came and midnight freezes and the serpent found many shapes of sinful comforts, but the vagrant's heart kept warm.

Artists try to allude to something with metaphors and analogies that have become so abstract that the point becomes elusive; like trying to pick up oil with bare hands. The greatest writers had the right words to put to life rather than illusions evading understanding. It's as if artists anymore haven't the words to explain a situation in its purist whole, so they create concepts upon concepts that miss the idea and lead to utter confusion.

Last night the Muse beckoned. Reluctant at first, I heeded her call. It came in a dream I decided to write down. As always I missed the details and could only recall generally what happened. Is there a way to recognize a dream, wake to write it, and, while writing, fall back into the dream? (I think they simply call this Creativity.)

I've found, the safest refuge is closed eyes,

next, a beard,

or placing chin in palm and biting the pinky nail.

You can hide behind drama or comedy

or face it all sans facade;

or bury yourself in a veil,

try not to reveal your fears... (so on...) (working on it)

I've come to realize, noone slithers in the desert.

Cars pass, crackling rocks,

elbows knock door jams,

fists pound coffee,

chirps cackle through cellphones,

heels clack pavement;

but the spider trickles,

subtle,

onto your neck,

through your collar,

down your back,

like fingernails.

God

A saved heart is one that goes from dark to dawn, but in what mathematics? Christian, Muslim, Judaism will all be dead. They'll have killed each other, and those who knew God will have survived. No victim of orthodox will perish, but shower in autumn leaves, surf along the mossy floor of forests, count the pebbles stuck in the sand, ignore the footsteps ahead or behind. They will be in what happens to them, and each individual will be the network of strings connecting to capture God, who wants to be captured, but not in doctrine, but a connectedness that supercedes words, physicality, and the material.

This is whateva

Whateva! I'm Brian and I do whateva. I sing and dance and fly on occasion, but mostly, I don't. But I can and you, be jealous. When I dance I sing, but I don't always dance when I sing. Sometimes I like to spread peanut butter on a bagel and put it in a toaster oven, or, put a bagel in a toaster, pop it up, then put peanut butter on it. I don't eat it, just throw it outside. I love wine, and, by love, I mean I adore it. I drink it often and much at a time. I get drunk a lot because of this give and take love-fest. Wine gives me flavor and I take the drunk. I give wine a home and it takes no time at all to get me drunk. I think we should launch hugs across borders. I believe in God. Maybe I believe in your God, but, I don't think God is yours. You are God's. So I should say, instead, I may believe in the God in which you believe. I don't like religion. I enjoy spirituality. I enjoy thought. I write often though this may be no good testament to the frequency I put down words. Whateva. I have an affinity for the road. I have a passion for Portland. I find what so many claim to be "reality" cumbersome. I strive for an existence not as mundane as those in the "real world." You may know what I'm talking about. If not, whateva. (to be continued)