Never Been to Canada

    I left Massachusetts on Saturday and slept just south of Burlington VT at some hardware store parking lot. I woke up and played music for gas money, temps in the upper 30's and no one interested in my songs. After thirty minutes and one dollar, I paid two for gas and finished my way to Burlington where I skipped around town trying to make money to move on. After trying two separate grocery stores, I hit big at K-Mart, afforded a half tank of gas, and hit the road. North of town, heading toward the state border with New York, I played music and earned enough to fill up half a tank again further down the road. I played one more time after the sun went down and managed enough money to, after one more sleep in the car, buy enough gas to finish the trip to Niagara Falls.
    I went directly to the Falls and watched the water rush over rocks and trees and barrel over the ledge into a mist, whirlpool at the bottom, and churn out to the Niagara River. I stopped by the duty free shop to check prices, then by a tourist shop for walking directions across the border. I then left for my car to make a call from some place with internet (since my computer is my phone) but because I didn't find a place from where to call, I decided to try my luck crossing the border, never expecting what happened.
    At 1:30 my friend expected some word from me about where to meet, but at this time I was in line for Border Patrol. The lady stopped me and asked several questions, some of the questions several times. "How long will you stay? Who's car is this? Why are you going to Canada? How long will you stay?" so forth. I never thought lying to people with a badge does me good. Once they have my name and passport, they have more information about me than I have. So I answered her questions honestly, and looked her in the eye as I did so, and she sent me to section "A" where three, and then four men, and then a dog, searched my car, bound and determined that I was doing something wrong.
    They rampaged my car. Everything I organized in the morning, they dragged out. "Pull your hands out of your pockets" I was told, so that the dog could sniff for drugs or bomb residue, I don't know. The cop and dog walked away. I put my hands back in my pockets. They came back. "Pull your hands out of your pockets," he said again, and the dog started sniffing. "I'm not going to tell you again." I was a bit taller than him, but looked dead into his lowered eyelids waiting for him to look up. I wanted to tell him that I had, and that he and his dog walked away, and that he didn't need to be rude; that I'm cooperating. He didn't look up. Seems officers of the law don't want to see their suspects' eyes. They might see we're people.
    "Why are you going to Canada?" "I'm trying to meet a friend." "How do you know this person?" "We met in Korea when we taught over there." "He's expecting you?" "She is, yes." "She's a girl? Does your girlfriend know you're going to visit a girl?" "Yes." "And she's okay with that?" Oh thank God I'm not as uptight as these guys. After they kept barking up that tree, finally I said, "Look, it's no one's fault she's got a vagina." They all became defensive and dropped the issue.
    Of course they found nothing. I did nothing wrong. The suspicions had risen due to the car's expired registration, which expired the month prior during my road trip with Rory. Also, the car is Rory's, not mine. And finally, I have no license. I understand suspicion, yet I explained everything honestly. After they shoved my belongings with no respect for my property, no respect for me as a person, but something that, once suspected, is always suspect; after shoving it all back in the car, they sent me inside to finish going through the border, now roughly 2:00.
    The guy, my age at the oldest, asked the same questions. I answered, looking him in the eye. He looked up and away frequently. The officer beside him made a joke about how many staplers they had. I joined the joke. She didn't appreciate my addition. I was, after all, suspect. "The car's not yours, it's not registered, you only have 10 dollars," he continued listing all the things that did not look right. Despite my honesty, they didn't believe me, so I made clear my dissatisfaction. "I'm sure glad I don't have to be so presumptuous, assuming everyone I meet is bad." Then I felt bad judging him this way. It's his job. I suppose there's a lot on his shoulders should something go awry, so I said this: "But, I guess you have to be for this job." He handed me my passport and sent me to my car where another officer led me back around in the direction of the US.
    I laughed on my way back, thinking, That was ridiculous. I gotta go call Emma. I thought I was back in the US, then I came up to US border patrol.
    "Passport? This your car?" "No, it's my girlfriend's." "You got a driver's license?" "No." "Turn the car off." I turned the car off. He made a call. Men from all directions came over, told me to step out, and took me inside US Customs, now 2:30. Clouds rolled into Niagara.
    Inside they asked me all the same questions. What was I doing in Canada? "Trying to see a friend, but they wouldn't let me in." Who's car is it? "My girlfriend's" and I tried to explain that we had been traveling together, then she went ahead to NM and I would catch up after I played my shows around the US. They typed away in their computers as I sat and waited, asking everyone around for a cigarette. Situations like this call for a cigarette, for some people. Everyone told me "They're not good for you." "Neither is sitting and waiting in this place," I told them.
    After a while waiting with no update as to what was happening, I was taken aside. Another officer, my age at the oldest, opened a door and told me to step inside. "May I ask why?" Another officer grabbed my body and shoved me in. I had no explanation. Then, "Because I told you to. Now put your hands on the wall and spread your legs." I'm not intimidated by anyone, I don't care how big you are, what you look like, or how shiny your badge is, you are not better than me, not bigger than me, not worth more than me. Goddamn it, I am a human being and so are you. I'm not bigger, not better, not worth more than you, so no one intimidates me. I kept asking questions. "I don't know why you're doing this." "You don't need to." "I deserve to know why you're treating me this way." "Because I said so, okay? You're gonna make me lose my patience." I looked him in the eyes saying all this. I believe honesty comes from the eyes. "I don't know why you grabbed me and threw me in here like that. I just wanted to know why I had to step in." Meanwhile the other man is patting my legs and groin, sides and chest, and so on. "We don't have time to deal with your bullshit!" "I just want an explanation why you've thrown me in a room and are now patting me down." "So that when the state trooper gets here to arrest you, he knows you don't have any weapons."
    There's news to me. "I'm going to be arrested?" I questioned with a sort of half laugh. I've done nothing wrong. No registration? No license? That's not arrestable. They took me out of the room and led me to a glass cage where sat one other man. I stood in holding, to wait, as long as border patrol felt like holding me there, because "indefinite detentions" are legal now on the federal level - beat them terrorists; to wait for them to get around to calling the State Trooper and him to arrive.
    The other man was Thomas, a German with a blood condition, who spoke little English. I saw his swollen legs and arms. An officer came in at one point and told him, "You get a free flight home." Thomas rubbed his face and head in an expression of "I can't believe this is happening." Cops are good at giving people bad news in an arrogant, "Isn't this great?" kind of a tone.
    I couldn't keep still. I had to keep moving and not let the nonsense sink in. I paced. I counted the holes in the chair beside me. Twenty four triangle holes faced one direction. Twenty one faced the other. The triangles were small and made little rows, two rows equaling forty five, and, on the flat part of the chair, there were ten couples of rows.
I buck-step danced. I sang folk songs. "And I ain't gonna be treated this-a way." I inspected the caulk job around the windows and doors. The window facing the immigration desk looked to have been caulked from the top left corner to the right. Then the builder went down the left side, down the right side, and finished on the lower seam, left to right. I looked out the window that faced the border patrol booths. The sun hid behind clouds and rain started falling.
    Eventually, the state trooper arrived. "How's it goin'?" he asked. "Well." I looked around the glass box. He laughed. "I hear ya." He asked about my residence. I told him I have a last residence, but that I'm traveling now. "No permanent residence?" "No." Older than me, he had a young, clean-shaven face and dark eyes. Probably my brother's age. He was short and broad. Not fat, but a tough build. He was polite."Okay," he said. "Give me a minute to work this out."
    He and another border agent, who looked a little younger than me, stepped back out of the cell. The cell was not sound proof. I could hear all the noise and a lot of chatter outside. I could hear them laughing that I have no permanent address.
    The trooper disappeared and I waited. He came back, came in, and he looked me in the eyes as he explained what would happen. "Because the registration's out on the car and you have no license and no permanent address, so we can't get a hold of you later, I'm gonna have to place you under arrest so we can work this out." "Arrest me?" I questioned, again with a sort of half-laugh. He had the same expression I had. "May I use the bathroom first?" He allowed it. They led me to the bathroom, blocking my route to the exit, as if I would try to get away. I peed. I washed my hands. I put my hands behind my back. He put the cuffs around my wrists. They asked me to identify the car. A different border agent, bout my age, led me outside and I could feel his hand trembling. The rain fell steadily. "Yep. That's Peter." They gave me what little cash I had, per the recommendation of the state trooper, so that when I was released from jail, I would at least have some money with me. They put it in my personal affects, with my passport and empty wallet, the citations I received, and a few other items of no value.
    The trooper led me to his car, opened the door, said, "Watch your head." I ducked in. He shut the door. He reached into the front passenger door and moved the seat up. "Thank you," I told him.
    He asked me all the same questions, out of curiosity, on the way to see a judge. I gave him all the same information I gave five or six people already. He explained that sometimes Border Patrol holds people for five hours before calling the troopers because they work on different protocol and can hold anyone indefinitely, until they get around to moving the process forward. Troopers are annoyed by them because when Border Patrol doesn't know what to do with someone they detain, like me, they call the Troopers, but this is sometimes five hours after the fact.
    We reached the court house. I sat in the holding cell. The trooper talked to the judge, then came back for me. I went to talk to the judge. He did all the talking. I said yes and okay as necessary and trusted him to make the decisions for me. He was genial and looked an honest man. "Your sentencing is at 5:30 tomorrow. I'm setting your bail at 250." After the meeting, the trooper took me to the county jail. We waited for the Correctional Officers to let us in. I asked the trooper his name, "Officer?" "Cruz," he said. "Okay." They let us in.
    One officer was cold, the other polite enough. They emptied my pockets, took my shoes, checked my mouth for anything hidden. They took my bracelet and removed the nine dollars from my bag of belongings from border patrol. I held a nickel in my pocket from 1946. The officer put that with my cash, deposited it somewhere, and wrote how much they would owe me once I was released; if I was released. "Ah, that nickel was from 1946," I told him. "That's more like a keepsake." "Wayta speak up," he said. "I didn't know you were gonna take it from me. It's mine, after all." The other officer let slip a slight chuckle. Nothing more was said.
    After the meet and greet, they knew that I was traveling to play music, trying to get to Ohio for a show in two days. The officer who took my nickel said, "Guitar? That's the one instrument I never taught myself how to play." "What do you play?" I asked. "Trumpet, saxophone, cornet, clarinet, and piano." "Well, you can go down to New Orleans and start yourself a jazz band," I said. "How would I play all those instruments?" "Well, you could at least find someone to play guitar for you."
    I went to a back room, gave them all my clothes, shoes, socks, underwear, everything, and they handed me a white t-shirt four sizes too big, briefs that claimed XL, but must have been fat kid XL, not adult size, white socks, white Chuck Taylors, and a blue jump suit.
    Before leading me to my cell, one officer asked if I was hungry. I said yes and he handed me a tray and sat me in a holding cell. The food was terrible and got my gag reflexes working. I rinsed my mouth with water and he led me back out. "May I make a phone call?" "Yeah, sure," and he pointed me to the phone, but it didn't work. He said, "I can get in trouble for letting you use this phone. You got one minute." I called Rory.
    I laid my thin mattress on the narrow bench in the holding cell and set my blanket beside me and sat down. Three other mattresses laid in the cell. The others were enjoying their free time in a slightly larger, glass box, instead of the small cinder block cell. I looked around. Globs of dry toilet paper stuck to the air vent, six pickles stuck to the ceiling, and ketchup stains spattered the ceiling tiles. I dozed off and jerked straight awake when the others came back in. One was in jail for being shot. He must have riled up some part of that situation. One had turned himself in. That was Dan. He's trying to get clean. The other, McCarty, I don't know why he was there. Maybe drugs. He laughed a lot and sounded positive, but his eyes were so sad. He hurt. You could see it if you took the time to look at him. There was some chit chat, then we all dozed off, woke up when another guy was brought in. It's hard to sleep in jail. Eventually, you sleep because your body simply cannot stay awake any longer. I had wildly vivid, euphoric, colorful dreams. An all white cell is a blank canvas.
    The next morning we had breakfast out of the same trays as the night before, washed of course, with five separate sections. Cereal, milk, juice, two hard-boiled eggs, two slices of bread, and some kind of buttery something. McCarty traded his juice for an extra egg. When the CO came back around for our trays, McCarty took the extra egg off my tray, and the two from Dan that he didn't want. He ate them all. Later in the morning he told us he ate a pack of creamer earlier just because he was bored. I wondered if he thought it would get him some kind of high.
    We sat all day in the cell and talked around. I found out that the three original guys had been there for five days, because they came in on Friday, paper work is not filed over the weekend, and Veteran's day is a federal holiday, so no paper work was filed then, either. The station was backed up on paper work and the officers ran around feeding the inmates and leading them to their new homes upstairs; not holding cells, but jail cells with a common area and TV, or the "Dorms," or the "Pads." McCarty asked, "So what do you do?" "I play music," I told him. "What kind?" "Like old folk songs, traditional stuff. I call em lift-ya up songs." He nodded along. "My favorite song," I said, "is This Land is Your Land." I paused. "So that's kinda ironic." He burst out laughing. "This guys funny!"
    McCarty was called later and told he would go to the dorms. He got really down about it, but I wasn't clear why. The other guys tried to buck him up, saying it's not so bad and probably only temporary. Dan was called to see the judge and gone for a couple hours. The other guy, Chris, I think, he hung around as I did, and the guy who showed up late the night before laid on the floor sleeping. A lot of guys pass the time this way.
    I paced and danced and hummed songs. I counted blocks in the wall outside my cell. Forty nine in one section with thirty full blocks and nineteen partial blocks. I counted the squares in the grates on the windows, but after 200 my eyes went blurry and I didn't feel like counting them again. I tore threads out of the mattress and made braids. The guy on the floor was called out and went somewhere. I watched inmates in horizontally striped uniforms doing chores outside and wished I could do that to pass the time. Dan eventually came back and said that the judge went real easy on him; that he only had three weeks there. Later, he and Chris went their ways. Chris was bummed that he was going to the "blocks" and Dan was thrilled to be going to the last open "Pad." The jail was overcrowded and finding a place for all the inmates was difficult. Dan told Chris it's probably only temporary. "Be there two days or somethin, man, they'll move ye, man. It ain't bad man. Good behavior, man, you'll move outta there. It ain't so bad there, anyway, man. Least it ain't this place."
    I was the only one left in the cell. The officer said, "Move to this cell, I wanna clean this one out." I moved next door and met Mosus.
    Mosus was on parol for a DUI when he was caught earlier in the day drinking on top of the roof of a house he just finished putting shingles on. "My girlfriend's gonna be pissed," he explained. "She doesn't drink, doesn't smoke. Man, she's still a virgin. That's hard to find these days. I'm trying to be better, you know, but she's gonna be pissed." He's out of the army and served 6 deployments around the world, mostly to the Middle East. He said he's bilingual. His last name's Garcia. "You speak Spanish?" I asked. "Man, it's fucked up, but I think my Arabic is better than my Spanish now." Mosus is my age. He seemed to cut up a lot and laugh, but as the day drew long, so did his eyes. He kept rubbing them. Then, come to think of it, so did I. In stressful situations, my eyes itch to no end and burn, like some sort of terrible allergy. I'm allergic to stress. Maybe that was his problem, but looking at his milk-chocolate brown eyes, they didn't look as jovial as he expressed. Jail humor is heavy. No one wants to be there, no matter who's there with you.
    Mosus talked about how crowded the jail was. "Crack heads're checking in for the winter."
    The day dragged on with no way to pass the time. I was eventually called to change from my blue jump suit to an orange one for my date with the judge. I changed and went back to my cell. My excitement to move the process along dwindled as I waited and waited and waited for another hour and a half or so - who's to say? There's no clock in the cell.
    I paced the floor. I sat, closed my eyes, and breathed. I sang. I buck-stepped. I made faces in the mirror. I measured the room. Nine of my paces long. From one side to the other, four paces. From one wall to the toilet, three paces. From the same wall to the sink, four paces. The benches are six of my paces long. I didn't stand on top of them to see how many paces wide they were, but they're just benches. Big enough for your back side and so that you got a little more space at night when you're trying to sleep on them not to fall off.
    They finally called me to go to court. A short CO with dark hair and dark mustache, bout my age, told me what to do. "Put your hands up," but I didn't know what he was talking about and did it wrong. "Don't act like you never done this." "I haven't," I told him. I looked at his eyes, only saw eyelids. Inmates are people - no matter how skewed or screwed up their lives and habits are, they are people. Officers are not supposed to believe that. "I haven't," I told him. "Bullshit." "Bullshit?" "That's what I said." "What makes you say bullshit?" "Because I said it. Now shut your mouth." "But it's not bullshit." "What did I tell you?" he said. "Come over here." He jerked me to the side, tightened the handcuffs, then said, "No, I don't think those are tight enough," and he tightened them again. "Turn around and lean against there and lift your right leg." So I did, but I turned the wrong way. He wanted my stomach to the desk, not my back. He was extremely upset I did this wrong. I didn't care. I meant no harm, just new at the game. I got it right. He shackled my ankles. "I can't wait till you come back tonight," he told me. "Is that a threat?" I asked. "What did I tell you?" I looked at his face. He looked away. "Pull your hands to your stomach and hold this up. Hold it up!" He wrapped a chain around my waist to hold my wrists in place. My hands pulled into my gut and the chain choked my spine. It ached my back and made breathing difficult, because I wanted to be treated like a human and he didn't want to treat me that way; and he wore the piece of brass on his chest that says he can treat people however he wants.
    Me and one other guy, bright with orange jump suits and plenty of glittering metal around us, headed outside to the car to visit the judge. Before I went out, the CO who cuffed me asked, "Gore, you comin' back tonight?" I shrugged. I said, "I don't know." "Oh, I hope so." "Why's that?" I asked. "I wanna talk."
    The squad car barreled toward the courthouse. Three kittens in the road moved to the side. One didn't make it completely off the road. The cop driving swerved at it.
    I walked out in front of a courtroom full of spectators waiting for their family members who sat back at the jail I came from, to come for their hearings. The judge looked at me and called the Public Defender over. "Brian," he said, "You're here for two traffic violations. Expired registration and driving without a license. This is Mr. Hochstram. He's going to represent you." He called in the prosecutor. He told the two men to go make a decision and told me to go wait. I waited. The other guy went for his hearing. I was called back in not five full minutes later. "Brian," the judge said. "We've decided that, for the registration citation, this will be dropped. For driving without a license, that will be changed to a parking violation and the fine is deferred, which means you don't have to pay it. Does this sound good to you?" "Yes your honor." "For the charge of a parking violation, how do you plead?" I didn't hear him quite clear. I looked at the PD. He looked at me anxiously, as if saying, Don't blow this! and told me "Guilty." "Guilty," I said. "Okay, Brian. For the parking violation, you plead guilty. You do not have to pay the fine. Get yourself out of this town." "Yes sir," I said.
    I was a free man. I was a free man wearing an orange jump suit and tight chains and cuffs. As the driver began backing out he stopped and talked to another cop. "This stupid mother fucker just stopped in the middle of the road behind me." I looked back and saw a middle-aged man looking at a folder full of paperwork stood in the parking lot. "Move on, old man," the cop said to the other cop. "Fuckin guy just stopped there like an idiot."
    I went back to the jailhouse and the CO who sent me out told me to go to the showers and take my clothes off. I stood as naked as I came into this world. "Turn this way and lift up your hands." I did. "Lift your junk." I did. "Turn around, bend over, spread your ass and cough." I thought I was just getting my belongings and heading out of that hell, but that wasn't the case. My confusion slowed the process, so the CO got upset. After showing him my flexed asshole, I changed back into a blue jumpsuit. I realized that's more humiliating for him than for me. He led me back to my cell with Mosus and we talked a bit.
    I tried not to seem so elated, but I was. I was ready to be out, even though I didn't know where my car was, that didn't matter. I had no place to sleep, that didn't matter. Freedom is not about certainty, but it's looking at the stars and feeling the cold and dealing with life best you can no matter the circumstances. Staying positive when everyone around you tries to break your spirit. This is freedom, chains or no. But it was cold outside. Very cold. I was at least ten miles from town. That didn't matter to me. I would not be stuck in there under the control of men who think I am less than them. Yet, I had to wait for them to file the paper work, which took another two hours. I grew impatient and every time an officer walked by, I asked when I could leave. The cell filled up with more guys. One guy, then another, then two more, and I kept asking when I could leave. The last time, the officer shouted at me. "Every fuckin' time we open the door you ask! You'll wait here until we get the paperwork filed!"
    I hung out with the five other guys in the cell. One laid with his eyes closed. The rest of us cut up, chit-chatted about this or that, told stories, laughed. Finally, I was taken out.
    I changed. They gave me my belongings and a check for nine dollars and five cents, the money they deposited the night before. The CO who cuffed me before court helped me figure out where to go. It was nice, it was big of him to change his attitude toward me after being so rude. He even looked at me. But it told me something. If you are in jail, you are suspect. You are no more than something to shove around and bully until you are allowed to leave, and only then are you given a modicum of respect. It doesn't matter if you are guilty or not. You are treated as a criminal until you are proven not one, or until some other person, who is only a person, decides your time in jail is up.
    The Sergeant told the CO who yelled at me to give me a ride to the Community Mission, the homeless shelter. The one good CO told me "Good luck." "Thanks," I said. "Same to you."
    I stayed the night at the shelter. They were very gracious. Very welcoming. Bridgette signed me in. She was sweet, gentle, told me the rules, and gave me some linens. A guy staying at the shelter reminded me of the bright orange inmate bracelet I wore and suggested I take it off. "You don't really wanna bring that attention to yourself." "Thanks," I said. "I forgot about it." I replaced the bracelet my girlfriend gave me.
    I went to my room and made my bed, then took a shower. I met the man in the room with me. "Tyrone" he said his name was. He was 57, trying to get his life on track, tired of staying at his parents home, "I gotta be smarter with my money, man. Y'know? Gotta make better decisions." After my shower I got in bed and fell asleep pretty quick. I slept on the top bunk. The guy below me came in later. He tossed and turned something fierce and later in the night got into a coughing fit that lasted till daylight. He shook the bunk so hard it felt like a tree fort in a hurricane. I nearly fell off the bed. With some water and the blood flowing in the morning, his coughing settled.
    I met Dorothy in the morning and told her my dilemma. Dorothy is one of the people in charge of the shelter. "I need to get a Western Union from my girlfriend so I can get my car out of the pound." "Well I'll take you when we go for errands. I gotta take the others, so you can just come too." We made the arrangements and I stepped out and read a while.
    Everyone went for their meal tickets and had a nice, simple breakfast with hot coffee. I sat with Tyrone. He has a daughter and a son. They must be about my age now.
    After breakfast I went with Dorothy on errands. We cashed my check, then she took me back to get a Western Union. After the money was wired, I called the mission and Dorothy came back to take me to my car. I asked her on the way, "How long has the mission been here?" "Eighty years," she said. "Is it called Community Mission? Or is it Hiawatha Inn?" "Some people still call it the Hiawatha Inn, but it's called Community Mission. It was called Hiawatha Inn a long time ago because of the Indian trails around here. They named it after the Native Americans." "How long have you worked there?" "Twenty years," she told me. "Wow, that's awesome." "Twenty of those eighty years," she said with a serene smile, her quiet pride.
    "There it is," I said. "Niagara towing." She dropped me off. "Good luck," she said. "Thank you," I told her. I didn't know how to express what I thought of her. Her life is giving. She is patient with the people she deals with. I watched her. And she is stern with them. I saw her do that too. She is kind and forgiving and she does not judge. She said, "You're welcome." I stood out of the van, then ducked back in with my hands out, speechless. I looked at her again. "Thank you." She smiled and said goodbye.
    I waited for the tow truck guy to return from wherever he was. He wouldn't let me have my car. "Man, I gotta get outta town." My frustration built. I told him the whole situation. He said, "I cannot release the car to you without a notarized letter from the car's owner saying she releases it to you." We went back and forth. "Man, I've been honest with everyone I've met and I'm just tired of no one believing me." "I believe you," he said. "It's just that," he paused. "Just that this is how it's done so that if something does happen, the company's not liable, which means then it would fall on me." That's not faith, but I said nothing more. He let me borrow his phone and everything was arranged, the registration and notarized release to be faxed to the office. He was as helpful as he could be. I got off the phone. "You got an extra cigarette?" He shook his empty pack, then pulled one out of his new pack and handed it to me, then a lighter. "Thank you," I said.
    He had a call to go on. I asked where to get coffee and went. Two and a half hours later the paper work came through, he gave me my car and directions out of town and I got the hell outta dodge.

Song of Praise

Men of mastery, wail
your wooden-handled hammers down.
I sing for you a song of pride
for you are busy well into night.

Build up and upon, men.
Your labors are blessings,
that you offer your knowledge
and build cities for growing.

From your brow drips
a dirty bead of sweat.
Your tired limbs never show
the exhaustion found in your furrowed brow.

I sing for you, men of labor
offering your bodies to toil.
I do not envy what you do
but sing a song of praise for you.

It Wasn't What You Wished it Was

In war, people die, so, in this sense, you are right. But the war you say is being waged is not against family. "Family" is not dying. It's not even changing. Love is love and what makes a Family? Who is dying? It's the people you say are waging war against your constructs. It's the junior high and high school students, adults who do not have anywhere to turn to cope; who plead for acceptance, love, understanding; who you declare are declaring war. They kill themselves - maybe they're already dead, having to struggle inwardly with what no one wants to talk about openly. Or they are murdered for being different. I have not waged war. My bisexual friends have not waged war. My gay friends have not waged war. Yet we are bombarded by ridicule, judgment, and claims that we are attacking you and your lifestyles. Do you hear yourself?
The term War is overused in our society. It makes for a deadening of the word itself. Its overuse causes us all to believe that war is easier than it is and, frankly, to say that the LGBT community is waging war within the context of the terrorists killing thousands of people (the email I received, subject line: Real War in America, Sept. 10) is extremely offensive and irresponsible.
You know the Bible, possibly better than I do, but to use it in defense of your cause while ignoring the other parts that talk the same way about eating bloody meat, eating shellfish, wearing clothing that is made of two different materials - you know this list is very long - is to pick and choose what suits your mission. It focuses on a single group of people and casts them as outsiders, sinners - and truthfully, there are many other issues that Jesus himself did condemn that you tend to ignore and refuse to distinguish as Biblically sinful. Why? I don't know. What I do know is that no one is trying to change you or others, but pleading for what Jesus did actually talk about: peace, love, and understanding. What you go after is based on your presumptions.
You cast your sticky net over the group of people with whom you disagree while ignoring the people Jesus disagreed with: the rich, the violent, the lawmakers and crooks. No one is attacking you. Stop pretending you are threatened. Dismount the high horse from where you hurl your remarks and get your hands dirty understanding the people who suffer from the remarks you hurl. Maybe, hopefully, you will realize that love is greater than your own cause; but if you cannot do this, please, at least recognize the absurdity of calling homosexuals' request for acceptance a War.

ain't it strange

ain't it strange
how it seems
no one thing
is lasting

ain't it strange
to know
that to die
something must first grow

build it up build it high
investments will take you to heaven

ain't it strange
to think
that a single soul is bigger
than any nation you can imagine

is it strange
for me
to believe whole-heartedly
in you and me

we can grow before we die
knowing it doesn't matter where our dead bodies lie

Song of Joy

Pour the wine to my gullet
so it may, through my blood,
reach the ends of my fingers.
Then hand me my six-string.

Pitch the voice to that of joy
the key doesn't matter
and heckle me with laughter
I do not do this for mastery.

yodelayhee-you-hoo-oh-dee-lay-yo

sing with me the psalms of joy
rejoice the life of boys with toys
the bat and ball, swimming at the waterfall
we sing songs, sing and play

yodelay-hee-yo-hoo-hoo-ha-hee

If I don't think of cynics
and instead think of your smile
and contemplate the sky a while
I then can sing a song of joy

and I do not need to find a pitch
for my spirit is rich
and my voice is worthy
to sing any song that is a song of joy

yah-he-odelay-yee-hee-hoo-hoo-yo-ho

I Deserve This

Cage me in your fingers, Eddy, if I did you wrong. I'm too often unemployed; I spend my time lagging behind; too much do I enjoy a night with red wine; I owe you, so cage me in your wallet, if I did you wrong. I toil too infrequently; I sweat too little behind a plow; cracked lips and ivy itch are not accepted forms of repayment; cage me in your books. I did you wrong. Take my house. Anyway, my family's long gone. Set me free, like an empty cigarette pack blowing down the highway.

No Need for Occupy

Shall I jump up and down?

I nearly have in a pool hall conversation talking up the inflation of my heart until it burst into desperate agony and glittered for bliss.

The windows to this man's soul were painted crazed red. He spoke slowly of love and hope; and when he left, he killed himself in an unwelcoming picket line consisting of banners, flags, and their motto: "We're People Too! More of Us than You!"
His yellow-eyed friend spoke as a drunken angel, knowing God, and hopeless, bitter that no one would listen to his jokes. He was a funny man.
Exhaustion peered through me, wondered who spoke and why; and he told me which train goes Uptown. He smelled of refuse filth and kept his trash bag of recyclables close to take for petty cash, his fortune, and I don't know how he spent it.
Outside the depot where the bums commune, they called me Guitar Man. I was offered a pretzel, shared a soda with a jobless man, sang spirituals with beggars, listened to a toothless man wail through his clinched hands like the mournful harmonica he claimed not to know how to play;
where I received financial advice from a greasy-haired drifter and was told there is no harm in asking for a dollar to help me get along.

Under the glitter of Broadway show posters, on the grit of its sidewalks, I ducked into a corner store and counted coins for rolling papers, then went back out to smoke,
where passers-by held their breaths until past my cloud, cut their eyes at me and quickly away - too quick to see me nod hello, guessing I would ask for a dollar.

Everyone has a story. Not everyone shares their story for pity's sake.
I've met proud men with nothing.
Is he still in Oregon? Has she lost more teeth? Is he still alive? Did she get what she tried for? Did he quit drinking? Did he find work? Did they all give up? Do they still hope?
They are no less invisible now than before people with money, homes, brokers, occupied Wall Street to complain about losing their money, homes, and financial worth.

Was the homeless man homeless before or after people ignored him?
Did the drunkard realize his friends are in a different town and that he needs to find them?
Did anyone see the drunkard and think to himself, "He needs a friend." Did they ask him what was on his mind?

The red-eyed man said, "I don't need to occupy Wall Street. I occupy space everywhere I am." He grinned with rotting teeth and bought me a whiskey using his savings from his shoe.

Oh, if people could be so fortunate to meet the souls I meet, perhaps the world would change and everyone would realize we don't need more people; we don't need to meet people who are the same as us. There are plenty of people who are people, and that's all we need to know to get along; and that there is plenty of help to offer without doing so under a slogan.

Billion Million Dollar Scat

I got 88 dollars cash and a pitcher full of change. 1.50 in quarters, and twenty of those 88s are savings.
I'm a rich man, fat cat, gimme some coat tails, I'll take you for a ride. And a top hat. Put your kids in it, they can come too.
I'm hittin Broadway, man. Can can! Git me a pet toucan. I'm Fat Daddy Tall Tex Only Brian Outta the States: slender body, chubby billfold.
Drinks on me, fellas - ladies. Finest tobacco, roll up a stick, suck it through my lips and let er tumble out my nose, like I was born to breathe smoke, and smoke is afraid of my lungs.
Stand behind me, I'll order. Grab a seat at the back table, we'll talk business. I don't do paperwork, you can sign it for me, whatever you think needs my name.
I got bills out my ears and ears like my Grandpa's. I got a voice sore from soaring across the streets to the tenants and patrons at the ice cream parlor and apartments above.
I need a drink ta whet my whistle. I'm dry. I needa rest my legs. Long day movin round from store front to store front, skidaddled on like a raccoon on a back porch.
I'm tired. But fat, baby. I'm Fat Cat Man o' Black Coattails and Hat; can't hold me back, I'm soarin like song, 88 dollars cash, 20 in the back stash, change for the toll and roads to roll.
Ride my coat tails, you, and your kids can come too.

Fulfilled

I have my life to fulfill. I am obligated only to myself. Who be true to, Allen? Were I to know my final destination, where last I live and die, should I go immediately to wait? Should I try and cast off the other way and avoid the place of my obvious fate? How foolish and naive this thought. I don't sit and ask: Will I succeed? Will I marry? Where will I go? Who will know me? because the one, only known is I will die. I do not strive for death like I do not yearn for success nor marriage and where I go is decided moments before going, and, who knows me is not important. I will live! I am living. I am alive! The sun casts the shadow of my curtains across the couch and I lean my head on my hand propped by my elbow on my side, knees bent. What a tiring day in the field, late Spring. SE Texas humid and sunshine. I earned my rest today and I feel good. The blood flowed through my arms and my back is sore, my face burned, lips dry. I am alive! I have earned my tan and withered hide. My aching bones and muscles are medals I don upon my breast. Size me up! I am a big man. The sun stands towering and taunts me! I'm still here, it says. You quit already? This morning I saw the sun. As I arrived to the farm, centered in Pine trees, the sun hid away. The sky melted violet, then orange. I worked and the sluggish sun rolled through the air. The sun worked all day, lighting the farm, warming the plants, raising the dew, and it falls quickly in the evening through dinner to rest below my blanket. We split the chores at home. Our friend is coming. What for Dinner? What for drink? Beer to cool off and wine with our meal. Let Evening linger. We have earned our company with friends! Lets banter. Night comes later and morning later still. We've time to spend together. Come! Drink!

Dark Unknown Streets

Walk with a cigarette in your lips and glare through the smoke like cold wind burns your eyes. When it's cold out, bring your collar over your neck and hunch your shoulders, hands deep in pockets, smoke streams behind. Never look cold, but look like you are hiding something among your torso. Wear your dead Great Uncle's old Fedora on a cold night, never when it is warm; and this can never be replaced with a new one - no trends allowed walking dark empty streets alone. Stride easy, never look sluggish. If tired, appear crazed from too many long nights kept awake by using of some kind. Hold your cigarette in your teeth, roll it with your tongue, grab it infrequently. Don't turn your head, keep your ears behind you, and look at others quickly with piercing glances moving only your eyes. Even when lost, go, any direction, as if you have lived there forever, long before anyone else. If anyone approaches you, speak friendly and briefly. If approached cruelly, act crazed. This is how you will survive.

Boring Coffee Shop Writing

Thought I was first in line and started counting change. I don't want to give my bills away if I have coins. Turned out I didn't have the coinage for my coffee. Turned out the people the barista was talking to were placing an order. I was not first in line. They stepped up and my coins sat in front of them now. I reached in my bag, which held my piggy bank - the tea pitcher I set out for tips on the street. The couple finished paying with plastic. They stepped away with their drinks and delicacies. "A cup of your dark roast for here, please. And I don't need room for cream." Two dollars.
Is this how dull my life is: that I have a coffee shop experience to write and nothing else?
I can write about all the girls with pretty faces that I wish I could gaze on and smile to without my usual nervousness; the girls with tight jeans of all colors and styles with plump, round back-sides that fill the denim that I want to grab and bite and feel against my thighs - up and down, up and down; or their long hair that flows in lovely fullness over their dark pea coats;
or that the book the girl at the caddy-corner table was reading must be a library book. I know because of the sloppy plastic book cover that wrapped it. She was not quite to the middle, but it was a long book and she was well into the story. I don't know what it was about.
The table to my right I can tell you, reader, that the girl was unhappy about her love life, cried, and claimed to use her energy to not kill herself. The guy sitting across from her walked large and wide and loud through the coffee shop. He was angry about something. The third friend sat with his back to me in a wheel chair. He was calmest of the three; seemed to be mediator. Every group of friends needs at least one mediator. The girl reading the library book wore a lovely macramé sweater. I don't guess it did much to warm her. The pattern was sparse. Her long hair would reach the small of her back if she stood up, but she sat cross-legged and talked now politely with someone who else frequented the coffee shop. Inconsequential conversation matters a lot sometimes. Friendly passing. It's nice to see someone you don't know, but know you've seen, and you have the capacity of self not to worry about saying Hello or not, striking conversation, and recognizing when it's time to move on. See you later.

You're You and I'm Huge

This is not a war. Disagreement is not declaration. Calm your jargon. War is brutal. If you declare everything is war - war on drugs; war on women; war on the middle-class - then we will be fully desensitized to what real war is.
That works in your favor, though, doesn't it?


These thoughts enrage in my head, rile forth, and sink away, constantly, like a massive unfulfilled sneeze. Thoughts of hope; thoughts of giving up. Politics, religion, labor, expectations, obligations to others and sacrifice of my truest self. I'm burdened by the knowledge that I am far greater than State, Faith, or Task; it plagues me.

Contesting the Homebody

Keep the faith
that people are not bad, but maybe.
Are you afraid to shake an unwashed hand
stained with decades of tobacco smoke?
Can you look into stale, yellow eyes
that look at you asking,
You're still here?
Eyes that say, I'm not afraid of you.
Can you handle aggressive raspy voices,
gruff and frustrated?
Can you manage a Hello?
Do you smile because smiles are friendly, and you're uncomfortable;
or listen earnestly
because understanding a person helps them?

What's True?

Lao Tsu told me once to follow purity and there, across from Jeffry, was mucky. The thoughts shared only opened us for blood-letting and we carried no bandages. We knew what we believed. Following our teachers was harder than first thought, while strangely easy.
     You can do what you believe in,
     but not everyone agrees with you.
Hope died when they put Woody Guthrie in the mental home.
He couldn't be blamed after so many years believing in Liberty only to watch her bound and gagged.

Have you read a newspaper? I am told that the ones living around me ought to be watched with the skeptic's eye,
and to believe in The Cause;
that Social Media needs a strong embrace so that when things go wrong, I can complain to everyone at once.

Things are fine, see? Trouble is, I mean, what's not fine, is how frequently we're told all is awry. If things truthfully were so bad, I would not find out in HD Television.

The mad man on the street, fingertips burned orange from rolled cigarettes without filters; his high cheeks bright red, his beard covering his weathered jowls; only a failure wears clothes that dirty at his age; warned me that yesterday is lost, so forget about it and move forward, but don't look to tomorrow, because it is only a fantasy. Yesterday is now a ghost and tomorrow is only two-dimensional.