Sitting on the Ground at Francisco Serna’s
Farm
Six-and-a-Half Miles East of Austin, Texas
— for Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Christ climbed down from
his bare tree this year and took it mindful at the RV park, helped fix the
septic tank, fed stray dogs on the property, made soup for strangers who were
only strangers before soup.
Christ climbed down from his bare tree this year and
went to the dumpster behind the Hole in the Wall, turned plastics into
vegetables and Lone Star into forgiveness.
Christ climbed down from his bare tree this year and
walked backwards through Jack in the Box turning patty melts into pineapples and
daisies for our minds’ eyes—
Christ climbed down from his bare tree this year and
vanquished all baby computers along with the uprooted trees of electricity and
tinsel, he made disappear a man in a red suit with a fake white beard and type 2
diabetes—took the mayonnaise out of the salad along with all of the ammunition,
gun barrels now used to clank music.
Christ climbed down from his bare tree this year to
walk naked through the church parking lots; he blocked the door at Best Buy with
photographs of the desert, not to mention miracles.
Christ climbed down from his
bare tree this year and told us that his birthday came in July and that he died
on Labor Day.
Christ
climbed down from his bare tree this year and went into the womb of an American
senator whom we haven’t heard from since.
Christ climbed down from his bare tree this year and
walked into the middle of the highway and is still walking the wrong way down
the middle of the highway and the Austin police department have been called
about it but they say they approve, could use the help during a drunken holiday
season filled with raised levels of per capita violence, the stress is too much,
and Christ still walks down the middle of I-35. He says he’ll go back on top the
tree after everybody dances in the river and realizes.
Class Graduation Speech,
Edmond North High School, Edmond, Oklahoma, 1996
It’s June, the sun is out in Oklahoma, and there are
365 of us here. In a couple decades, a few decades, more than a dozen of us will
be dead, maybe another dozen or so in prison. About half of us divorced. No
billionaires, three millionaires, 22 of us will be homeless. Some homeowners,
many kids, the majority will feel dissatisfied with their jobs, about 150 of you
will cheat on your spouses, 320 will be addicted to something. Many Christians,
a good amount will come out of the closet, a few even tomorrow a day after
graduation. A handful will change their identities. Some of us will move out of
the state, a few out of the country. All of us will die one day. There will be
love and heartbreak and sadness and joy—loss, grief, new beginnings and second
chances. Forgiveness, grace, betrayal, confusion, redemption. Wonderment. And
later tonight, I’ll see most of you at the afterparty in the field in the middle
of nowhere. $5 per car. There will be one keg, and we’ll run out of beer in the
first fifteen minutes, then stand around talking about what we plan on doing for
the rest of our lives.
