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Posted: Tue Mar 20, 2007 7:22 pm
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Posted: Tue Mar 20, 2007 7:24 pm
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Posted: Tue Mar 20, 2007 7:25 pm
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Posted: Tue Mar 20, 2007 7:26 pm
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“Penny for your Thoughts”
Playing with the prose-poem
I brought you here to this railroad yard because I want to tell you something,
I know this place ain’t much, but if you stand just here, yes there, and look up– see?– you can see the stars for miles and all the little ones too that you never get to see,
unless you’re out camping, but you can see them here, it’s so lovely– oh yes, that’s right, what I wanted to tell you, don’t worry, I’m getting to that,
but come along here, along beside me dear, now follow the tracks, do you know who laid these? I don’t know either, but it sure must have been a lot of work,
look closer now, see the pins holding the rail to the wood, look how these ones are coming up, how these beams are rotting beneath the track, imagine the weight they must have to bear,
can you believe how many tons?– now now, be patient with me, remember we have all night, I’ll tell you, don’t worry, but c’mon let me show you these old boxcars,
look at their tattooed sides, layered with spray paint and lead, do you see? get closer, come here, from this angle– now do you see the color?
how many youth do you think stood here like us now and made their mark on these old cars, like dogs marking their territory?– no, I haven’t forgotten, I just wanted to share,
walk around to the back, see these old couplers? meaty hooks like on those boys in the bar arm-wrestling, but just think how many tournaments
these babies might have won, if they had been given the chance– of course it’s getting late– but hear! do you hear that, that whistle? quiet, listen, give it a moment, it’s in the air, there! quick, bend down, feel the tracks, can you feel that rumble? she’s coming this way!– no, no, now’s not the time! give me your coin purse, here put it down on the track, there now come on, up up, let’s wait behind here, don’t worry, it’ll be a token for you to keep for all the memories– what do you mean you don’t understand– there she is! see her three headlights? cover your ears! count the cars, you don’t know if she’ll ever come back– thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five– she’s going by too fast, and there look, see the caboose? and now she’s gone, yes,
yes, I’m almost ready to tell you, I know, you’ve been waiting patiently all night– now here, feel how smooth and flat your penny is, careful, it’s still warm,
Abe Lincoln’s head is all mashed into the copper like he wasn’t minted at all, no no, keep it it’s for you, put it in your palm, there now squeeze it tight,
I just want to show you the locomotive, the engine, see the number? see the soot? my grandpa once told me this little riddle and it goes something like this–
“Railroad crossing, watch out for the cars. Can you spell that without any ‘r’s?” no, that is why we are here tonight, I wanted to tell you something, no, you’re the one
who doesn’t understand, I just wanted to show you this junction, where the track splits off into two
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Posted: Tue Mar 20, 2007 7:28 pm
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"Untitled"
A weird idea I got coming back from Calculus...
A master took his servant to a grassy field one day,
Said the master to the servant “Servant, I wish to know how many blades of grass are in this field. I want you to count every blade and when you are done, tell me how many there are. If your answer is off, even by one blade, you will be put to death, understand?”
Said the servant to the master “I will do as you ask.”
So the servant began to count each blade meticulously, one by one, by hand, he rested only to eat and to sleep,
Five years later the servant came back to his master and said “Master, I have counted the blades”
Before the servant could utter his number the master interrupted “Did you double check, servant?”
The servant bowed and said to the master “I have not, I will do as you ask.”
So the servant returned to the field and for another five years the servant counted the blades of grass in the field meticulously, one by one, by hand,
He came back to his master with tears in his eyes and threw himself down at his feet and cried “My master, I have failed you. The number of blades I counted this time was different than the first. I am ready to be put to death, for I could not do as you asked.”
Said the master to the servant “Arise my dear servant, you have not failed me, for time is the fourth dimension. We have no control over time, only space, and the grass has grown while you counted. Sometimes the things that we ask are unknowable, and you have done very well. For this service I give to you your freedom and a house for your family to live and land for you to own and tend, peace be with you my dear friend.”
Said the servant to the master “My lord, you are most kind! Thank you, sir, thank you.”
The master bowed to the servant and said “T’was nothing compared to you.”
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Posted: Fri Mar 23, 2007 3:45 pm
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“Justin’s Church”
In honor of a good friend who died on a mission trip we were on.
I’m standing on the top of a mountain. Ten thousand feet tall, I’m holding the camera up to my face. I squeeze one eye shut and with the other peer though that tiny square to see a miniature world of the world I am standing in right now. I’m checking to make sure every thing is in the picture. These are my memories I wouldn’t want to get the wrong shot take the wrong picture. I make sure I get the church in the corner it looks so picturesque that way and with the mountains caving down towards the center sloping, falling, diving, pitching, dipping, plunging, plummeting.
I click the button now the memory is locked inside pixel by pixel I can’t forget I won’t forget.
I’m walking back down the mountain. The slope is steep and rain is just beginning to fall making the mud a little slicker tiny droplets on a foreign tribute as I come back down I see my friends, reminded again they exist I get lost in a world like this one we’re the foreigners and I love it swallowing every breath of humid air I could stay here forever. And I will I’ve got it trapped in a box that will come alive it’s something material that cannot be stolen, my memories feel taste touch like this earth, like this world I’ll cling, I’ll grasp
I’m sitting on a rock on the mountain. The pastor told the others to hurry down to the church to go get the medical kit. I think someone’s banged their knee scraped their shin. I guess no one ever expects the worst, why should I? But he’s dead now.
I’m thinking at the bottom of the mountain. The only thing I can feel is the box as it begins to get heavier in my hands, snapshots of what? I’ve forgotten now save I remember. I can check on the digital screen if my batteries weren’t dying. And all I can hear is his voice last night booming in the church proclaiming
“If I died tomorrow, I know where I would go. I would go to Heaven.”
God-bless you, dear saint, all those Peruvian men and women who flocked then to your side proclaiming as well gleeful, tearful acceptance at last as they cast away–
I’m breaking down.
I’m not alone. His sister is sobbing uncontrollably no one tries to stop her the others are singing all those songs they taught you in Bible school.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine...”
“Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so...”
All the verses I used to forget rush back to me like words sprung fresh to my lips, drinking deep of their solace this is the only way for us to keep time to regulate the way time seeps like an open wound without end I keep singing. Three concussions, five broken ribs puncturing the lungs, a broken leg, a fractured skull. An angel never fell so gracefully.
If memories could rattle, the box dangling from my wrist would be rattling the way the bus rattled back down the dirt road winding as we passed by burrows and blackberry vines. How the driver drove I never knew the natives cried as hard as us their love had grown so strong.
I heard one boy took pictures of his body before he knew he wasn’t coming back, I wonder how he must feel now, if my camera feels this heavy made of lead or maybe gold what’s yours full of, friend? Can you carry it, or will you drop it? Let it fall away.
I’m standing in the airport. My bags and carrying cases and luggage don’t weigh me down the way I thought they would with all these souvenirs. The carousel spins and spins, I clutch at my camera as my mother holds me tight in her arms like she’d never let me go again. They had to ship his body back to America to have the funeral.
I wish I could tell someone I snapped the photo about the same time he fell. I do I did I still.
“This is the air I breathe This is the air I breathe Your holy presence living in me. This is my daily bread This is my daily bread Your very word spoken to me And I I'm desperate for you And I I'm lost without you.”
Justin died tomorrow three years ago at the age of seventeen.
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Posted: Fri Mar 23, 2007 3:47 pm
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Posted: Tue Mar 27, 2007 3:15 pm
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