The North Papers

A Nail in the Coffin

2009-06-21T20:30:00.001-07:00

Sorry, but this will be the last post on the North Papers Blog.

I've relocated my short fiction and songwriting over to Ghost Town Revival. I share this blog with a few friends, and there will be music and pictures in addition to the writing.

My opinions, adventures, and day-to-day happenings will be detailed over at Refugee Arts.

We had a good run, didn't we?

Alien Kingdom

2009-05-27T07:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve seen your glory in the gutters
I’ve seen you shiver in the street
I’ve seen your hand upon the widow
And your fire upon the meek

And the aliens though strangers
Hold your kingdom on their tongues
And the children when we shush them
Hold your cries within their lungs

Oh redeemer, can you help me
To believe that you can keep
Your kingdom here within me
Just as you have with these?

My love, I’m prone to sell it
To the gods of Babylon
My heart and my frail body
Will be broken and soon gone

And the aliens though strangers
Hold your kingdom on their tongues
And the children when we shush them
Hold your cries within their lungs

Oh redeemer, can you help me
To believe that you can keep
Your kingdom here within me
Just as you have with these?

And when your crow comes
And life rattles from my bones
And my flesh falls from my spirit
May your kingdom take me home

For as an alien and a stranger
You walked upon this earth
A child born in a manger
Took my life and gave it worth

Oh redeemer can you help me
To believe that you can keep
Your kingdom here within me
Just as you have with these?

When I find the Strength to Stand

2009-05-26T07:49:00.000-07:00

Writer's Note: Unlike most of my lyrics, the musical context of this piece is important. It was written while I was thinking about gypsy music. I wanted to do something that was unabashedly romantic, free from the cynicism or self-awareness that subdues most of my writing. So imagine accordion or a brass band or whatever you see as grand and romantic.

When I find the Strength to Stand

My poor heart is like a rose
Your spirit like the wind
Petals flutter in the meadow
Leaving me bare again

My poor heart is like branches
Your love the icy blast
Splinters upon the sidewalk
When you travel past

So long, my dear
I’ll see you in the meadow
When I find the strength to stand

So long, my dear
I’ll stand upon the sidewalk
And I’ll wait upon your hand

Your sweet lips are like razors
My own a child’s hand
Though my blood bubbles like candy
I will kiss them when I can

Your sweet lips are like lovers
And I a spying man
But it’s cold outside your window
I will join you when I can

So long, my dear
I’ll bring my lips to the blade
When I find the strength to stand

So long, my dear
I’ll stand outside your window
And I’ll wait upon your hand

My Poor Wives (A Cautionary Drinking Song)

2009-05-25T08:01:00.000-07:00

Martha bore me six children
Susan had three more
Martha died in the kitchen
Sue left through the door

Oh my oh my poor wives
They all leave or die
My poor wives

Leticia was a fighter
Samantha was a whore
Leticia went down swinging
Sam left through the door

Oh my oh my poor wives
They all leave or die
My poor wives

Sandra’s father was a lawyer
Margie’s was dirt poor
Sandra sued and broke me
Margie snuck out the door

Oh my oh my poor wives
They all leave or die
My poor wives

Six lifetimes I promised
And six I did abhor
Two of them in heaven
Four left through the door

Oh my oh my poor wives
They all leave or die
My poor wives

To one love was I faithful
I had but one love more
To the bottle I was faithful
Then left alone once more

Oh my oh my poor wives
They all leave or die
My poor wives

Remember the Other One? Well, How about Another One?

2009-04-13T21:10:00.000-07:00

To those interested in my day-to-day journal-type writing, I say that you are in the wrong place. This blog is for my more arty pieces, and only gets updated about once a month, on average(actually, it's usually more like nothing for three months, then a spurt of four, then nothing again).

For a more-or-less daily account of Ruthie's and my activities, along with dramatic commentary when the fancy strikes us, hop over to http://refugeearts.blogspot.com.

Raccoon in Repose

2009-02-23T19:22:00.000-08:00

Image one: raccoon at rest
Off two eighty five
On its back in the sun
No blood or guts or life

Image two: raccoon at rest
Now Monday, on its side
Long nap on concrete
No screams, at peace, no life

The writer drives and his love she rides
And he tries to find a common thread

Image three: refugee in suit
Pinstriped, with bloodshot eyes
Saying he lost
Nine Children and two wives

Image four: computer on floor
Of bedroom almost bare
Refugee pounding keys
Twenty six windows open there

The writer shifts his sleeping feet
And he tries to find a common thread

Five through one fourty six:
Bodies on the screen
Restless, torched, locked in screams
No nap, no rest, no theme

Raccoon in repose, at peace in death
Children of men twisted and scorched
In rings of ash by charcoal trees
And the refugee’s reports

The writer trembles and turns in bed
He cannot find a common thread

The writer he weeps for those now dead
But tears won’t take them from his head

The writer trembles and turns in bed
He cannot find a common thread

Shooting Range

2009-02-07T19:18:00.000-08:00

We leave Mr. Bob’s house in his 1979 Ford pickup in the early afternoon. I call him Mr. Bob at his request. He is my father in law, and feels that this prefix adds an appropriate amount of respect to the shortened version of his first name, Robert. The truck itself is a big white thing, spotted with rust and beautiful in the way that many things down here are beautiful. Its appearance suggests a storied history. The bed has stubborn patches of paint fused to its surface, buried in half-filled paint cans, pine needles, and broken glass. I will ask about the glass later, if I remember to.

I carry with me a book of essays and arguments by David Foster Wallace. I have a stupid way of trying to share the things that I care about in circumstances where they do not fit. This is not a day for David Foster Wallace readings, apart from the fact that Mr. Bob is into mathematics and David Foster Wallace weaves mathematics into his descriptions of the Midwest. I tell Mr. Bob this, thinking that it is a way to start.

The truck tops a hill at the edge of Lawrenceville. This town used to be in the sticks, remote from its mother city, Atlanta, like an apple that fell away from a tree before the tree grew five times in size due to the Olympics being held in the analogous tree. It is now populated by the leaves of its pregnant mother tree, and somehow the tree keeps dropping strip malls upon it. Admittedly, the analogy is spotty, but I hold it in my mind as trees, one and then another and then a whole forest, take Lawrenceville in their arms and usher it beyond the sight of our rearview mirrors.

“Mathematics is like a language,” Mr. Bob tells me, “it’s a way of describing things, but if you don’t know it, it doesn’t make much sense.”

He pauses. He continues, “I sure wish I knew more about math.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say. This is the truth. An understanding of mathematics may have raised my high school GPA to a competitive level, and I may have gone to a real school somewhere instead of the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, but that story is one that distracts and angers me, so I drop it from my mind and pretend that I mean it the same way that he means it, although my understanding of math is so poor that I don’t even understand why I would want to understand it.

We discuss a host of topics like this between his house and the first QT, where we stop, fill up the truck, and pick up our snacks. QT stands for Quick Trip, and it is the king of all gas stations. It is the Jupiter to the Pluto of your regular BP or shell station. The people there greet you in a friendly manner, chat with you, and wish you a good day as they ring up your chili cheese dog or ham sandwich or you name it. I go for a chili cheese dog, pay on the credit card, which is the only way I can eat until I start work next week, and follow Mr. Bob back to the truck.

It is beautiful in February in Atlanta. The nights are chilly enough to see your breath and freeze maybe the smallest puddles, but if you park your car in morning sunshot, you will not need to wait for the heat, because the vehicle will be at a comfortable seventy degrees, and you can get a pretty good tan from the front seat. As the day moves on, you can take your coat off, and as your truck or you father in law’s truck mounts and descends hills, you feel a need to crack your window. You do so, and take off your coat, and you think for a moment as the mountains appear from the mist in the distance, that you could make a home here.

This is a hard notion to hold on to as you arrive at your destination. If yours is the same as mine, at least, and you have never fired a gun in your life. According to my father-in-law, this was going to be a hunting and fishing and backpacking and camping store. I see now why he paused before adding the final two. There is not a backpack or tent in sight. In fact, if you were a deer in a forest, there would not be much in sight at all except maybe the fishing poles and a wall of handguns in the back. Camouflage obscures everything from view, and deep Georgian accents obscure me from the warm southern embrace I felt before walking through the double glass doors.

As we round an aisle and arrive at the sinkers, I hear a loud greeting behind me.

“How you doing today, sir? You find everything you need?”

Thankfully, he is not speaking to me. I am staring at a wall of objects which I do not understand.

“Everything I need, and lots more I want!” booms another young voice from somewhere over my left shoulder.

“I hear ya, man!”

Both of these voices erupt in laughter.

Being a Yankee in a store like this is probably a bit like being a deer with a fake moustache in a store like this. I feel that if these people knew what I was, and I was in the woods with them within range, I’d be shot quicker than it takes to get a chili cheese dog at the QT.

Mr. Bob gets his rifle fixed, and we examine the wall of handguns at the back. I recently landed a job with some security risks, and I will carry a sidearm while at work. For this reason, I am interested in these little instruments of godlike power. They are beautiful in their way. They are crafted well. They feel balanced and substantial. I hold them, and I suddenly understand why southern boys want to go to war so badly. It is hard to hold these things without wondering what it would be like to kill someone.

At the toilet in the restroom of the grill next door, I stand and look at the poster next to me. It is a picture of Jesus and it has some of the facts about his life that suggests he was just like the hardworking people in this area. He was born in a small town. His family was of humble means. He worked in a wood shop. He spent his years before 30 mastering a trade. It occurs to me, somewhat profanely, that although I feel a long way off from my destiny, I am getting into ministry five years before Jesus did. I’m way ahead of the curve.

We leave this town and head for another with a free shooting range off in the woods. We pass antique shops, junk shops, and a massive “Country Living Expo.” Finally, back in the woods, we find the range. The parking lot is composed of hard dirt and gravel and the tires of nothing but pickup trucks. I make a mental note to never bring my Honda station wagon here as we pop the doors open and find the ground with our feet.

Mr. Bob grabs one of his rifles, then another, then hands me a KRAK! bag of Pop! Pop! Pop! ammo to carry. KA-THUK! KA-THUK! I jerk impulsively, my shoulders twitching together, my feet bolting briefly from the stones. The bullets jingle in their canvas bag. There is no way to hide my response to the PTCHOO! sound of rounds exploding in chambers, and CHUNG! I flinch visibly.

A man in blue jeans and a pullover stands smoking near us. Beyond him stands a cage like the head of a driving range, with a line of tables holding all shapes of rifles and handguns. I walk casually from the truck to the corner of the cage, where I see a row of men, most of whom look like cops or heavy metal guitarists, hold their weapons and fire KRAK! Pop! PTCHOO! CHUNG! Pop! They go right down the line, and by the time the volley is over, I have my twitch under control.

The secret, I find as I settle into a chair behind Mr. Bob’s table, is to watch the loudest gun and expect it to fire. Then the noise loses its surprise, regardless of where it comes from. My eyelids still twitch shut, but I’m no longer doing jumping jacks every time a shooter pulls the trigger. I want to be holding one right now, squeezing off a few rounds, but I’d be one of those guys who falls over backward or twitches and shoots a hole in the roof because he had no idea how much kick these things had.

Suddenly, a sound like the crack of lightning strikes me and I feel a shockwave wash over me. The source is an assault rifle, and the first shot is followed by several in succession. I watch the quick sputter of flame, follow the line to the clouds of clay halfway down the range, and look at the shooter. He is an average-looking country guy. His baseball cap covers a round head which sits on a thick neck which sits on a plump torso. I muse that I could tear him apart in a hand-to-hand fight.

I have been doing too much comparing these days. Young, disciplined men running their fathers’ businesses draw my thoughts to the rich creative life I enjoy. Worship leaders, who strut their licks in front of massive congregations every week, lead me to think about the songs that I have written with Greg and Jonathan. I need these balances to remind myself that I am worth my continued existence. Most of the time, I have trouble believing it.

Little bursts of flame emerge from gun after gun. The guy next to Mr. Bob shatters the PVC frame holding his target up, and several of his neighbors train their guns on the remaining pipes. Bits of white plastic splinter and explode. They chuckle. I laugh too from my seat behind everyone.

Later, when the shooting is done, I use the small bathroom to the side of the range. The glass has five big bullet holes in it, and the metal siding has been punctured all around me. I try not to think about this as I pee. Instead, I think about The Big Lebowski, and the fact that “mictorate” is a great word. Instead of the marks left by passing bullets, I think of Jeffrey Lebowski in his wheelchair, saying, “Every time a rug is mictorated upon in this fair city…”

That does the trick. Back in a familiar scene from a movie I love, my mind loosens its grip and everything naturally runs its course. As I zip up and leave the death trap, I think that maybe this analogy will be a good closing image if I decide to write about all of this. I build the story in my mind to distance myself from the gunfire and alienation, and I walk back to the truck. In the familiar place where I am nowhere near here, I feel comfortable and this whole story seems like a fascinating oddity.

As I open the door and climb into the passenger seat, a final gunshot KA-CHUCK! startles me out of my funk and echoes through my head for the duration of the two-hour ride back to Atlanta.

Give Her the Chair

2008-11-25T20:38:00.000-08:00

"They are like statues. They stand in place as if pigeons are not unloading on their heads."

She said this, and then kissed me in a terrified and wounded fashion. I did not love her, but there was an appeal to taking the preacher's wife from him. I am a wicked man.

He was not much of a lover, not much of a listener. He was a husband as a preacher was supposed to be. His household was in order. He held their shoulders and they smiled for Christmas photos. They did not fight much, which was another thing she doubted. His mind was a network of squares, pressed tightly together, holding the fire at bay.

Her sons were starting to vie for status among God's children. Her daughters were in and out of love in a stupid, needy fashion. She watched them, the whole group, grow away from the world around them like bricks, with religion for mortar, keeping the elements at bay.

She told me a story the day before she poisoned them. She remembered visiting a distillery in her youth. The oak barrels, seared on the inside, stood on beams where the wind could move through them freely, and in this way the drink aged and grew in depth and taste.

She said it in a very sad way. I told her to make a change and breathe a little.

But this, your honor, is not what I had in mind. She should cook for this. Because when a person lives long enough around these boxes, whether she buys it or not, whether she squeezes into the box or tries to light the sides on fire, she loses steam at some point.

This woman tried to hold her steam for too long, and it finally escaped her, and poisoned the whole family. Not that I care about them because they had nothing coming whether they died yesterday or in ten years, but this woman, as hateful as she may seem, is out of steam now.

She never knew the wind that moves between the barrels until she met me, and she never knew me that well. That, your honor, is why you should put her in the chair. She needs to feel that kind of movement, scorching and sudden, right through her.

When that jolt finds her heart, she will know what love is. In that flash between the shock and her forever, she will feel the infinity she craved, and this whole mess will be over.

Give her the chair.

Regarding Mandy Annis and Passing Time

2008-11-13T07:55:00.000-08:00

It is not easy to remember. I would prefer to hide, but on some mornings like this one, when I am left to my memories, I think of the accident that took Mandy from us. I do not view myself as a friend to her, since we grew so distant before her death, but I think of her as a friend to me.

She wrote a note on my Facebook wall a few months before she died, asking how I was and sending a friendly greeting. I meant to get back to her, but there was so much to catch up on, so I let it sit, and then I forgot. I learned that it was too late when Tad called me on my way home from fixing a fish tank.

"One of our old Moody friends died."

"Who? Is it someone I would know?"

"Mandy Annis."

I choked on the thought. The impulse came over me to smash my cellphone against the dashboard. I gaped into the mouthpiece for a while before responding.

"Oh shit."

Over the next few days, I learned the details of her life that I had missed. She was engaged to James Bausch, a friend with whom I had also lost touch. He had shouted to me from his bike on the day that she left the greeting on my wall.

There was a rich and touching article about her published in the Chicago Tribune. A photo showed her in the classroom where she taught, smiling. My friends Jesse Nellis and Jonathan Kotulski knew James well, so they arranged for the three of us to visit him.

While I waited for that visit, I searched the internet for images of Mandy. I looked at every photograph of her on facebook. I retraced my time with her. I remembered the beginning of our friendship during international student orientation. Mandy befriended many of us, and we explored Chicago under the care of Kacie and Evangeline and her, and I don't remember who else.

Another missionary kid fell in love with her, but her heart was elsewhere, and we all just shifted around until we found a comfortable distance to blend in with the other students. I chose not to stick with the crowd from orientation, partly because of the way Mandy and the other girls were treated. The guys tended to be mean, playing pranks and mocking, and I hated being party to it, so I pursued individual realtionships, but remained detached from the group.

I spoke with her in passing when she worked behind the counter in the student dining room, and conversation came easily. She was open, with big eyes and a way of listening that made you feel understood. She remembered that I was looking for a job, and when she left her position in food service, she gave the spot to me. I saw her at Johnny Rocket's, working as a waitress sometimes. She told me stories about the famous people who came and went, and Ruthie and I stopped by for milkshakes on occasion.

I remember the way she said, "Mary McLeod Bethune," to me when we were talking about sociology class. It was such a distinct way to say the name, with a cadence that made me laugh. I don't know why this is one of the few things that stayed with me.

The last time I hung out with her was after we both left college. She traveled with the Andersons and me, and I rode in her car on the way back home. She told me about her new job as an elementary teacher and her new boyfriend. We joked about our old friends. I talked about why I had left Moody without graduating, and she told me how she had survived.

I remember at that point thinking that she would be a great friend to run into whenever God allowed. I saw her on her bike here and there after that, but never got the chance to catch up. I think it was three years ago.

I saw and read about the changes that grew her as I clicked around online. I also learned more about the accident. One news story chose to focus on the collision and bike safety. Instead of images of Mandy and accounts of her life, they showed her bicycle, bent and lying on its side. They showed the spiderweb that she left in the windshield. I left the computer to throw up when I saw this.

We went to see James in the house where Mandy's family was staying, and there was a feeling that everyone there had been kicked in the mouth. Everyone was wobbly, unstable, throbbing with pain. I had never seen a group of people respond to a death like this. When James arrived, he fell on the floor and wept loudly. Jesse held him, and I felt sick and out of place.

I felt as if I had no right to mourn. James tried his best to be caring and to address my pain, but this made me feel sicker, because he was in no position to offer comfort, and I felt at odds with my own grief.

This is the way death has always been for me. It waits at the fringes of my life and grabs friends who I lose sight of. Their loss hits me like a train, but I stagger forward, feeling that the distance robs me of the right to rest and address the wounds.

I wrote a song for Mandy in the following days. I wanted to leave home during that time, and to refuse the security I had been building over the years. I wanted to teach myself that no one would be around for much longer. I cried all the time, and I couldn't sleep.

I found little comfort at the funeral. There were beautiful moments, but I felt disgusted by the sermon, which jumped from this tragedy to an evangelistic call for conversion. I believed that Mandy went home, and that was worth stating, but it just seemed a little too forced to me.

Time went by. That's all I can say for the end of the story. James turned down my later offers to spend time together, I went back to cleaning fish tanks and eventually started sleeping again. We all went on without her.

I heard from her family about the trial of the driver who hit her. The cycling community in Chicago was calling for blood. An idiot I met at work alluded to her death as part of his tirade against cyclists, without knowing that she was my friend. I left because there was no room for my response.

I don't know or want to know what happened to the guy who hit her. I would hate to be on his end of this miserable accident.

I feel like Mandy would forgive him if she could, because her grace was what made her passing so jarring. The gap that she left will not be filled. Today, I thought of her again and cried again in the same way I did when I learned of her death.

She wrote a blog entry about the death of a squirrel, and the way it interrupted an otherwise beautiful day, and how people responded to it. It seemed relevant to me for a reason I can't quite place: Dead Squirrel

Crooked Scent

2008-08-31T20:37:00.000-07:00

Baby claws that gut the wall
Ants and flies in bathroom stalls
Pots and cans beat like drums
Wear that bandage round your thumb

And watch yourself around here

Lady Slossman cracks a smile
That grates like teeth under a file
Crooked gums scatter like hay
In a shot-up western fish filet

Just watch yourself around here
Just watch yourself around here
There's a crooked scent in the air
Just watch yourself around here

A bullet in the bull's charade
Longhorns lock the masquerade
A little lady on the promenade
A crook in the corner with the maid

You got to watch yourself around here

Stinks like sweat under every door
Death is a table set for four
You got the guns upon your hips
She got red bullets disguised as lips

Just watch yourself around here
Just watch yourself around here
There's a crooked scent in the air
Just watch yourself around here

Sunset for the glamazons
Leopard skins with feeling gone
Prostitutes with broken wills
Stale like whiskey rotting in stills

You better watch yourself around here

Slossman loved a dying man
Then unfolded like a fan
He chewed on her like a stick of gum
She sent him out with his own gun

Just watch yourself around here
Just watch yourself around here
There's a crooked scent in the air
Just watch yourself around here

Just watch yourself
Just watch yourself
Just watch yourself around here

Chicagotham

2008-07-23T21:41:00.000-07:00

Eric sat next to me in the theater, and felt me bounce every time I recognized something. That big clock, the Christian Science building, Navy Pier, Caribou coffee. The Dark Knight was awash with specific images of Chicago. They were mostly in the loop or along the gold coast, but I recognized them, and I felt homesick.

The Joker even mentioned Cicero, where I used to drive to pick Ruthie up when she flew in from Georgia. They showed the towering, rust colored beams on bridges over the Chicago River, where David and I flew from the railing and plunged into the icy water.

Ruthie and I used to sneak kisses on the catwalks under those bridges, and watch party boats slide under the grates. The beats from their speakers would drift up and it seemed that all these people in their suits and backless dresses were inches from our toes.

I saw the street that stretched from the hospital where Tad and Stephanie had their first baby down to the Fannie Mae building across the river. I saw that old clocktower that Tad and I used to race by on our bikes in the hours after the business district becomes a ghost town.

Batman's motorcycle emerged from the wreckage of the street underground, where Jonathan and I got lost, relocated, and then lost before finding Michigan Avenue and blasting past the buses on our way back North.

Most of the scenes were shot in the loop or in the gold coast, which are parts of my city that I avoid when I can. Ruthie took me to the hospital there after I tried to kill myself. I walked across the loop in shiny shoes with a briefcase, feeling like an imposter in this world. I drifted to bars feeling isolated and uptight.

Now we live out west a bit, where buildings shorten into neighborhoods, and children play in the street. Most of the year, the cold bites through my cheap coats, and I feel as if I will not survive one more year of this. I have felt this for six years, and a resignation has crept into my fingers, then into my arms, then right up through my chest, and I wanted this city to be home.

When Mandy died, I watched a news clip of the dent in the windshield of the car that sent her away. I saw her bike folded on that sidewalk in my city, and I decided that I would no longer claim a home. When Ruthie brought up the idea of leaving to go back to Atlanta, I knew that if I did not go, I would poison my feet with these streets.

So I will go back to the South, where I was last at war with the church. Where they laughed when I told them that Stephen died because they thought his name was funny. Where they always took my sarcasm to heart. Where I knew they did not want to know, but had to tell them anyway. I hated that place, and I fear returning, but it is next, and it must be done.

But this city, Chicago, tells you what it thinks of you and it sees you. It paints you in tones that drive you to grace or make you lose your mind. It is the perfect place for a dark knight, and it was the closest thing to a home I ever knew.

Mom picked me up from work today and brought me out to Wheaton. Eric bought our tickets to the movie, and we sat and watched. The plot went on as plots always do in movies, and the ideas were harped upon, although they barely hung together. We left talking about the Joker and arrived at my parents' apartment talking about why I would miss Chicago.

My friends will ask me what I thought of The Dark Knight, and I will answer them with a mixed review. If they ask me how I felt about it, that will be a different thing. I will tell them that I spent the movie composing a eulogy to the only place I ever felt at home.

Upon a Stone (Regarding the Untimely Death of Mandy Annis)

2008-05-03T21:53:00.000-07:00

Upon a stone I'll rest my head
Until I find that death is dead
I'll rest my head upon a stone

Amanda left a mark in glass
Twenty four years, a moment past
I'll rest my head upon a stone

She flees our grip in memory
We groan until we too are free
I'll rest my head upon a stone

I will never claim a home
Until my love unthreatened grows
I'll rest my head upon a stone

Queen of the Crows

2008-03-07T23:09:00.001-08:00

Down old fifty one by the side of the road
The beaks of six crows clutch a flat toad
They squawk and they squabble and hop on their toes
They pull it apart and they chew on its nose

At the sound of an engine, they take to the air
They flock and they scramble and scatter from there
They weave through the fields and into the trees
To lay that toad down at the feet of their queen

Hail now the queen of the crows
The ghost of my bride in the land of shadows

I see her in darkness drift by the window
She blinks out my vision then off she go
The outline of my love, the color of night
Her dark lover's wings hide her from light

I lost her years back to his nightmare scheme
He clawed through the window to darken her dreams
When she woke and cursed him, I thought I had won
But he took his time and she took my gun

Hail now the queen of crows
She rode a bullet to the land of shadows

Her casket closed, I saw her shape in the trees
As we stood around and wished her soul peace
I covered my eyes and prayed her away
Then cursed my fear and asked her to stay

The sun moved down and the first prayer was heard
She was lost in the sunset and the caw of a bird
That dark winged beast, he troubled my love
Then clothed in darkness my little white dove

Hail now the queen of crows
She took to the night and left me alone

If she tastes what dies at the side of the road
May her crows come for me like they came for that toad
May I fall in pieces at her majesty's feet
From old fifty one to a nightmare feast

In the town square, an old church bell rings
On a bright Sunday morning, the kinder birds sing
My ma goes to church and she bids me to come
But I wake up in a shadow and instead clean my gun

Black Cat

2008-03-07T22:46:00.001-08:00

A little black cat with a broken back
It crossed my path just yesterday
I heard him cry out from under my tire
Poor boy, he just wanted to play

I wrote a dirge by the dumpster
Where I tossed his twisted tail
I don't know why I started crying
Boy was skinny as a rail

Swing, swing low sweet chariot
Comin to carry me home
Swing, swing low sweet heavenly host
I feel so alone

Dropped from the sky down to Chicago
On Heaven's lonely path
I left the love of a young lady
And the Southern church's wrath

Shadows on the pavement
Mark where I went off the tracks
And my baby found me bleeding
In the alley with a broken back

Swing, swing low sweet chariot
Coming to carry me home
Swing, swing low sweet heavenly host
I feel so alone

Out, out on the Pacific
Where I dove on down that line
I saw a monster's massive shadow
Whose shape was undefined

Sixteen hundred dollars away
Where the snow falls fast and cold
I call out to that bastard
To find the fear that I sold

Swing, swing low sweet chariot
Coming to carry me home
Swing, swing low sweet heavenly host
I feel so alone

Heaven's in the dumpster
And the black cat's gone on home
Heaven's in the ocean's surge
And I follow it down this road

Swing, swing low sweet chariot
Coming to carry me home
Swing, swing low sweet heavenly host
I feel so alone

Heaven's down this long, cold road
Oh baby take me home

Stolen Car

2008-02-20T17:08:00.001-08:00

She don't mind the dust
How it gathers round her eyes

She don't mind the dust
Her shades double as disguise

Yeah she don't mind the dust
He said its the road or bust
But she's tired of making love on the run

She don't mind the bars
Where drunk men stare her down

She don't mind the bars
She'll even wear her little gown

She don't mind the bars
Her sweetheart promised the stars
But she's tired of making love on the run

She don't mind his dreams
And that he's running from the law

She don't mind his dreams
Because she had none at all

She don't mind his dreams
She even likes his crazy schemes
But she's tired of making love on the run

When this cowboy rode through
She did what she had to do

Well, when this cowboy rode through
She grinned and rode out too
In a stolen car from God knows who
She said, "it's me and you."

Well, when this cowboy rides today
She'll be going another way

She loved him wild and she loved him true
But she's tired of making love on the run

Hackberry Lane

2008-02-09T08:34:00.000-08:00

North of Chicago
On Hackberry Lane
Everyday people
Went completely insane

It started with Ed
On the end of the block
He danced in the snow
In only his socks

They had him committed
And his lonely old wife
Took to carving wierd symbols
In trees with a knife

In less than one week
On Hackberry Lane
Every last person
Went completely insane

The kids from next door
Couldn't sleep well at night
So they went to home depot
And bought thousands of lights

They hung them from wires
Made a neon cascade
For the neighbors on Wolcott
Night seemed like day

They called the police
Said on Hackberry Lane
All our friendly neighbors
Are going insane

Well the coppers rolled up
Flashing blue and red
And they found in the lawns
People dressed up for bed

Mrs. Bender and Johnston
Had frostbitten toes
Mr. Johnston and Bender
Wore ghetto cornrows

The police called for backup
On Hackberry Lane
Where everyday people
Went completely insane

They cleared them all out
And locked them away
And the houses were empty
By the arrival of day

Well years have gone by
And nobody knows
Why the neigbors went mad
In this quiet grove

Now no one buys houses
Down on Hackberry Lane
Where everyday people
Went completely insane

Love Moved Away

2008-01-31T17:04:00.000-08:00

She's so suspicious
She does the dishes
With one eye on the TV
And one eye on me

She's so untrusting
She does her dusting
With one eye on the TV
And one eye on me

She gets ideas when she watches the tube
She gets the idea that I just can't be true

But I can
And I am
Way too ugly
To find someone else

She watches soap operas
She watches all day
She cleans and she watches
While I'm away

She watches the talk shows
Where the rednecks go fight
She sees all the cheaters
Get caught out at night

She gets these ideas when she watches the tube
She gets the idea that I just can't be true

But I can
And I am
Way too lazy
To find someone else

We married in high school
Then both gained some weight
We built this here home
And then love moved away

Now she kills time at the TV
And I share my heart with a beer
We wait for love to drop by
And catch up on all them years

So she gets ideas when she watches the tube
She gets the idea that I just can't be true

But I can
And I am
Just too patient
To find someone else

Songs!

2008-01-27T20:01:00.001-08:00

I have found a way to overcome my musical ineptitude and pursue my burning desire to write songs!

My friends Todd and Jonathan have agreed to work together, so I whip up the lyrics and they take care of the music. So far, the resulting pieces have been beautiful. Below are the words for three that we've been developing lately.

When recordings of these are available, I'd like to attach them to these posts so that my readers can enjoy the whole package. Until then, maybe you can put them to music yourself and let me know how they sound.

Old Bob

2008-01-27T20:00:00.001-08:00

There goes old Bob, at the edge of the bog
Right down the boardwalk and into the fog

He comes out of nowhere, he leaves just the same
He pays no attention to the kids with their games
He walks with his stench past the bench where I smoke
He grins at young ladies but ignores normal folks

There goes old Bob, smelling like must
With his corduroy coat and his knuckles like rust

He clops past today with a moan and a grunt
He falls to the planks and curls up like a lump
His corduroy coat starts to rip in the back
Two feathers emerge, shimmering black

There lies old Bob, writhing in pain
He's growing his wings, but they're dark as a stain

He cries out to me with a whimper and reach
He turns up his face and it's white as a sheet
A few minutes go by, and he slumps by the edge
Big wings sprawled out, he looks like he's dead

There rises old Bob, one old joint at a time
Tucks up his wings and goes on down his line

He never once looks at his monstrous new limbs
As he spreads them wide and pulls them in again
Old Bob, he won't fly, he just hobbles away
With two shadows of glory in dark display

There went old Bob, no point to his pain
Got some new wings just to walk home again

At the End of that Cord

2008-01-27T19:59:00.000-08:00

At dawn tomorrow
The snap steals my sorrow
Oh lordy lord
At the end of that cord

I loved my dear lady
She gone yesterday
I played by the rules
Cheater took her away

May justice be swift
And God take me quick
Oh lordy lord
At the end of that cord

I followed her there
With a blade in my pants
I laid her to rest
In the dust and the ants

May the earth have its way
When they take me away
Oh lordy lord
At the end of that cord

I went to my preacher
For some kind of help
He called the sherriff
Said I's going to hell

May the Lord hide his face
When I meet my disgrace
Oh Lordy Lord
At the end of that cord

If I meet my maker
When my neck finds its place
I'll tell him she killed me
And the noose gave me grace

Oh lordy lord
At the end of that cord
I met my grace
At the end of that cord

Jesus Coming Back

2008-01-27T19:57:00.000-08:00

Let the flapjacks burn, mama
Go call officer Bernard
The pebbles are starting to churn, mama
Out in our back yard

See, Jesus comin back to a world full of sin
He built these rocks, he can break em again

Let the water run, mama
Call the national guard
The mountains startin to shake, mama
Out past our back yard

See Jesus comin back to a world full of sin
He built these hills, he gonna break em again

He's comin through the clouds, mama
With a fire in his eyes
He's got a big old sword, mama
I shoulda never told them lies

See, Jesus comin back to a world full of sin
He build this dry ground, he gonna break it again

The walls are coming down now
And mama ain't around
I can scream all that I want now
They won't hear me in town

See Jesus coming back to a world full of sin
He built these people, now he gonna break em again

The Great American Inheritance

2007-10-05T10:45:00.000-07:00

Here we came over the airwaves!
Drop celebrities like an air raid!
Hyperanimated contaminants, the great American inheritance
We import our extremes to put the third world in a trance

I was a god to the native population
Before I even got back from deputation
With Hasselhoff as our ambassador
They thought Pam Anderson was at the door

I step off the plane like just another kid with my kin
But they didn't see anything but the color of my skin
Buddy en Sol are just another likely camera figment
But they like us because we share a different pigment

At Trickum Middle, I grew darker and bitter
Made it in just to be the awkward fiddle in the litter
Eighth grade in hell, ninth in purgatory
Back to Manila, well now that's a different story

A giant with blond hair, Larry Bird on the court
Catch every ladies eye when I'm at the beach resort
I always hated basketball, was never very smooth
Never wanted to be a star and have you watch my every move

Hoy pinoy, patayin ang imong boob tube
You're fading fast under the color of our groove
Last time I came to visit, got surrounded at Shoe Mart
An unworthy hero who just wanted a few guitar parts

I witnessed drastic damage the last time I saw your shores
The barrios got trampled to make way for franchise stores
Your dalagitas got defiled as white-supported whores
And you sold your refrigerator to get our TV in your doors

God called my parents, so I went. A child of three
Back and forth between two countries with a mixed identity
I didn't do it, I just watched, but I still don't understand
Why you only took the poison out of Uncle Sam's big hand

Lights in City Windows

2007-09-26T17:28:00.001-07:00

It was the same feeling in every city except Manila. The plane dropped through the clouds in evening above the little lights of Sydney or Chicago or Atlanta or so on. They dotted the land in big arcs, grids, and clusters. They drew circles on silos and sidewalks after hours.

In the airports, relatives or friends from my parents' supporting churches would meet us near the baggage claim, and after all the hellos and hugs and which bags are yours, we walked out of the place to ride in strange cars.

I remember that the air of the city always smelled crisp and slightly cooler. In a daze, I watched everything roll by. To me, the places we arrived in were always shells of metal or brick with millions of mysterious lives hiding inside.

Today the temperature changed. As I drove home from work, I got that same eerie feeling. Like Chicago had some ominous secret it was hiding from me. Instead of friends or family ushering me in, I was in my own car, caught in a terrifying current.

It's weird trying to create a sense of home, because I faithfully give myself to this place and its people, but then some days it coils back and hangs over me like a shadow, reminding me that I'll never really feel like I belong in the place I live.

Bluecollar Bohemian

2007-09-11T21:00:00.000-07:00

Let the ship sink, darling.

These are dark days awash with the sun
We are the few, the broke, the bluecollar bohemians
We are a rage, a lark, a dark way of having fun
A parked gun in the hip socket of the moonlight run

We are the fish people, the children of the dollar
We are the mastheads of the fleas that killed the collar
Not a cent, not a dime, it costs nothing to find a rhyme
Not a cent, not a dime, will I make when I write my lines

Shake it off, jump the hedge
Slip the system, reach the edge
The shadows reach up from the depth
Grab my ankles, scream regrets

I am a bluecollar bohemian
A little left of love

Let the ship sink

Justice

2007-09-03T17:38:00.000-07:00

He is a man with seven children, ruled with an iron fist. A leader in his church. He lost a son recently and sang praises through tear-filled eyes at the funeral. He is a hero to those who saw him. Except me.

I know what he did to this son, who loved his seven siblings. Daddy used this love as leverage, threatening with excommunication from the family, labeling adolescense as the work of the evil one, and calling judgement down from God.

I know this man, and cringed when he shook my hand at the funeral and spit his praises to God. I love his son like a brother and his brother loves the six who are left, and the father never learned his lesson. Now the six are leverage again until my friend, a grown man with a child of his own, forces his wife to apologize for speaking her mind about the oppression.

The six are grieving for their brother under the condemnation of their father, and my friend will buckle because he loves them.

Some speak of justice and they are thankful that God will burn the unwed mothers and gay men and all those liberals and etc, etc.

When I call for justice, it will be for the strong men who so proudly claim the name of the lord as they destroy the lives of their children.

The God I fear is the one they paint for me, who upholds their wickedness and sanctions abuse for the glory of His name.