un[refine]d

It’s not in my nature to be inquisitive.

I should have been raised to be

            a migrant farm worker and gather produce—

there’s simple beauty in that:

Kerouac wrote about it poetically.

[Those after me will most likely]

            sing and dance to a more refined tune,

whereas I will simply mum[B]le scales.

I’ve accepted my ignorance long ago, my talents

            [missing].

But I still know beauty.

I see this beauty,

especially when it belongs to the one holding

[the broken pen].

the printed word

O you passionate you inspiring man to reach moments of enlightenment sparking madness in forms and feelings that may be too rare to die

a letter to the fallen Catholic

Judge more than tenderly of me.

Society whispers ideas that sink

            the virtuous ideals of faith, hope and love—

especially those new ideas of yours.

Hypocrites! they’ll shout,

but fail to spot their own character flaws.

Sellers of gory images

            almost two thousand years old! they’ll rave

during inebriated moments of selfishness

and fear and loathing.

Get over it! they’ll screech

until you submit and join their flock           

that remains on the crooked asphalt,

birds scraping by on chunks of choice meal

a generous Catholic placed before them.

Dissect their words before you continue

            your judgment of Us.

I can see they’ve convinced your mind.

But open your eyes and heart.

Lend me your ear.

If I’ve wronged you:

Tell me what I can do

and I’ll work on it.

Understand my direct message when I

turn the other cheek.

Do you believe that high above this world’s storms

            rides the mighty Sun?

Do you take what you can in Life,

when you can—

thus learning nothing of humanity?

Society continues to whisper as the Divine pray

for the awakening of fallen angels.

My eyes tend to be blinded from time to time,

            society being clever and false.

But I’m rooting for you and me.

And what now?

Who’s wronging who when insults are cast toward

            People

who are imperfect?

Everyone on this earth is fallible and subject

            to making paltry life decisions.

You believe mankind is in the gutter,

            living a brutal life Faith cannot help?

But It can help those who may seek a life better.

It has proven to be a most powerful witness.

It will engineer brilliance in humble form.

Lend me your ear.

Oscar Wilde was correct when he spoke

            of being in the gutter,

            how “some of us are looking up at the stars.”

And on his BED he confirmed his Belief.

And didn’t Darwin do the same?

We pray for the belief in the humanity

            this world should be working toward.

You may call me as you wish,

            but I ask you to remove your blindfold

            before you do,           

            and block out society’s whispers

            and actions that tackle your mind.

I feel we should celebrate each other,

            even if you may not agree.

—Selah!

—And Amen I say to you.

Kid Anderson at Mojos

June 19th, 2004

—Fremont again

—a Sharp 19 inch shows me darts thrown

            by an engaged bald guy

—the band here at this lounge plays original tunes

that may not belong on a marketed CD

—I’ve ordered an Incredible Hulk

but the bartender wishes it were

            beer or something less modern

—so many

            sad faces

                        here

I’m one of these tragic grimaces

—as the band does their thing

            I want to tap my feet

                        but I tap my straw instead

—the Christmas lights that festoon overhead

            only illuminate

                        the drunkenness:

I see

strumpets yawning

male whores gawking

a poet complaining

barflies dying

bartenders killing

—tomorrow is Father’s Day

            and I have no father to thank

—my first one sleeps in a bed

            filled with domestic beer and no headstone

—my Second is everlasting,

            but many grow tired of His Organization

—my third abuses his wife,

            brainwashing her and saying

                        their failed marriage is all her fault

                                    (Still waiting for him to fade away)

—if you could hear this Blues of Kid Anderson you’d think

                                    interesting thoughts

when you pass their CD on a table, which should be—

            one dollar and not a cent more

OK!                             like

—I’m the jerk

—I’m the loser here tonight

—I’ll take everything negative I’ve said about this band back

—their guitar riffs are notable

—their drummer’s beats are tangible

I’m only venting because tomorrow’s Father’s Day

                                                                        dna

                                                            lliw I

                                                 evah

                                    eno on

                             ot               

                   knaht

—I’m perplexed because my eyes will soon be the color of the

                                    Christmas Lights

above me:

[half Green]                AND               [half Red]

—from the Incredible Hulk

            (HPNOTIQ and Hennessey in a bucket of ice)

—the melancholy of a bastard son.

dubious elation

Throughout my life I’ve asked myself if I would be content dying alone.

You can call my revelation many things. I never thought I could learn anything from observing a flock of geese flying south, God speaking to me through Nature. It was one of those moments when a person feels that tangible surge of life—that fantastic moment of clarity. It was a peak of emotion: the kind of spiritual emotion people see in the movies and empathize with because it once happened to them. A God-sent wave rushed throughout my body, spilling mirth toward the simple joy of observing the natural beauty of migration. I realized that this was my moment, my miracle-mile, my opportunity to take hold of an ideal and do something, learn something. I seized that moment the way heroes do when their time of truth comes during the pivotal climax. Magic came from this moment—my wand relearned how to twirl its splendor.

Everyone needs reflective time alone, be it a day or a month or a year. I decided that I needed to spend time each week to reflect on my life, my spirituality. My life was stagnant. Christmas would be here soon and I wanted to prepare myself for the coming of Christ. This is what autumn is for—spiritual growth and reflection. I promised myself that I would spend this new time seriously thinking about my salvation. It was my goal. Often people never make time for such reflection, the rat race of everyday life keeping us from doing things we need to be doing. This is how I came to my state of elation, my moment of clarity.

It was late afternoon—a brisk Thursday—when I realized the esoteric happiness in my life. The wind caroused and played with my hair as the sound of dry leaves gently broke under my melodious steps. I was strolling along the contorted path of a forlorn park three blocks from my duplex. Clear visions of myself as a child wandering aimlessly throughout this park came to me. I would drift along the crooked path on my bike and talk to myself aloud. I remembered the sound the dried leaves made as I rode over them. It had been too long since then.

That late afternoon, up above and deep in shadows, tiny little gnats zigzagged above me, playing among the sad branches that housed decaying plums. Staring in quiet awe, I watched those gnats organize town meetings, book clubs and seminars on how to be a better gnat. Then the autumn wind came slowly, reminding me to zip my jacket up. And that honest wind came the same way it did when I used to ride my bike against it, shouting challenges at my entertaining friend ancient people used to call Zephyr. Back then I rarely played with anyone but that wind.

Growing up, I felt that being without friends or a real family meant that I was cursed, lacking certain social skills, God forgetting to mention my purpose. In high school, my personality was there, but it was unfitting of making any connections. I had people attempt to become my friends, but I wasn’t too receptive. I found more entertainment in myself: I’ve struggled with this. Am I so different that it is harmful to my life?

It wasn’t until that late Thursday afternoon that I became content and remarkably satisfied with my isolation from the social world. I continued to walk amongst the wind and productive gnats, observing the ever-changing surroundings of the park—the withered trees, tiny squirrels dancing from branch to branch, collecting acorns that appeared too big for them to carry. I saw the wind push litter toward a garbage can. I helped the wind and tossed the litter inside the trash—the wind could only do so much. It was there within that neglected park that I saw the geese flying above me, God smiling within Nature.

It was strange because one of the geese flew down to the open grass of the park. Two other geese followed the first, displaying their majestic colors of dark brown and egg-white feathers, squawking their queries toward the first goose. And that first goose, the lone one with unkempt feathers and wandering eyes, didn’t squawk back. It remained quiet and dug for worms in the grass, listening to the sound of the autumn wind. The two geese continued their cries and often leaped ten feet into the air—trying to persuade the first goose to continue its migration south. But the goose merely ignored the two. I watched this for quite a while, thinking back to all the people who may have tried to befriend me. Eventually, the two geese left the first goose alone. And it was there in that late afternoon that the first goose played. It was by itself and it stayed alone. Like Saint Hilarion of Cyprus, I now understood my spiritual isolation.

Spending time alone is essential for growth, and I’ll continue to grow. I may not be like others, but there are others like me.

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