last a rusty beater rumbles by, packed
with acned teens, shouting as we knew they would:
“Go back to Russia, you f*****g hippies.”
And we laugh. Finally someone’s found us out,
stared straight through what time and tweed cannot
disguise. A car on fire with those most likely to die—
few prospects, no money, sure of nothing but
their own anger. We look around our aging crowd,
remembering some of the ways a heart can break.
Lunch with the Lord’s Anarchists
At the Jesus Radicals Conference
They walk through the line in an orderly way,
taking enough, but not too much. No one laughs.
They bring their own plates and cups. No Styrofoam.
Potluck veteran though I am, I can’t make out the food,
but I’m sure it’s deeply committed and fairly traded.
It’s strange to hear such passionate talk in a church.
We move to the lawn of the Mennonites who agreed
to host the gathering. More accustomed to capitalistic
market-driven hygiene, I’m glad we’ve come outside.
Because I ask, some tell me outlines of their journeys,
of where they came from, how they wound up here.
There are many wrinkled ways to get to Portland.
Finished, they slump in quiet piles of natural fiber,
and at last I can read their bodies. Truths dangle
from pierced flesh and cover every inch of visible skin.
Jesus, I am old and academic, and I have much to learn.
I would like to read the rest of them, the rest of their stories.
Ramblin’ Seth Plays the Red & Black Cafe
And when the day of Pentecost was fully come,they were all with one accord in one place. (Acts 2:1)
Maybe they gathered in a room just like this,
a coffee shop somewhere in Jerusalem,
not on the outskirts exactly, but just
on the seedier edge of downtown.
Maybe some sweetly pierced Martha-like
hipster was pulling fresh shots in the back,
and her sister, Our Mary of the Many Tattoos,
was already slipping the day-old scones
to the masses, those unwashed and quizzical
lovers of God who just heard the good word
that Seth had come home to this place, safe
and dry, and warmer than the sidewalk.
Some sit on tipped-back chairs, a handful rest
quasi-lotus on the floor, drumming their thighs,
growing content in their own woven grunge
(the affect turned real as the money ran out).
Then Seth takes the stage, lighting his candles,
tuning a little, then lighting some more,
the hemp and soy and happy-birthday candles,
dollar-store votives for remaindered saints.
He tries for mellow, but mellow won’t come
or won’t last past the first two tunes, no matter
how soft his Hello, everyone. If passion is
a simmering kettle of stew, his will scorch.
Before the first chorus it’s already burning:
each song is a message in tongues. And then
one little stick of scented oil glows brighter.
It rises, floats, and settles on his dreads.
The big bare feet begin to stomp, and there comes
from heaven a sound like a rushing wind,
and they are bewildered, because they all
hear him speak their own language.
The Labyrinth Speaks
I knew they would come from the very pour.
I could just as easily have been the floor
of someone’s garage, a bicycle rack,
a boat ramp, a barn, a sidewalk, sure to crack—
so this path seemed my destiny
charted in the stars before I came to be.
In the circling strokes of the stainer’s brush
I knew each pilgrim’s sole, each holy touch,
and felt each weight, the tapping of each stick,
the pacing desperation of the sick,
the sorrow of lovers, their bitterness,
each shivering touch, each unreturned caress,
the leaden chest that heaves when faith is lost,
the hollowness of unbelief, the cost
that must be paid for quiet vanities,
the rage that robs the over-wise of peace.
Some come to beg forgiveness, some to rant.
Some come to pray; some come because they can’t.
I serve them all, and on my concrete way
they learn as much as their steps will let me say.
Like any winter road, I’ve felt the burn of salt,
the
