Living Poetry

Today I met a poet. His name was Marcus.

I was outside the little corner bar in downtown where our church meets on Sundays. I was outside because my newborn daughter wasn't complying with the "be quiet so that the pastor can speak" rule. We were sitting on a bench trying to figure out how to correctly suck on a pacifier when a man on a bicycle rode up and said, "You know, that's how Jesus is holding us. Just like that in his hands."

Great, I thought. Let's just say, "Ha, yeah isn't that the truth," and let him ride on by on his way to who knows where. But he didn't ride on by... he stopped and spoke.

"She's beautiful. What's her name?" He said with a southern drawl through his thick mustache. He was a slender man of about 56 with a baseball cap that was a little to big for his head. His hair was cut short, almost shaved. He was wearing an old white polo with jean shorts and worn out tennis shoes. He was probably 6 feet tall and only weighed 128 pounds, but his face reminded me of Viggo Mortenson.

"Her name is Jovi," I said as he put his big, yellowing finger in her hand to let her squeeze. He cooed and talked to her and was ecstatic when she responded and looked at him and his big mustache.

"Jovi? That's a great name," he said.

He told me that she was beautiful again, and then told me that I need to make sure that I focus on Jesus even though its hard to focus on anything besides my family right now.

"I did that... stopped focusing on Jesus. I was too concerned with my wife and my son. I didn't even think about Jesus when they came along," he said in a stumbling way. He spoke as if he may have forgotten how to put sentences together in the correct order, like he had to think about it a little longer than everyone else.

"I lost 'em. They were out shopping one day. Got hit by a drunk driver and it killed them both. You never know if anythin' is going to happen, so enjoy 'em."

He told me about his wife's 30 hour labor and how she threatened to kill him, saying "YOU did this to me!" He told me how he promptly went to the doctor to get his wife an epidural in an effort to save his own life. Then he chuckled at the memory. He said that he had really connected with his son before he died. He said he knows the doctors say that the babies can't see you cause their eyesight isn't developed yet, but he told that boy how much fun they were going to have together: the baseball games, camping, and everything. Marcus told his son how much he loved him.

Marcus told me how he has brain tumors from agent orange that was used in Vietnam. He told me how the chemotherapy he's on makes his hair fall out and how the shrinking tumors give him seizures. He told me how his children don't speak to him and how he lives in a house full of brain-cancer patients. He said he is the only one in the household who can walk so he runs all the errands. He told me how he was looking for a job so that he could get the $20 dollars to get his medications today. And he told me all this without complaining. It was the strangest thing - not once did I think, "this guy has had a hard life and stops everyone he sees to complain!" On the contrary, he told me in such a way that I wasn't sad for him... I felt like he had lived a full life and that he was thoroughly joyful for having what he had.

He told me how he was hit by a car while he was riding his bike. He was rushed to the ER and woke up strapped to a hospital board afraid that organ pirates were going to steal his heart and sell it in another country for $50,000 dollars. He pulled out a well worn article from the paper showing a twisted scrap of metal that was his bike, along with a team loading him into the ambulance. The car that hit him drove off, leaving Marcus unconscious in the middle of the road.

He told me again that he had brain tumors and that they affect his ability to think.

He told me how he wrote poetry and asked if I would like to hear some. I said that I would- I expected the ramblings of a crazy old man with brain tumors. Marcus didn't pull out a sheet of paper to read from, instead he just looked at me and recited his poetry. And it was elegant. Shockingly elegant. He told me another poem (that was equally astounding), as well as the story behind it. He told me how it had come to him in his dream. That dream was about Jesus speaking the poem to him.

Then he asked if he had shown me the article in the paper about him being hit by a car.

He met my wife when she came out to give me a bottle for the baby. He told her she was beautiful for having just given birth a few weeks ago. We all talked until the church service was over.

I thanked him for the poetry. He thanked me for the conversation.

He told me again about his brain tumors and how they affect his ability to function... to remember... to think. He said good-bye again. Told Jovi she was beautiful and that Jesus loved her and that she was going to spread his love. He was smiling while he got on his bike. Then he shook my hand and rode off in the rain in search of a job.

His life is poetry.

Ink Blots

I like inkblots. I like the mistakes that come out of writing in a notebook with a pen. It makes the pages seem like they are alive, like they have battle scars. This page contains collections of thoughts that have come out of those stray marks that appear in the corners of your mind. The ones that never seem to have anywhere to go, but still like to black out the white spots. They have no organization, aesthetic ambitions, or reason. They are simply there and I need somewhere to put them.