Pretending to Know

 Pretending to Know

“For with whatever standard you judge, you will be judged, and with whatever measure you measure, it will be measured to you.” Matthew 7:2)

1.

Everyone thought they knew him,
everyone pretended to know his motivations.
What they could not imagine was the way
he sat on the edges of darkness because no one
listened to the way he waved his hand, hoping for a ride.

He could have walked, but more eyes would see him.
He could have avoided it all by staying at home.
He didn’t like walking though, it reminded him too much
of all the falls he had taken. Cross-examined based
on supposition and opaque opinions
he kept his head low and voice quiet.
He missed a number of friends he felt he
no longer reserved. He didn’t make new ones
not knowing what they knew or what they assumed.
True, his sins were worse than he admitted. But based
on past experience he didn’t trust the precarious stares
of those who did not know him.

So he kept his distance and tried to write away the fears.
He used to laugh at dinner with friends; he used to hear
the fascinating songs they played. He used to be content
for half the day, but now he either naps or seeks stimuli
to ease the pain.

It’s not that he is innocent, but the sentence imposed
kept him bound and on the edges where no one could find him.
He hoped he could slip the knots that dug into his wrists,
and the endless thoughts that would never die. He did not
want to become
one of them. He wanted transformation and less preoccupation
with the way the road bent miles ago, with the way
the miles ended ages ago.

    2.

You may have discerned that the He is Me, and I’ve
wandered around trauma without processing it well.
You may conclude that my writing plays a major part in
rearranging the damage done along the road. I never
withheld forgiveness, never denied my wrongs, but the
stings still stung and the silence still stabbed my aching soul.

                                        3.

Would you believe him if he told you he was once sought after,
and that he was frightened of climbing hanging roofs? Would you
blame him for going so silent when once he was sought after to
speak to a crowd or two? Would you understand that there are still
days when contentment feels like a distant cousin? Would you look
out for him if you knew he was coming to town? Would you buy
him a drink just because you spotted him at the bar?

                                        4.

It’s getting better over time, but it seems some of my talents have
slipped by without taking time to rhyme.

I thought I saw you yesterday, having lunch in a Mexican restaurant.
We hadn’t talked in ages and I was sure it was you. I don’t thing you
saw me, or maybe didn’t recognize me. But feeling the need for protection
I stay in my seat, nursed my beer, and read my book on Universalism.

If it happens again, I promise I’ll come to your table and give us both
a laugh. Until then, thanks for listening. Until then, I’ll find the river
road warm, and talk to the ducks eating their lunch.

Like Rustic Bread

Like Rustic Bread

(“But he said to them, ‘You give them to eat.‘” Luke 9:13a)

Remember when we used to meet for lunch;
Denny’s, Round Table or the shop on Monument Boulevard
with 50 kinds of hamburgers? Meals were
our sacrament.

Remember the pizzas we ate hurriedly halfway through
dress rehearsals? We never thought
two dollars
could go so far.

Remember picnics in the shade and
the dogs misbehaving while we protected the
potato salad
from ants on the ground and the sun in the sky?

Remember the bottle of Almaden when we
could afford it? Otherwise, it was Boone’s Farm.
With the stream singing in the ravine
the birds harmonized in the tree above our
makeshift eucharist.

These days I am shy about
dinner invitations. I am less sure.
Conversation is pizzicato in my trembling fingers.
Blood rushes to my face
belying the uncertainty of gravity.

Do you remember sitting in grand circles
waiting for all the relatives to arrive at the
memorial? It was January and the roads were
frictionless. The friends of the departed
did not mind the extra time.
The food never stopped, and our laps were
precariously full in
the great hall
where coffee was poured all night.

I would give anything to be
brave enough again
to break off part of my heart
like rustic bread
and entrust it into your hands.

After Lunch

After Lunch

(“Then he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.’” Luke 8:48)

He had just finished lunch and his hands
were still greasy;
he needed to wash them before touching anything.
He wasn’t sure where the pain would take him,
it had struck him nearly dead the day before.
He wasn’t sure what friends would believe him,
or if they would talk about their aches too.
Or would they leave him thinking every word was
another complaint from a faithless mind?

It struck him, a mallet to the head, that so many who
once loved his words,
now barely heard what he had been saying
for years. Certainly, since they could not see,
the invisible pain must be a cry for attention.
(or at least something he should become strong for,
should overcome for the sake of those who walked past
him in phases like the moon who heard the same tune
and nothing new.)

He washed his hands with dishwasher Dawn
And cut the grease, deleted the germs and viruses
just in case someone might hug him back into the world.

Some even asked him, face to face, why his prayers
were not answered or
why he felt God fell silent
when he inquired as to causes and sources.
There must be a reason for the secreted decade
of pain.

Just the same, he wondered too, but with more passion
than suspicion. Just in case, he took to asking, in the
fashion of the day,
what the the definition of love was
among those who stayed away. 

A trace of mustard remained between his fingers;
he noticed the spicy notes as he scratched his nose.
He wanted to spill the beans, empty his heart of everything,
but there was no one nearby who would do the same,
and he feared losing his sanity over silences that remained
when he asked the rest of his friends why God had not
answered them.

But someone saw, the decade of bleeding, someone obscured
by humanity’s crush, someone surrounded by heaven’s attendants,
someone, it seemed, just like us.

He braved the cloud of unknowing, reached past the murky air
into the other world that crams this world complete. He found,
still with pain unabated, someone who knew before
he was known. His hand still stained, he moved in closer,
and remained until he was finally noticed. And then

He withdrew

still laid flat by the relentless plague; still chased by the
the unshakeable isolation of the unclean issue of nerves
he had spent a fortune to heal.

If anyone had seen him reach beyond the veil,
then saw him the next day, and a month after that,
they would swear he had failed, and knock less often
at the door of his heartache.

But there were moments, shorter than lightning, when
he knew
there was less wrong and righting than this world knows,
and only love that heals whos and whys and those
who wait uncurled for the new kingdom,
the new world,
the--your will on earth as in heaven world--

World without end, amen.

A Mumbled Lunch

A Mumbled Lunch

(“Then he prepared an inner sanctuary within the house in order to place there the ark of the covenant of the Lord.” 1 Kings 6:19)

They turned the dial and hoped it would stem the tide,
Instead they found the show was over, and cried
when the jokers turned around, and joined the clowns who frowned
at the way the whole operation went down.

The prophets and politicians raised their hopes and expectations
with fire and ice, avalanche and imprecise references to
the Day of the Lord, Armageddon, or the Flaming Horse of Red,
or the poet without his hat on. They all missed the boat,
and never bothered to vote upon the gentle waters of northern lakes.

They faked the news, and made up more,
They repay the rich for every endorsement,
While the guests and the poor suffer strict enforcement
of every line in the book,
every book, line and baited, still dangling
from the fisherman’s hand, still tangling.
No one waited to see if
the fish were jumping. The stumps were free
but the stamps prevented the letter from arriving.

I’ve seen you smile like a Christian lad in church,
and follow it, hollow and shallow, with a mumbled lunch
of sandwiches, sandals, and offers to identify the demons
behind the scandals that only happened
once the newspapers lost their business.

Leave the old man neatly dead. I mean fully rotted,
breathless, pulseless and abrupt.
The new wardrobe fits better instead. I mean fully hand-sewn,
tailored, perfect and ageless.

The dial will not fit your hand, the tide will ebb and flow
as it did yesterday, last week, last month, a century ago.
So when you raise your voice, raise it loud; be certain
(oh proud and curtained breath), that all you know
is less than all that is.

Since we must take the taxi (we called ahead)
let us share the seat, spare the chatter and,
turn by turn, ask the driver what is the matter,
and why the widespread gossip has
pulled our planet so far from its orbit.