Ask a Hobo

Ask a hobo to dinner and what will he say
"Hell, Why not? What else was I doing today?"
Give the hobo directions, don't let him get lost
Give him money for taxis no matter the cost
If he says "Aye yo! Got a five spot for cigs?"
Throw him a Lincoln and watch his hobofied jigs.

If he shows up on time, great, good for you
But don't worry too much if he's running late too
A punctual hobo’s like a three legged cat
Nobody wants one but they’re fun to look at.
First thing he'll say is "Hey where’s da food"
Unless he's been drinking than he'll ask for the loo.

After his bowels are all emptied out
The loo will smell like fresh sauerkraut
“Let’s Eat” he’ll say and dig right in
Scarfing cheese, baked beans, and some grilled chicken
And he’ll keep on eating until the last dish
Or till he swells up like a pregnant blowfish

As soon as he’s done get that hobo outside
You want him gone if he explodes or dies.
Shake his hand if you want, but it’s not necessary
He lives in dumpster his hands could be scary
If he’s says “Thank you kindly” just smile and nod
But don’t worry an appreciative hobo is odd.

Now that your guest is back on the street
Crack open a cold one and put up your feet
You’ve done our city a wonderful deed
Preparing a meal for a person in need
At the end of the day there’s nothing like giving
Even if it’s to those who don’t work for a living

Blue skies in February

Over look the expansive ugliness

Of imported dirt

Brought in to make things flat

Clearing earth for progress

The telephone wires

Cut the horizon

Like a police barricade

Between the unnaturally new

And the majesty of the ancient sky

Reforming Creation

Like a weak god

Constructing away the chaos

Into cookie cutter cul-de-sacs

For the cause of convenience

The concrete curbs scream separation

Standardizing the flow of the fallen rain

Away from here

Here all the water

Must first be bottled

As a reflection on sacrifice I don't know what to say except that I don't much. I didn't I mean. I was going to but I justified not doing it pretty easily. I kind of meant to do better which I think counts for something, or maybe not. I wish I weren't so caught up in my ideas. Or better yet I wish I was caught up in better ideas, maybe ones that I won't even claim. Some thoughts I could attribute to other people. But than again I'm too proud to do that.

As far as first person goes. So I decided a while in the past ago I would make a bit of thing happen that I am now about to regret soon. I put out there just to be cool for a second that I might give up this blog and other such frivolous internet meanderings for the good period known as the lent. Well this and things and such will be happening again and anon for the next 40 days or so or just the 40 days. Recreactional internet and I must be waving goodbye to each other for the sake of my own discipline and commitment to things that I hope I will better realize after I put thought into it eventually someday or some 40 days from now. I think that goes without saying for itself but I thought I would mention it. So I will see you again post-Easter.

Tame my idealistic tounge. I shout from my comfort about the spiritual benifits of suffering. Talking of peace and making peace with yourself and the world are different things. Wisdom that is heavenly is pure, is submissive, full of mercy, impartial and sincere. The wisdom I seek is powerful and full of pride. My untamed tounge drips with the drool of good things I should have said. I consume other peoples ideas for my glory. And spit them out when I decide what their flaw is. A harvest of righteousness?

I'm addicted to the sound of my own voice. Can it happen this way every time I open my mouth? It's not profound. In fact it is quite dull and often vacuous obsequiousness. I said those words because I like the way they sound next to each other not because I really know what they mean. I can't get enough. It fills a void to spit words like accomplishments. Each one a prideful ego boost to a man who pretends he wants to become humble. The type of humiltiy people respect of course. The type that others want but only I can articulate. Only I have the proper words to describe the sheer magnitude of the humility that I seek. I will shut up now. But only because I have too.

Manage my ability to be involved in the mystical. Not too much so as to rock the boat. I wish that there was a way to become good at knowing what to say. I am saying I would take that class. If my encouraging words are seldom heard it is because I am in Kansas. Perhaps I should tell her that. But what if I was to know exactly what she needed to hear? I would feel like a trickster saying it. A manipulative magician working tricks in her to change the way she sees things. Is Jesus like magic? Is it wrong to want him to be? Than again I want results more than I want answers. Just go ahead and fix it all and it will be okay. Don't feel like you have to tell me more than that it is done. Thy will be done is what I am trying to say I suppose. Or is that my cop out of the day? Cynical people question everything even their sincerity in questioning everything. That's why cynicism kills encouragement; it is too caught up in the flaws of self and society to push the tender hearts that carry their flaws like heavy luggage without wheels. Stop standing at the baggage carasoul critiquing the possessions of your peers and run to help her, before the sheer weight makes her miss her flight. Mystisize me.

I used to think cracked hands didn't hurt.
That dry man hands just felt like regular hands.
I used to wonder why he came home so tired sometimes.
It seemed like he never could get rested.

Feeling in Color I awake with a stiff neck after a day of almosts and a night of swirling sleep. I can't see the plan unfold I can only have faith. Faith is feeling out of control and not caring. What would it look like to share my mind as it happens. Moment to moment each picture is something to give her, something she won't understand but she will love. I hate not knowing how to fix life. Fixing is so much eaiser when you know how. I really cuts down on the Bull Shit. But I am not called to know but to follow without knowledge. Bull Shit is not my calling.

Solitude filled with technology. Druged by the hope of new distraction. Don't think to long on one page or you will be left to die alone. Fake excitement popping in my brain like spyware. Where did this shit come from? On my knees in my apartment crying like I have never cried before. Did I really say those things? Manufacured need; faulty desire.

If today could last forever.
I would hold her like there is no tommorow.