Salvation Army and the Christians arrived today, Christmas, like every other Sunday morning feed the homeless, chasing the rats from the bathroom, basement, kicking the dead flies out of the corner spots where the cat used to lounge- clean the toilet bowl, a form of revival and resurrection. I privately pastor to these desires though I myself am homeless. I forgot what it's like to be a poet of the cloth, savior in street clothing with a warm home to blend into. I watch them clamp the New Testament in one hand, And pull a cancer stick out of the pocket with the other. It's all a matter of praising the Lord. Everything is nonsense when you're in a place where you don't belong. Even praying to Jesus from a dirty dusted pillow seems strange and bewildering. Someday I will walk from this place and offer spare meals by myself to others; feed the party in between the theology, the bingo of sins and salvation. I forgot the taste of a Stromboli Sandwich with a 6 pack of Budweiser with or without the Chicago Bears--it would make every Sunday a Salvation Army holiday. Today is a fairy creating miracles from the dust of the floor multiplying fish and chips, baked ham, ribs with sauce Chi-Town type, dark color of greens and veggies tip me to the Christian clock on the wall peeking down on lost and unsaved. I feel like a fragment. A birth date the way again to begin, fragmented. Pinto beans mixed with graffiti fingers, Christians arrived on Christmas day- they always do every Sunday morning. I pastor to these desires. It's all a matter of praising the Lord. The Christians arrived today.
