Monday, October 18, 2010

I got beat up Sunday Morning, The Poem.

It was during this period that Claude first sensed his vocation to the religious life in the Society of Jesus. We know nothing of the motives which led to this decision. We do know, however, from one of his early notations, that he "had a terrible aversion for the life embraced". This affirmation is not hard to understand by any who are familiar with the life of Claude, for he was very close to his family and friends and much inclined to the arts and literature and an active social life. On the other hand, he was not a person to be led primarily by his sentiments.

Claude became noted for solid and serious sermons. They were ably directed at specific audiences and, faithful to their inspiration from the gospel, communicated to his listeners serenity and confidence in God.

His spiritual notes from this period allow one to follow step-by-step the battles and triumphs of the spirit, so extraordinarily attracted to everything human, yet so generous with God.

Claude dedicated his time to giving thorough instruction to the many who sought reconciliation with the Church they had abandoned. And even if there were great dangers, he had the consolation of seeing many reconciled to it, so that after a year he said: "I could write a book about the mercy of God I've seen Him exercise since I arrived here!"

-From the Vatican Website

I got beat up Sunday morning

'fore God woke up.

Just got down to New Orleans

Where I’ve learned to drink

from a half-full cup.

I got my zygomatic bones bruised.

I got my arms crossed ‘n’ wires fused.

I got off work and rode my bike to the Bywater.

Throw a cup of water at my face while the weather’s still warm.

Throw a glass bottle at my head while the air’s still thick enough to hear it coming.

Call me faggot while I’m still young enough to wear my pants so tight.

Get out of your truck and chase me down while the streets are still empty.

Pull me off my bike while I’m still happy to walk.

Punch my face once while I ask you why.

Punch my face twice while I ask you to stop.

Tear off my jacket while I wonder how long this will last.

Punch my face three times while I look at your friends looking at me.

Punch my face four times while it occurs to me “This is different.”

Those are your knuckles so devoted to my zygomatic bones.

Hard to turn the other cheek, face down.

I feel your fists loose faith, get softer.

Punch the back of my head once before you turn away while I imagine your license plate:









It’s over. You left me there. You took nothing.

My bike’s busted. My buttons ripped off. My earrings beaten out.

I walk home. Oh I walk home.

A gay cop finds me on the corner of Esplanade and Dauphine.

I said a gay cop finds me on the corner of Esplanade and Dauphine.

He says we’re calling this in a 35. Hate Crime.

I said officer

I said I said officer

she don’t hate me, she just don’t love me.

My Zygomatic bones bruised.

Since you left me, I rode uptown in an ambulance.

I answered questions about my city, the year, and the president.

I said you can take your 10 grand CT Scan and shove it where the sun always shines.

Baby, I was discharged and a taxi took me home.

I got beat up Sunday morning

‘fore God woke up.

Just got down to New Orleans

Where I’ve learned to drink

from a half-full cup.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I love this poem and I do hope that you are all right. It's incredibly nasty that these things happen, and a relief that you and others can talk about it and write things about it so that, hopefully, they happen less.


blogger templates | Make Money Online