El Humanista

May I start by saying how great a time I had at the Dakota with fellow friars? Thank you. We shall have to do this again soon. New Year is upon us and I feel sort of recharged. I continue the belief that even years are better than odd ones. for me, we're all allowed our superstitions. new years eve I attended a concert with a ton of Detroit rock "royalty" (sic sic sic) and all, pretty ridiculous, there must have been ski slopes backstage to satisfy all these... But "Loretta and the Larkspurs" are great, look them up on myspace (if you have an account, I don't and feel weird about even talking about myspace.)

I have just finished reading two books by Michael Chabon. The first was his first, The Mysteries of Pittsburg. This was a nice, short, very American novel that reflected major themes of Catcher in the and Gatsby. Chabon is a great creator of characters both likable and distestable at the same time. The second, and "his best" thus far, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. I must say, 'You should read this book'. It won the pulitzer I think, but is not as thick as Mailer or Roth, a great story about two cousins who write comic books coming out of the depression.

Anyway, I will close with a poem that I was inspired to write after a meeting on the street near my house one day.

Love Ya'll

vision is blurred and teary-eyed
He shudders in the pouring outside
“This morning, I lost my son,” she says

“My phone is out of minutes
and I need
To buy a greyhound ticket”

Why are you here, right now-
How can a person be lost?

“I don’t usually beg for change-”
She is beautiful as a breathing thing
An animal with emotions

If we sit here, on the corner, in the run-off
And you tell me-
Will I ever understand?

“Oh damn it.” –she doesn’t curse at me
But gives up again,
How many times now
Years, habit, instinct like milk

What Greyhound
Where to
The war?
The city?
Some other corner?
Or are you running away?

I would go with you if I could trust you
I might not give you a dollar
But I would spend a dollar on you

Unless this is all fabricated
People say the damnedest things
When they are hungry

Your son is not on this street and lost
But you keep on
bent and groveling in foul

An angel, a winged messenger
Storms out of the sky
Grabs her by her two thin strings
And lifts her up
But she cannot stand on her own

“My son is lost”
I am sorry

-El Humanista