Black Friday

Today there was sunshine.

It wasn't Black.

Neither was my mood.

I avoided the news and the annual wallowing in shopping frenzies and reports of violent excess.

The sun was out.

I took a walk.

Not at the mall.

Morning Mass

I had a chance to go to morning Mass.

I was sitting there, thinking about ... this blog, a poem, the way the light was hitting the altar, a clever response to something someone said yesterday.

Mass started. I mouthed the prayers.

The lector mispronounced the reading's title. Twice. The Letter of St. Paul to the Theologians. Thessalonians? Theologians.

A woman rushed in. Late. In the middle of the first reading. She sat in front of me.

Hurrying to work. Maybe. But she does this regularly.

What's the second reading?

Will the woman leave early as she often does?

Father is saying something. A homily. Hard to hear him. Hard to understand him.

On with the Mass. Consecration.

Working on a poem.

Oh, right, Jesus.

The late woman shakes my hand at the sign of peace.

Communion.

I kneel after.

Thank you Lord.

That poem again.

The woman hurries out. Where?

Mass ends.

I leave.

I sit in my car.

I wonder why I came.

I wonder why my mind would not focus.

I wonder if I ever will make it to heaven.

The Letter of St. Paul to the Distracted.

Clouds

It's one of those days when the clouds hint at something more, then the sun breaks through and hints at something else. Hot. Cold. Rain. Sunshine.

Do I hang out the laundry? Do I mow the lawn? Or do I go to the coffee shop and suck in some caffeine?

As if there's any doubt.

Ways to enjoy French toast

Slowly and secretly
Without mustard
Naked
Listening to Edgar Winters’ “Frankenstein”
Only if
On the jungle gym
Dancing erratically
Thinking of dada
In translation
Holistically
With someone who speaks Swahili
Dryly
Nodding at a crying mime
Looking at her
Open eyed
Interminably
During the High Middle Ages
Reading Hungarian haiku
Yo-yoing
Watching midnight creature feature movies
Smiling at someone who doesn’t notice
During the American Revolution
Disturbingly
With toothpicks
Sipping mead
On every third Tuesday

Night song

The dog on her knees types in blood.
But even as tears stain the artificial tombstones
Breathe deep: Bird songs
(yes
she)
YES.

Agitating and apologizing

I was out there agitating as usual when this guy with exposed arms and tattoos and a discharging cancer stick looking like he needed a shower or a shave or some sort of sanitary action rolled by and yelled twice "Prochoice! Prochoice!" and I had thoughts like maybe he looked like the kind of person who should not breed and who perhaps should have been a victim of choice but then the prayers of the rosary I was reciting popped into my head and I felt like I needed to apologize to God and him but he was already gone somewhere down the road discharging and inhaling cancer just as I was allowing a different kind of poison to create a cancer of sin in my heart mind and soul.

Sorry Dude.

Sorry dude.

Angry Saints

Okay, I'm an angry guy. Not the kind of angry guy who'd slug you for smiling at the wrong moment. But still, it percolates in there and sometimes spits out sarcasm, insults, and general verbal abuse.

My wife was a patient woman. She's dead. No, it wasn't me. But she's at peace now.

Watching me.

Probably smiling.

She's a saint. She was a saint.

As for me, I keep hoping there's a halo for me. But that anger thing.

So I wondered: Are there angry Saints?

Rumor has is St. Paul was hard to get along with, and some of the things he wrote seemed to have an edge of sarcasm. And St. Jerome was reportedly a piece of work.

In fact, St. Jerome is the patron saint AGAINST anger.

Maybe there's a job for me.

St. Ron the Rabid

I know. My real job is learning curb my tongue and stop fulminating.

Perhaps I need to go off and become a hermit like Jerome.

Hey, you know

So I've been away. Busy.

But I'm back.

Watch out.

Yeah, I know

Been a while. Lots to say. Nothing worth saying.

I took a tour of the bogging world. Not pretty.

People on the left and right not playing nice.

I stopped at one local blog and commented on a personal insult leveled at a naughty nun.

Criticize what she does, not her personally. You know, that Christian stuff I was taught by good nuns, good priests, good lay people, saints.

Responses? Justifications ... Excuses.

Well, she's like that so that's why we can get personal.

Hey: Two wrongs make a wrong.

And the old wrath of God bugaboo.

It's God's wrath.

Not mine.

Not yours.

Let him take care of it.

Anyway, after I got done reading those blogs, I took a shower.

Needed one.