in pickup trucks and the least of these

i am a weak soul
and i believe the good lord knows so
because he does things


yes i believe he takes pleasure
in restoring
that soul to its place of strength -
when it walked in the garden with Adam;
i was there,
with him;
as a skin cell,
or perhaps
his index finger nail,
but there
for nameless amounts of sunrises,
naming animals
and attending to the earth,
there when god came, and
opened us up to make Eve,
when she,
took part in our flesh;
and when we
thought we
could be like God.


it was then
i fell
with him, and apart
cast to the earth;
swept up in dust blood
of a younger son
and falling rain;
drifting through the firmament
in flood waters and ebbing tide,
washed ashore a beach in texas;
to wait within the sand
for a man
deep beneath his hands
digging into the loose grained floor -
till skin tore,
for me
to enter his blood stream
while he found love and camping,
the road back home ending
his spring break and singleness;
he laughed at her stories
and thought her the firework,
an explosion
from which our face glowed,
and i grew
from love to boy, now man
in the blood stains
of imperfection -
and the memory of my first home,


he wants to restore me to,
so he does things,
like sending bus drivers beyond my eyes
on a morning where there is only one,
then pours grace into my upturned thumb,
he does things,
like cause the sun to press gently
into a sunday sky
and hide its glow inside
a hawks breeze,
he does things,
like harmonize the compassion
of heat and wind,
and rest it on my exposed eyelids,


from which the sight flooding my present
is full rainbows
at every bearing of the compass,
the world is spinning
and God is watching,
like he does see after all,
like he knows that i need that kind of attention,
even if only for a downhill;
like he knows my memory of the garden and he wants to remind it's still waiting,
like he knows i'm desperate to find it and so he's leaving clues,
like he hears me losing and wants me to feel what it's like to be picked first,
to score the game winner
at the buzzer
with a girl in the bleachers,
like he knows my X's are bureaucrats and intellectuals
and he put the treasure in pickup trucks and the least of these,
in the unseen,
in the small things,
like roundabouts and handshakes,
their shotgun holding uniforms,
now fathers coming home to mothers,
the 24 hour shifts,
and the 24 hours later,
their so-long smiles and companion hearts.


God put his treasure in hearts,
and sometimes, on missed bus mornings
he lets it glow,
like stars when the power's down,
like white teeth against a black light,
as new as everyday
as bright as always


like the kingdom of god is here;
it costs us everything,
and we can afford it,
because there's treasure hidden,
still to be discovered,
and it's not in our t.v. screens,
and it's not in the church pews,
not in lady gaga's lyrics,
nor the third chorus of 'mighty to save',
it's the love we have for others,
and it's only ever known fully when
everything is forsaken, but love for our brother,
and sister.


if the kingdom of god is the edge of town;
i keep imagining myself as the guy
showing people houses,
not making sales or anything,
just taking people around the block;
and i'm meeting folks
that need grace,
like it changes something,
like it makes them wealthy enough
to shop on this side of the tracks,
and their eyes light up
like they've never known luxury,
like they've never knowing something
that couldn't be taken away
by something or someone else,
and i just get to walk them around all day,
and enjoy their smiles and faces;


and when we're all finished with the tour,
we each hop out the back
of a white nissan frontier
slap hands and pound it, before
saying our 'see you mondays,'
as they head toward families,
and i to the other side of the roundabout
to flag down the 202 to San Salvador.