Category Archives: Religion

224. Coffee Drink of the Day IV

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The coffee drink of the day is called the Prophet. To help launch the new Prophet drink, which has caramel in it, as best as we can tell, with milk and espresso, whipped cream, and a few other essential ingredients, a man—apparently “the prophet,” sent in from corporate, dressed in a polo shirt emblazoned with the logo from the coffee shop—gets up on a crate at the front of the long line and says, “My, God, what is she doing?” He’s pointing at a young woman reading a book at one of the round tables.

“Where is her power cord, her trackpad? Don’t you just want to swish her away? A book? Really? What next, her collection of compact discs? Huh? Am I right?”

A couple of those standing near the pastry case look up from their smart phones and say, “What is he talking about?”

“He’s talking about the truth,” some of the early converts around us are already saying. ”Obviously this drink is very forward-looking.”

“Look at her!” the prophet continues. “Just look at her!”

We look at her. She seems to be really into her book. She doesn’t even know that we’re talking about her. She’s a young woman, plain-looking, a ginger, with the tip of her nose burned red.

“Don’t you see?” the prophet says. “A book first and then what? A Walkman AM/FM cassette player? A cabinet radio the size of a piano?”

“Or one of those old school phones,” one of the customers yells out. “The kind where you have to spin the numbers!” The people cheer.

“Yes!” the prophet says. “A rotary phone, and then what?”

“Her grandma’s cinnamon rolls,” I yell out only half-jokingly, but they like that. They think I’m being serious. They cheer for me, too. And then I get to the front of the line and order a Prophet.

“Thank you, brother,” the prophet says, shaking my hand between both of his. “You won’t regret it.”

“What size do you want?” the barista says.

“Large. Make it a large Prophet. Without whip,” I say, and the barista says, “Do you want whip with that?” Again I say, “Without whip,” and she says, “Okay, so you don’t want whip with that. Is that correct?”

209. City Bus Ride in April

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I can say to anyone who cares:

I’ve seen giant ships
harbored in the river.

I’ve waited under over-
passes for the rain to stop.

I’ve listened to crazy men. I’ve met John
the Baptist and would have liked
to deliver his head
on a platter
to my drunk friends.

207. On the Long Day of Crucifixion

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Always from where I sleep is the sound of the interstate
roaring on like a horrible river. Always
is the sound of machines,
and for every tree
that falls silently in the forest
stands a man at the copier
with a paper cut.

Tuesday goes like this: follow the drops of blood
smeared somewhat dramatically
across the key pad and into the fax machine,
and you’ll come to the man crying out
on the long day
of crucifixion: Father? God?
Why have you forsaken me?

189. God had been Reading Augustine

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God had been reading Augustine. God wept over Augustine’s Confessions, as we all did, and then he wondered where his place would be in Augustine’s Civitas Dei, City of God. We had no clue. We thought maybe somewhere on the central throne, if there would be such a thing, but God didn’t like that. He wanted a big temple, a temple bigger than the City of God, in fact, a temple that might even house the City of God.

The problem was that God was not very clear. He wanted at times too much. He wanted and then he didn’t want. He wanted gold, gaudy, precious stones, at first. He wanted a lot of light, modern, many windows. No hard lines. And then he wanted homey, dark, log cabin-ish. He fired our best architects. He ripped up blueprints and stormed, he stormed, until, finally frustrated, he went away from us for good, leaving us looking up into the blank sky, blue as it sometimes was, and is still, or otherwise full of a  possibly carcinogenic brownish smog.

We of course hope that God’s found what he’s long been looking for, wherever he is, in whatever city he’s found himself in. Even if not the City of God, it may well be the City of Angels.

There have been stranger things reportedly seen here. Why not God?

On certain early evenings like this one, for example, not to sound too ridiculous, but yes, when the sunlight through this window sits even if momentarily on the sides of our faces; and old Van Morrison comes over the house speakers—not “Brown Eyed Girl,” to be sure, but perhaps “Moondance” or “Crazy Love”; and our buzzes are so buzzy,  so hoppy, so IPA and perfect, we can almost feel him again. We can almost feel God wanting to almost reach out for us, Michelangelo style, Sistine Chapel, and, at times like this, it is almost enough.

184. Dear Editor

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You thank me for thinking of your journal
or magazine. You thank me for submitting
my work. You thank me for entering
the contest. You tell me how many entries
there had been, and how, therefore,
competitive the pool, and most difficult
to judge. You thank me for continuing
to support small literary endeavors like
your own with its overworked staff in its
ongoing labor of love for no (or not much)
profit. But how do you expect me
to respond? You’re welcome? Herein lies
the problem. You give out thank you’s as if
you do not really mean them. You address
me as the Author. You say, “Dear Author,
I want to thank you.” And then you
proceed to rip out my guts. But I’m telling
you that you do not need to do that.
You do not need to apologize for yourself,
and you certainly do not need to
eviscerate me with kindness. You should
only thank me when I write the poem, silly
as it may sound, but nevertheless, yes,
like the Apostle Paul blinded by the divine
light on his way to Damascus, drops you
to your knees weeping for the blessing
of having even so much as had a fleeting
glance at my greatness. Otherwise, and
until then, please tell me to fuck off, as I
now, too, most sincerely say to you.

The Author

171. Unspoken Word

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I will shout it out, this word, the good word, over the traffic on Maricopa Highway. I will call it guacamole. I will say taco and marry that with salad—hearing me, dawg? Word. If we start now, we just might make it there before close. I will point out the skin of a black bean wrapped on your tooth, and you will nod, smiling, your headphones bumping, high as high can be, cuz you know the word, the word that ain’t need to be spoken. You hearing me? Word. It’s the unspoken word. Word. It’s the truth and the truth be setting us free:

Christ died to save Mexican food.

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Christ died to save the burrito and the enchilada, with chips and salsa. Christ died to save the pork carnitas and the fish tacos with special sauce. Christ died for cilantro and fried rice and pico de whatever and sour cream. Christ died three times to save cheese. You hearing me? Word. Christ died to save the Corona with lime, and Christ died to save the salt-rimmed original margarita on ice. (Actually, that’s not true. Christ rose for those.) But there ain’t much that Christ didn’t die for, and wouldn’t die for still. I’m not hearing you. Word. That’s right, cuz his love is big like that, is big but concerned for the small. Just one pinto bean hits that floor, and the angels weep.