It's complicated: this tiny two bedroom crammed into a series of shoe boxes
surrounding a man-made pond, that has it's own kind of beauty-
we can hear the leaves rustle just above the insane humming of the highway.
Then there's the vibrant modesty of women from other lands swirling in color and cloth
the mingling and wafting of food being prepared- Ugandan, Indian, Chinese, Pakistani-
my nostrils sometimes don't know how to make sense of these colliding tides.
My daughters, wife, and I admire the modest beauty of all these mothers and wives
who we can't understand, not even a little bit, but their children swear, complain
and are stuck to electronic devices, like any other kid, I guess.
I lock our door each night, mostly because of the man who urinated on himself,
who slept under our stairs, who cursed me in Spanish when I asked if he needed help.
Then there was the body in the pond. He laid there for at least two weeks.
No foul play was expected but I heard the story of him stumbling
out of the bar down the street and he ended down in a pond.
When I talk to my daughters about where we live, the violence,
all of the theft, the cars that are dismantled for parts
I tell them to look out at the trees-
how this forest was left in the midst of all of this development
I don't know, but I tell them to look at it, to explore it,
to try to be thankful for it, and listen to the geese.
Look at the quiet turtle, barely peeking its head through the surface of the water.
For just over one thousand dollars each month I can forego taking care of property.
This is the vision of the future they tell me. I'll own nothing and be happy.
When I think of how the Industrial Revolution and all its secrets
ruined the Luttrel Psalter or how the Greeks had their polis- an extended family,
or how John of Salisbury described all of medieval society as a body-
I want to go back to that quiet place by our barn,
lean on the fence, listen to my family going about their day, the neighing of horses,
the quiet purr of barn-cats, and look up through the kaleidoscope of glowing tree leaves
and see the blue blue of the sky.
_______________________________________________________________________
Apartment Complex (draft #3 6/9/23)
It's complicated: this tiny two bedroom crammed into a series of shoe boxes
surrounding a man made pond, that has it's own kind of beauty-
we can hear the leaves rustle just above the insane humming of the highway.
Then there's the vibrant modesty of women from other lands swirling in color and cloth;
the mingling and wafting of food being prepared- Ugandan, Indian, Chinese, Pakistani-
my nostrils sometimes don't know how to make sense of these colliding tides.
My daughters, wife, and I admire the modest beauty of all these mothers and wives
who we can't understand, not even a little bit, but their children swear, complain
and are stuck to electronic devices, like any other kid, I guess.
I lock our door each night, mostly because of the man who urinated on himself,
who slept under our stairs, who cursed me in Spanish when I asked if he needed help.
Then there was the body in the pond. He laid there for at least two weeks.
No foul play was expected but I heard the story of him stumbling
out of the bar down the street and he ended down in a pond.
When I talk to my daughters about where we live, the violence,
all of the theft, the cars that are dismantled for parts
I tell them to look out at the trees
how this forest was left in the midst of all of this development
I don't know, but I tell them to look at it, to explore it,
to try to be thankful for it, and listen to the geese.
For just over one thousand dollars each month I can forego taking care of property.
This is the vision of the future they tell me. I'll own nothing and be happy.
When I think of how the Industrial Revolution and all its secrets
ruined the Luttrel Psalter or how the Greeks had their poleis,
or how John of Salisbury described all of society as a body-
I want to go back to that quiet place by our barn,
lean on the fence, listen to my family about their day, the neighing of horses,
the quiet purr of barn-cats, and look up through the kaleidoscope of glowing tree leaves
and see the blue blue of the sky.
________________________________________________________________________
Apartment Complex (draft #2 6/3/23)
It's complicated. The vibrant and modest dress of women from other lands
and the mingling and wafting of food being prepared- Ugandan, Indian, Pakistani, Chinese-
my nostrils sometimes don't know how to make sense of these colliding tides.
My daughters, wife, and I admire the modest beauty of all these mothers and wives
who we can't understand.
I lock my door each night, because of the man who urinated on himself
then slept under our stairs, who cursed me when I asked if he needed help.
Then there was the body in the pond. He laid there for at least two weeks.
For just over one thousand dollars each month I can forego taking care of property.
This is the vision of the future they tell me. I'll own nothing and be happy.
When I think of how the Industrial Revolution and all its secrets
ruined the Luttrel Psalter, I want to go back to that quiet place by our barn,
lean on the fence, and look up through the kaleidoscope of glowing tree leaves
and see the blue blue of the sky.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Apartment Complex (draft #1 5/25/23)
My daughters notice how the women in our apartment complex dress-
from myriad countries in Africa and Asia in swirling vibrant colors
and beautiful fabrics and each of these women are modest (a rare thing these days)
as if to say, what is beneath is even more beautiful
which I stop thinking about very quickly
which is why maybe this is called a complex because of all
of these complex emotions and languages and clashing thoughts and cultural practices
and the smell of some Indian food comes wafting in our window
twisting into to some exquisite strand of Chinese food and yes, our Uganda neighbors
are cooking chipotees again.
But we all have something in common-
we all disappear during the day, to go to work I
(I see the Mexicans and Guatamalans out early every morning
waiting for their ride to another worksite) and yet,
none of us can afford property or land or a house.
They (our overlords) tell me that one day we will own nothing and be happy
but, can't help but think about my books on my shelf. I know I can't take it with me:
I really like my collection of books
that I could never find at the library, from authors who frequently
get banned or censored on social media platforms. Books
about the Bible, Nephilim bones, cosmology, medicine, and other taboo topics.
I'm starting to think this apartment complex is practice. How many disparate people can we cram
together before something happens. In ancient Greece they had the polie
and every person thought of themselves as a family. It's hard to do that now.
