Thursday, February 28, 2008

Blasphemy! How Sweet!

I like how Brent gets a book published and then starts bossing me around (See what would Jesus do comment below). Man, I thought it might take at least a month to go to his head but I was wrong. So, in response to Brent's needs (cause it's always about him) here is a new post. And a blasphemous one at that. These candies could use a better name, one that doesn't sound like a bad line from a bad romance novel, or a basement softcore video. Thanks to my wife Bethany for sending me this morsel.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

So What Would Jesus, or You, Do?

Doing Nothing

When I passed him near the bus stop
on Union Square while the cops
cuffed his hands behind his back, while he
said, “I didn’t do anything,”
I didn’t either,
do anything but look away,
a little afraid they might cuff me
if I paid too much attention,
and walked on still wondering
what he might’ve done
and still more what I
might’ve done.

Dan Gerber, Primer on Parallel Lives

What would you do?

Guatemalan poet, Otto Rene Castillo, who was killed by government
forces in the ambush of a guerrilla group in 1954 when President
Arbenz was overthrown by the US mercenaries, asked the same question:

[excerpt] ..... One day, the apolitical intellectuals
of my country will be interrogated
by the simplest of our people.
They will be asked what they did,
when their nation died out,
like a sweet fire,
small and alone.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

Early, Really Early Spring?

Mid 50's today here in Akron. In February. How f---- up is that, my friends. Pass me the jar ...

Rinsing sorrows of a thousand forevers
away, we linger out a hundred jars of wine,

the clear night’s clarity filling small talk,
a lucid moon keeping us awake. And after

we’re drunk, we sleep in empty mountains,
all heaven our blanket, earth our pillow.

Li Po (A.D. 755-762)

At White Deer Spring

A little fishpond, just over two feet square,
and not terribly deep.
A pair of goldfish swim in it
as freely as if in a lake.
Like bones of mountains among icy autumn clouds
tiny stalagmites pierce the rippling surface.
For the fish, it is a question of being alive …
they don’t worry about the depth of the water.

Yuan Hung-tao (1568-1610), trans. Jonathan Chaves
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