Our god

Strange how all my life I have been this way, but that it has come to my attention recently from friends that I am quite intimidating. This is because I defend the language and fight for understanding. I got into it with a couple of close friends recently. Beer was flowing, and one of my friends was declaiming about a Christian song he was into. He liked the simplicity of the song. This is the now famous modern Christian anthem "Our God is an Awesome God". I pointed out that I have always had a hard time with that song because contained in the first two words is the implication that there is some god other than our god. My friend tried to shut me down saying that he and probably most others never thought that; that they merely considered the phrase to refer to God whom we are with. I agreed, but nevertheless, because I can understand it to mean "our god" as opposed to "their god", or "our god among the pantheon of gods" I argue that whether you understand it or not the message is contained within and sows the seeds of war and dissension; sets up another variation of the us/them dichotomy that causes such endless problems in the world. This is language, and as precise as we can get is better than sloppily hanging meanings all over the place. I know it is fun to cause confusion and ignore convention, but I have always felt that it is not enough merely to choose our meaning as we see fit, but to understand the meanings of words as given by tradition and then altering the meanings if they no longer fit or require expansion. Not so much when people are drinking beer, but the guys I hang out with are always trying to outsmart each other and they had strayed into my area. I fought them with the relentlessness of the correct position and the high ground, which I held. I know pricks like me are irritating, but there has to be a reason why we feel passion for the things we feel passion for, and I happen to feel it for language. I don't always know what I am hunting for in this world, but I sure as hell know what I won't put up with. My prey is invisible most of the time and is made of nothing but ideas. Everything changes and dies, but my little life can be considered a part of all the rest of the larger output of the planet we loosely call "life". My experiences and ideas come from and go to something much more inclusive than culture typically allows. And yeah, I pay a heavy price. I am frequently misunderstood and shunned as too intellectual. The part of me that is very much like every other human feels lonely and frustrated and confused much of the time, though I just can't shake the idea that there is a greater goal we are collectively aimed at. How we behave informs the unknowable. Language is understanding across bodies in time. Some of us have to watch the door.

Runs Like My Heart

This is it.
I'm dreamy in the face, full of knowing.
I am at a curious peace.
I feel my heart swell. I open and expand.
I have been living in the ache and echo apart.
Old words rise to me, have been pervading me.

They are better for having known me.
I see relationships:
Thing to thing to person to person.
I synthesize.
It's a quiet process that runs like my heart.

There has been no failure.
We do our work where we are called,
then we move back out for the others.

Fix

The puzzled ones, the Americans, go through their lives
Buying what they are told to buy,
Pursuing their love affairs with the automobile,

Baseball and football, romance and beauty,
Enthusiastic as trained seals, going into debt, struggling —
True believers in liberty, and also security,

And of course sex — cheating on each other
For the most part only a little, mostly avoiding violence
Except at a vast blue distance, as between bombsight and earth,

Or on the violent screen, which they adore.
Those who are not Americans think Americans are happy
Because they are so filthy rich, but not so.

They are mostly puzzled and at a loss
As if someone pulled the floor out from under them,
They'd like to believe in God, or something, and they do try.

You can see it in their white faces at the supermarket and the gas station —
Not the immigrant faces, they know what they want,
Not the blacks, whose faces are hurt and proud —

The white faces, lipsticked, shaven, we do try
To keep smiling, for when we're smiling, the whole world
Smiles with us, but we feel we've lost

That loving feeling. Clouds ride by above us,
Rivers flow, toilets work, traffic lights work, barring floods, fires
And earthquakes, houses and streets appear stable

So what is it, this moon-shaped blankness?
What the hell is it? America is perplexed.
We would fix it if we knew what was broken.

~Alicia Suskin Ostriker

breath

we all want something
we are all wanted as well
but for now
tip over and spill out
lose screws and socks
remember them
lying on the floor
with blocks for hands
and the saffron sound
we most want to know
the smiling silver charm
of their laughter

What color flag do I wave?

My God, but this is hard today. My son's been sick the last couple of days. I am the most horrible father...even though it is the whole and extent of my social life. I'm not having a great Spring. For those of you keeping track at home, I concede the fight. I see no way to win. I'm uncool and remarkably stubborn about accepting help. Yet I am such a wretched dad. Yes, I know, I should leave here. I should go to where there is help. Maybe Colorado. The family could get together again. I could upgrade my parenting duties to include two children, and then be expected to "contribute". She calls a couple of times a week telling me how great it would be. Always with a new plan that appears to include me. She's not evil. My sister thinks she just lives in her own world. How many times have I said "I can't, it doesn't make sense for me in any way, no." But she doesn't accept it. Just keeps saying think about it. I tell her I have thought so much that my synapse is going to pop. I've written essays and flow charts and diagrams. The math does not go well. Even if I wanted to go, this is like the guy who finally gets out of jail only to be lured back in because it gets tough. I worked hard to be what I am, which is nothing but it's my nothing. I don't try to make my life seem exciting or glamorous, so it always pales in comparison to what M has for sale, which is everything. Come back to hell, please. You must have forgotten what it's like...it's warm and there are lovely shades and cool interesting people.. Here's to K. She got me out of the pit with M, though she doesn't think that. She did the right thing ditching my sorry ass. All I am is a father, and I suck at it. I really do. God send me some help, please.

For With

And so we wait
How many are like us?
For the time when all
we have been practicing for
becomes necessary
is right for its time
blooms in harmony
for the eye
of the one whose life
changes just so
because we did.

Be Lost

I don’t want
be lost
in pages in
you or curl away
Who, really
is you, me?


I don’t
want be lost
of pages of
looking up
lame with ground
ghost eyed

I don’t want
be lost
if pages in
order lay
mountain you sea
(all that between)

No haunt!
No be lost!
Page into page
a ribbon
on wind day
come loose

It’s windy and I’m thinking of Allen Ginsberg

Maybe I’ve gone over my quota of words today. Maybe I already put down all the words I had. All these words are left over and odd. I want to reach through them. No longer satisfied with a clever turn of phrase or nuanced association, or demonstration of knowledge of forms and colors of perception, how do I get through?

I’m satisfied with the many descriptions. None of them work without the what of it. I wouldn’t even know if they did or didn’t without that. I feel my mortality. I feel its fragility, its robustness, its ache to be. In move and be move. His athletic voice, pursuing the ends of understanding propels him. Her elastic meanings so different, charmed.

When he said howl he did to be carried. Of his he made a chariot. The sun made fog all day while I looked the devil in the eye. Legs of combat mounted for embrace. I’ve been saying yes, and there is a growing roar. I’m not in this to find my comfort here.

What no is where I need to add? Which bridge will char? He suffers and there is no cure. He was it long before his voice called out. With these words, the clatter is shuffled. Dropping its leaves means for you, it is now Spring.

And for us—a kite never thinks it needs the string.