I’ve been watching and waiting for these divine moments of transcendence, and I’ve seen some—more than one. I’ve been watching pain roll off the roof like a sinful waterfall I sometimes stand beneath, letting the sound drown out the cacophony of living. I’ve watched the pain fall, and I fell too.

It’s been years since I’ve been innocent and more since I’ve been carefree; the worry clings like barnacles on the blood soaked beams of this forgotten pier. I’ve trusted in too many things and too few people, but still I’ve ended up here.

These walls are like a feast for the stomach of my mind, feeding me by the hand of connection. I push and these walls don’t move. I draw and these margins don’t budge. I’m held by the arms of a faithful friend, even as I long for the death that autonomy can afford.

I’m full of fire, but my heart lacks the oxygen to maintain it. I’m burned enough to hurt, but not enough to live. I’m singed by the smell of a future I won’t breathe, and I’m coughing the embers of a dream I can’t touch. It’s there, but it’s not there.

These fierce undulations of fate are the tremors in my hands and the twitching of my eyes. I can’t do or see without their strange interruptions reminding me that truly I have no control. I’m shaking with fear and I am lost in a city of uncertainty.

The vision remains, even as it roams like a stray dog, floats like a balloon stolen by the wind. It never changes, but it always seems to. It’s there, but I don’t even know its name. Its name can’t be spoken, not yet.

I’m sitting under a tree of forbearance, as it sheds leaves of regret. I sit and I wait as the ground moves beneath my weakened frame, my lungs furious and jumping. I’ve been running for years. God, I’ve been at this a while.

It’s a box; it’s always been a box, but it’s a box without edges or corners, substance or limit. I’m hidden within its brown paper folds, but I’m exposed and delivered. I can’t be moved, but I have never been more so. It takes me away though. Away though.

Somehow the stillness finds me. Somehow the peace of unknowingness rests upon me like a dove. It’s only moments, but I’ve had more than one—more often than I used to. I’m gaining speed even as I wait, even as I catch my breath.

I’m beginning 26. It’s still not yet, but the soon of now will meet me in my present—in the presence. I’m holding fast, even when it feels slow. I’m gripping with the force of eternity, because it’s all I got. It’s all I got.

A wheel moves smooth across a Chinese back

We’ll press the east until the earth is flat

And when it splits his spine will fill the cracks

But, sweet Lord, a letter’s got to fly

A lover’s got to be true to what’s inside

Alone is sin; fear is righteousness

Progress demands a sharpened fist

Old sinner Uncle Sam said,

“Never let a man deny you your rest.”

The train is running west along the tracks

The first to pay the fare, the first to nap

Just floating past the promises and pacts

The steam will stream from nostrils as we laugh

Oh the velvet seats

Like fertile bosoms begging for our cheeks

Oh the frightful sound

Of workers silenced by gin they’re chugging down

Well I know that many men will die

But, God, please tell me that this train is still on time

Light catches the glass but the floor does not. Light will bend but pavement doesn’t pander, doesn’t move, doesn’t lose. What’s the use?

Pink to white and red to life; translucency claws at the curtains of death. The shine belittles the sin, and this glass sounds thin, sounds soft, sounds young. But what song!

Deposition evidences urgency; this pool will spill. The air is changed as it breathes and writhes, as it clings and clutches. The air is changed and so is this glass. Embrace is prophecy, and this glisten will crack, will shake, will shatter. Of which Adam?

The light catches the glass, and this fight is over. This fight is over before it’s begun, and I am undone.

This light. This glass. This life. This crash. This insurmountable, towering hope that obstructs my vision and destroys my hate will rise yet higher, will rise and I will be the puddle at its feet. I will be the triumph of its glorious defeat and I will be the soggy, thankful soil for its seed. I will become poison for the weeds. And I will be still. I will. I will. I will.

The water catches the light.

Water catches the light, and I am caught in its waves. And I am waving, waving, waving away. Away.

Away.

But when you’re an adult, you’re expected to hurt people. It’s not always because you called them a bad name or pushed them down when they tried to take your toy. Now everything hurts people. Even words that aren’t bad hurt people. Even when you are trying to do something good you hurt people. Because when it all falls apart that’s what you’re left with: hurt. Even when the one thing that you want most is not to hurt anyone, you hurt people.

You know there is something good, but you’re not feeling it right now. Right now all you are feeling is bad and all she is feeling is hurt. But maybe you’ll both see that healing comes through hurt and maybe even decisions that hurt can be good decisions. And maybe one day you won’t be so much of a kid. Maybe one day hurting won’t hurt quite so much. Maybe.

-

Air is expansive: oxygen diffuse. The vapor hates the volume; veins hate the silence. I hate this.

Increase is decrease. The blood is starved. The brain is swell.

-

Memory is compromised; thought reverent. The click/snap/bang fire is dry; besotted gutters are overfull. I am that.

Increase is decrease. The blood is starved. The brain is swell.

-

Skin is blue: heart hot. The fire is localized; surface is foreign. I to here.

Increase is decrease. The blood is starved. The brain is swell.

-

Light is flickering: dream insistent. The rebel frame falls; sleep-stander uprise. I will out.

Increase is decrease. The blood is starved. The brain is swell.

-

Fit is spectacular: peace unnecessary. The tremors war in confidence; breaks softly abide. I in soon.

-

Increase is decrease.

-

Nine until few.

Next until new.

Grieve.

-

The blood is starved.

-

Hope until know.

Hold until home.

Need.

-

The brain is swell: the brain is well.

-

Breathe.

-

I’ve still got some fight in me; I’ve still got some fight.

The print is sacred by attribution. It is prematurely aged and over-read—fingerprinted and coffee stained. Better left forgotten and stacked; it was no match for the scrutiny, for the mythology.

I’ve still got some fight in me; I’ve still got some fight.

The letters move beyond the stationary, beyond the pulp. The envelope burns with a postmark retroactively applied—imaginarily revised. The sweet smudge of forgetfulness is tragically denied by every indelible stroke. But will not the mourning soon follow?

I’ve still got some fight in me; I’ve still got some fight.

The syntax of prayer becomes the slang of pavement; meter becomes monotonous; punctuation becomes period; sigh become silence; open becomes closed. Greeting becomes farewell. And, well, farewell becomes you.

“You.”

Postscript postmortem: Is this what you learned? Is the right to write too long never wrong? Will the Author correct, or will author decide? What grammar determines this end—what verb this tense? Who will open this book? Who? And when?

I want to got some fight in me; I want to got some fight. Fight.

But, ah, blank; blank, my child; blank as love; blank as we. Blank.

I’m shopping because I need to get some clothes. While I’m picking up a pair of pants and a shirt or two, I stumble across a jacket on the clearance rack. I’m instantly kind of drawn to the thing. It’s reduced to about 1/6 of it’s original price, but it’s still more than I would normally pay for a single article of clothing. I deliberate for quite a while. I try it on, taking it on and off several times, but eventually I decide to go ahead and get it. I take it home, but I leave the price tag on a few days in case I decide to return it. I don’t.

I wear the jacket quite a bit over the next few months, and am generally pleased and proud of my purchase. It seems like I’m going to get my money’s worth, and I become increasingly fond of the thing.

Eventually the New Year rolls around and I go to a relative’s birthday party. I wear the jacket. The shindig is at her church. It’s quite a cold night outside, but it’s an indoor event and my sweater/jacket combo is unnecessary inside. At some point, I take off the jacket and set it on a stack of chairs. Things eventually wind down, and I leave the party, and I go home—without my jacket.

I spend the next couple of weeks trying to get in touch with cousins and aunts and whomever, trying to figure out what happened to the jacket. Eventually a search is made. The lost and found at the church is checked. The jacket doesn’t turn up, and I’m told that someone probably took it. I’m a little sad, and probably a lot more frustrated with the situation than I should be. This frustration is partially directed at whoever took it, but more with my own carelessness and the nagging doubt that maybe I should not have purchased the thing to begin with.

A few weeks go by. I’m looking around for another one of my jackets. I can’t find it. I had just finally given up hope of finding the other, and now this one is gone too. I become increasingly frustrated, and the whole thing becomes a big compounded mess.

Later that day I am talking to one of my homeless friends. She has been telling me that she wants to make a documentary about being on the streets and she had enlisted me to help her. She has been attending my church and had seen some presentations and other things I had put together, and feels like I am supposed to help her. Anyway, she has this footage that she took with her little point-and-shoot digital camera. She asks me if I will take a look at it. I tell her I will. She hands me a flash drive and tells me I need to get it back to her later that day. She makes sure I have her number and then I depart.

I go home—still anxious about the stuff with the jackets and some other things I’m going through. I sit down on the couch, pull out the ol’ laptop, and plug the drive into the USB port. There are probably 20 video clips and I double click the first one.

I’m slowly go through each video. Some of them are more interesting than others, and I get a small glimpse of this woman’s life. I get to hear a piece of her story and how she ended up living on the streets. Mostly it’s just interesting. But the deeper I get into the things, the more it starts affecting me. Eventually I load up a video that just kind of breaks me.

As best as I can remember, this is what’s on it. It’s this friend of mine, and a couple of other homeless folks that I had met briefly, and they are walking in the woods. They find this other homeless man who is lying on the ground under a tarp. It’s winter and it’s been really cold. It’s been getting below freezing at night and this man has little to cover himself with but this old blue tarp. They attempt to rouse him, but initially he is unresponsive. Eventually they get him up and get him to drink some water, and eventually eat a banana. He starts to become a little more alert, but still seems pretty out of it.

One of the guys pulls the jacket off his back and hands it to the man. The woman tells the tarp guy that this is his good jacket. They help him put the jacket on and they put another pair of gloves on his hands. They pray with him, and then eventually they leave. They come back another day to check on him, and the change is drastic. The man is by no means vibrant, but he no longer looks half dead. And, of course, he’s wearing his new jacket.

I call my friend and tell her I watched the videos, and I ask how I should get them back to her. She pauses, confers with someone, and says, “We want you to see our campsite.” I ask her how to get there. She passes the phone to a man and he gives me directions. I jump in the car and head out. While I am on the way, she calls me back and asks me if I can buy some coffee. I ask what kind and say that I would be happy to. As I say this, my mind is playing back another one of the videos in my head in which they empty out a can of peas, fill it with water, and place it in the fire to heat up water to make coffee.

I take a quick detour to the store, buy the coffee and I get back on the road. I’m heading to the place I was told was near the campsite. I get there. I park my car. I get out. I call her back, and she tells me that this guy is going to come and meet me and take me back. So I’m standing around and eventually this figure emerges from the woods. He seems like a genial fellow. We greet, and he beckons me to follow him into the forest.

I get to the camp. My friend welcomes me. I give her the coffee and she asks me to sit down. She offers me a bottle of water, and I accept—not wanting to refuse their hospitality. We sit for a moment, but then she wants to give me a tour. We go into the tent. She shows me how everything is organized and how she prides herself in keeping things tidy.

We go back outside and we sit down. She says she wants some coffee. They now have a proper fire, with some type of metal mesh stretched across cinder blocks. They even have a pot they can put the water in. When the water heats up she asks me if I want some coffee. I decline and tell her I’m happy with the water.

We sit and we talk for a while. She tells me how it is only the two of them living at the campsite. They tell me how the bigger campsites aren’t safe. It’s hard to steer clear of the druggies and the crazies. They’ve had some scary encounters and try to keep things secret. They say I’m only the third person they’ve shown their camp to.

As conversation proceeds, they begin telling me about their vision. They want to start a ministry to the homeless. They want to really get into people’s lives and help them, because they know what homeless people need. I’m moved greatly and am sometimes on the verge of tears as I listen to their passionate plans. They ask if I would be willing to help them, at least help them make this documentary. I tell them that I would like to help in any way that I could.

After an hour or so, I tell them that I have to go. They say they understand. We start saying our goodbyes and somebody—I don’t remember who—asks if we can pray. We make a small circle, hold hands, and I pray for them.

I start leaving, but the man wants to walk me out. He wants to make sure I know how to get out. When we reach the edge of the trees, he shows me the marker they have in place, so that I know how to get there again if I need to. The two of us say goodbye again and I head out. I drive home humbled and moved but excited.

Another week goes by and I’m at my church. Someone had misplaced something and so we are looking in the lost and found. My friend who is also there says, “Isn’t this your jacket?” I look at it and see that it is. It’s the second jacket I had lost. I gratefully take it and thank her. Then I look over and notice that there is another jacket of mine in the closet, one I had used for a costume in a skit some months before. It’s an atrocious green plaid jacket I had purchased for irony’s sake. I pick up both of the jackets and exit the closet. I go home with two jackets—only one of which I had really been missing. But I go home with two jackets all the same.

Why am I telling you all this? All I can say is that this thing changed me. I still don’t know what to do with the whole experience, but I won’t let it be wasted on me. I’m thinking. I’m praying. I’m moving.

And we’ll just have to wait and see.

“If you have two coats, give one away,” he said. “Do the same with your food.” -Jesus, The Gospel of Luke

I must be careful—careful with the cuts. The stars in the negative space are like the bared teeth of a wild dog—a wild man. Jealous and shiny with vengeance, they shake. The impulse must not cross the gap; the synapse must be stifled. The arms must be managed, and their hugs dismembered

Out of earshot and under the limbs: she is the infidelity of silence and the whore of slumber.

I furrow the brow and tilt the head. I create a door within a door—too small to be entered. The trunk of the spine writhes with information, but is yet uninformed. The missing piece is the war it knows not of. The happy counsel leads not home; the fife pierces not the patriot. I am won.

Roots will mingle/tangle/tremble: she is blanketed by shame/warmed by indifference/denied by friend/stripped with kindness/killed in light.

I crumble beneath the weight of my new name. The syntax of law-hands dangles its shackles like savior bracelets, and I lust for its confident smile. Fear is the mud on my feet and the blood in my throat. The jump-reach-touch of three-two-one explodes in foliage of kisses, and I am broke-heart-new. In fire the dead burns brightest, and my tongue is blazing.

“Suffer well, child, and suffer soon.”

Amen.

A little more faith and a lot less cash

A little less cheese and a lot more wine

Let’s drink all the time

-

A little less life and a little more death

A little more grace and a lot less test

A little less now and a lot more soon

Let’s wait till we’re new

-

Sell your dignity for a string around your neck and a bauble for your wrist

Tell the inquisition why you never slept but you eventually found rest

Sing the glories of a life destroyed by the best

-

A little less win and a little more lose

A little more joy and a lot less screwed

A little less break and a lot more fix

Let’s all jump the fence

-

A little less nice and a little more real

A little more full on a lot less meals

A little less think and a lot more touch

Let’s go do the stuff

-

Sell your dignity for a string around your neck and a bauble for your wrist

Tell the inquisition why you never slept but you eventually found rest

Sing the glories of a life destroyed by the best

-

Would you dig it up if it broke you?

Would you sell yourself?

Would your drink the blood if it filled you?

Would you kill yourself?

-

A little less me and a little more you

A little more one and a lot less two

A little less fate and a lot more choice

Let’s all make some noise

Every day’s the same when you’re dying

Every road is wet when you’re crying

The soggy decomposes the bread

The soggy decomposes the bread

-

I want to reach up; I want to reach up

Reach up and touch the sky

I want to look down on this stupid town

And kiss it all goodbye

-

Every bite you take leaves you empty

Every bite you take leaves you empty

Every check you write steals your pity

The gaudy displaces the bread

The gaudy displaces the bread

-

I want to reach up; I want to reach up

Reach up and touch the sky

I want to look down on this stupid town

And kiss it all goodbye

-

Every gun you shoot makes you safer

Every gun you shoot makes you safer

Every child dead is a stranger

The naughty disposes the bread

The naughty disposes the bread

-

I want to reach up; I want to reach up

Reach up and touch the sky

I want to look down on this stupid town

And kiss it all goodbye

-

Every day is new when you’re living

Every day is new when you’re living

Every face is God when you’re giving

The body composes the bread

The body composes the bread

-

I want to reach up; I want to reach up

Reach up and touch the sky

I want to reach back to the stubborn saps

And take them for a ride

-

I want to touch the sky; to feel like I

Have God’s hands, to make my plans real

-

We all die once; we all die once

We all die once at least

Some die more, and some die for

A battle and some for peace

-

We all have heard; we all have heard

We all have heard the blast

Some have read that some are fed

To birds that chew the fat

-

But him who hears and listens well

He rises from the ash

He rises from the ash

He rises from the ash