Fact or Crap

"Fact or Crap: The button was invented 200 years before the buttonhole."


I don't remember the answer to that card. I don't really remember any answers since you left before you told me so let's start with a list.


Fact: The button would be stupid without the buttonhole. It just doesn't make sense.
(fact: i'm stupid without you.)


Fact: Buttons are pretty, though. I guess people could have used them as decoration or something.
(fact: is she pretty? that other woman? i bet she's pretty.)


Fact: Decorations usually stay decorative, though. I mean, nobody looks at a sequin and goes "Hey, I could fasten something with this!"
(fact: i bet you never think of me anymore, either. i wonder how long it took you to forget.)


Fact: The button was probably a Victorian invention or something though, right? And people thought of strange things back then.
(fact: i never saw it coming back then. i thought you were just tired. not tired of me.)


Fact: People still use buttons just for decoration. Like those buttons on the sleeves of dress shirts that you can never quite button by yourself.
(fact: you're still gone. i keep thinking you'll come back, like it was all just a joke, but this one's fact. you're still gone.)


Fact: So, I guess that could be true. Yeah, the button was probably invented first. That's a fact.
(fact: it doesn't matter. you're not around to hear the answer. it's just me playing now. that's a fact too.)


"Fact or Crap: I love you."
"...Fact."
"No. Crap."

J'adore

You don't mind
That my legs are so pale they're almost blue
And covered in dimples and bumps from the cold


You don't mind that my hands and feet are the same size as yours
When you hold my hand and our fingers fit together easy as a child's jigsaw


You tell me my eyes are as warm and as green
as the lake in summer
you want to dive in, you say,
and watch the sunset reflected in their waves


When we're alone in your car
we sing duets
and air-guitar like there's no tomorrow
and you say love is a silly word
but oh, how I adore you. 


--Patti

Signs point to love.

I turn on the TV and I see the protesters: angry, yelling, carrying signs. 

LEVITICUS 20:13

THE JEWS KILLED JESUS

GOD HATES FAGS

Click! I quickly flip the channel.

There's a senator on TV, making a speech. He's saying he's happy about the earthquake in Haiti, that he's glad God sent that disaster to punish the Haitans for their "sinful" local customs and beliefs. 

I reach for the remote once again. Click!

They've banned the burqa in France-- click-- violence in Israel and Lebanon--click!--  and Glenn Beck is on the screen, shouting, saying Obama should go back to the Muslim-loving Arab country he was born in and-- click!-- 

I turn off the TV; I can't stand it any more. 

Because the one thing all or most of these people have in common, apart from their inexcusable bigotry, is their professed belief in the teachings of Jesus Christ. 

Maybe I'm wrong about Jesus. Maybe all my years of Sunday school, and all the hymns I've sung, and all the sermons I've listened to (intently or not so much) didn't quite get through. Maybe I'm not interpreting Jesus' message quite right, maybe he DID say somewhere to hate our neighbor because they're a little bit different, maybe the Bible is dripping with some kind of sarcasm I didn't get, but the ONE message I've gotten above all the others out of being a Christian all my life is that God loves you no matter who you are or what you do, and we're supposed to love each other because of that. 

We've all failed at this. Of course we have. We are all human, after all; that's what forgiveness is for. The thing that really bothers me, though, is the people who deliberately preach hate against other human beings in God's name. "Well, God OBVIOUSLY hates these people," they say. They point to people's suffering, to natural disasters, to isolated incidents, as proof that "these people"-- gays, Jews, Muslims, the poor, what have you-- have sinned, somehow, enough to make God stop loving them. But the truth is, that just isn't possible.

Yes, people make mistakes sometimes. And yes, bad things happen sometimes. And I honestly don't really know how to explain either except by saying that life is a messy ordeal and no one knows why. But the answer isn't in blame or hate or fear; it's in love. In the end, love is what God gave us: not answers to everything or absolute perfection or a reason to point fingers at people and shout that we're right, but love. And the point of Christianity-- the point, I think, of any life well-lived regardless of your particular religious creed-- is to share that love with people, whether in the form of the missionary who goes to Guatemala with food and Bibles and free dental exams, or the school full of kids donating toys and socks and blankets so that some poorer kids can have a nice Christmas, or even just in that one friend who seeks you out on your worst days and asks you what's wrong and just listens. Because for those of you asking yourself, that, not yelling or blaming or carrying angry signs, is what Jesus would have done. 

I turn on the TV again, and there are the signs. Except I'm not angry anymore, just sad. I want to make signs of my own:

JOHN 3:16

JESUS WAS A JEW, THEY'RE PRETTY OKAY

GOD LOVES FAGS EVERYONE

GOD LOVES YOU

--Patti

Bible verses mentioned:

"If a man lie with a male as he lies with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination. They shall surely be put to death. Their blood shall be upon them." (Leviticus 20:13)

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. (John 3:16)

i need to stop watching self-help videos on youtube

clasping their hands together

they're swinging their arms widely

laughing with each other for a change

their feet silent in the midst of others

stomping and racing along this chicago sidewalk

splashing their feet in the fountains

and swinging around the trees

they're swerving through and through the people

chasing each other like a cat and a mouse

but with no ill intentions

and as they smile at each other

they ignore how one is 45 pounds underweight

and the other has over 100 scars over their body

'what do you see, what you look in the mirror?'

he breathes to her, smoke curling out of her mouth

she does not respond, her head leaning against the wall, back curled against the floor, feet kicked up towards the ceiling

'i am serious. what do you see when you look in the mirror?'

his voice grows as she stares at her, cigarette balanced between his teeth

she finally responds

'what does it matter?'

he groans and palms his face slowly

before facing her, 'so what anna-marette told me was true?'

her face goes blank, before looking away from him

'i want you to stand up.'

he declares, standing up himself and holding a hand out for her

she ignores it.

his face is suddenly distorted by anger as he reaches down

and grips her arm painfully and yanks her up

and she cries in response, a cigarette fallen to the ground

'what do you see, when you look in the mirror?'

he asks her again, and her breathe is shaking, but she glances

to the mirror to the left of them

and she sees them, covered in bruises and messy clothes

hair and makeup is everywhere, and their skin is pasty

but their noses and eyes are bright red

and she glances at him

hands on his hips staring at her defiantly

before she wets her lips nervously, before speaking,

'beauty.'

you're gazing at the fry for a few seconds, before shrugging, easily popping it into your mouth

your face is blank for a few seconds as you chew it, before suddenly your eyes are wide and your hands fly to cover your mouth

and we're watching confused and amazed all the same as you're jumping from your seat and running down the length of the table

before grabbing the garbage can with all your might, and tucking your head in

we don't need to be genius' to know what you were doing.

we just all look away awkwardly as you star there for ten seconds

20 seconds

30 seconds

before slowly you lift your head up, and stumble over to the water fountain

and by now we're glancing silently at our lunches

and he moves to throw his away

as she slowly walks back over to us, silently collapsing into her seat

face white and ashy

--lynn

An Ode to Levelheadedness

The President is a Muslim. 

It's 2076, and the President of the United States is Faisal Mahdi, and he is a Muslim. The Capitol hasn't sprung minarets and the Bible belt is still full of old people with Bibles and we aren't all fluent in Arabic, although it's a common option in schools alongside Spanish and French and Mandarin Chinese. It's just that the President is a Muslim.

There was one who was a black guy a while back, and some people were mad about that. And then there was one who was a woman, and half the country didn't take her seriously. Then there was an Asian guy, and only the truly out-of-it made jokes about Coca-Cola and pee-pee, or how they couldn't tell the president apart from somebody else. (Jay Leno did a couple of those, but nobody really listened to him because most of his fan base had died.) And then that Brazillian lady got elected, and so few were surprised when things all of a sudden started working again. And there were a few white guys in between that nobody really remembers. Now the President is a Muslim. 

Sometimes the media gets a photo release of the President and his two teenage daughters, one of whom has chosen to wear a hijab and one of whom has not. Sometimes meetings are interrupted for prayers. President Mahdi and his wife still have a Christmas tree in keeping with tradition, but they also have a Ramadan party every year that is out of this world. I've heard the White House chef makes fantastic hummus. There are old traditions and there are new traditions, because the President is a Muslim.

It's 2076. The President is a Muslim, and nobody really cares. 


--Patti

Wires

and there was his carcass.
limp.
lonely.
lifeless.
hanging in the twisted barbed wires.

sangre de cristo,
sangre de cristo.
I know what it means father,
but i'm not him.

cuts across his wrist.
forearms.
chest.
thighs.
abdomen.
back.
quadriceps.
everywhere.

his once brown hair now a shock of red.
blood was still creeping down his body towards his face.
upside down.
his eyes were open.
his shoes were on.
his clothes were torn.
his book was on the floor.
his book was in the blood.

forgive me father for I have sinned.
I have sinned and sinned and sinned.
forgive me.
don't let the devil take me.

the small triangular bristles along the wire were scarlet.
the concrete bathed in a pool of crimson.
the walls splattered with cerise.
his head a shade of carmine.

bad blood.
bad bad sinful blood.
deserved to be spilled.
he was the sin.
he took the blame.
he was the blame.
the book was a prop.
the clothes material banter.

If I pray, nothing bad can happen.
I'll be preserved.
I'll be sustained.
oh fuck just help me.

God's soldiers sent for him.
pushed him into the dragon's den.
knowing he'd be devoured.
even with the protection of His book.

so there he hung.
limp.
lonely.
lifeless.

stuck.
lost in translation.
stuck in purgatory.
or was it hell.
or was it heaven.
did it matter.
he was dead.
the blood of a christ was spilled.

I'm not ready yet.

--mark