6

Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope Don’t hurt the Pope

There was no beer in the cooler this morning and I couldn’t tell you where it went. It’s just gone. Don’t know who stayed here last night. Don’t care who stayed here, my things are in order, my life is still going on, these things happen, but the beer is gone.

Undying journal, sadness this morning and not joy pervades me. Upstairs in 5-C is some pounding stereo that is not soothing for me. Tears are in my eyes this morning. Tears are in my eyes.

No beers. No coffee. No food. No teddy bears.

Here I am, young and infinite, tears in eyes. A cigarette would be nice.

Another dream last night journal, this one so close to the secret I strive to uncover. I was in a city, some East Coast waterfront city, with lots of quite old churchy folk settling down for it all. In the middle of this, some young buck wild fucky-like kids start to make there quiet way through the scenarios and streets. They were on to me. I could not understand why, but I kept running and blending in with the crowd wherever I could to melt in and dissolve.

Then, coming onto the docks, a ferry boat arrived, began to unload auto after auto. Lastly, a lightly guarded rig pulled out and a crowd began to gather around it. I followed and watched the back flap open wide to see what was inside the truck.

And what the hell, it was Pope John Paul II.

He was being wheeled out, ever so slowly, by a sentry-type guard who looked more like a circus worker than bodyguard. The crowd gasped in amazement and silence befell everyone. Il Papa was a frail man, he held his head in his hand, and he did not want to be bothered. All the while he was murmuring silently to himself or to God or I don’t know. They lowered the rig as the crowds stood there and watched. I began to fear the violent youth around with this gentle figure so loosely guarded.

My heart was racing and I ran up to the Pope. I pushed through the crowd, I knelt down in front of him, I kissed him and I wept. I wrapped my arms around him, but instead of him embracing me, he sat there, head in hands, silently blah blah blah to himself. I held him closer, but he slipped out of my arms and fell onto the ground. What have I done?, I thought. I ran away before the guards could catch me.

And there I was again, in the crowds, in the transience, in the maelstrom, the violent youth all around, pointing at me, whispering. I was sweating and ducked into an alley. I hid out. Finally, I managed to get to the other side of the alley, where there were the crowds again, only this time they were smiling and walking together, families and community members, all dressed up and off to this big cathedral church.

I don’t like churches.

I don’t like them at all, journal.

But in this my dream, I decided to go into the church and see what the big fuss was about.

The sound of singing filled my ears as I entered. Pews were filled with people singing and smiling. The cathedral smelled of person and age. I looked left and saw him, Il Papa, sitting there on stage, on a throne, holding his head in his hands and mumbling still. I began to cry and said, “Forgive me, forgive me!,” and ran up to him, embraced him so terribly hard, like a vice around a mouse, I wept and wept. His face grimaced in pain and he crumpled to the ground in a huddle. I stopped crying, filled with horror. What have I done?, I screamed inside. I grabbed the throne to steady myself, feeling faint, and the crowd stared at me blankly in disbelief. I started to think, ‘Such a place of belief for such disbelief’, but then realized what I had done and stumbled slowly and defeated out of the church.

Two blocks down, shuffling the dust, the violent beat-up fucky-type of youth came upon me, just one of them. He smiled at me in the alley I had found myself in, by the trash dumpsters, and pulled his knife on me. I let it all out. I flew upon him before he had his way with me, grabbing his knife, plunging it in his chest, and out, and in and blood was all over everywhere, his heart was exposed and I was making a mess of it, and he was gurgling and blank and horrorstruck. I got into him really good and then startled myself awake.

I don’t want to hurt the Pope. I don’t want to hurt him at all. ///

5

I don’t like to go out on the weekends and party like everybody else does, but I do like to walk around downtown and watch them. People, with their glassy eyes, always look brighter and more full of hope under the marquees. Last night, away from my girlfriend Marley’s, into the late hours I remained, watching them, silent, observing. Lifting drunks from the gutters, trying to feed the endless hungry. Playing games with the lines on the cements. Skipping every other section of the sidewalk. Electronics pounded through doors and I felt alive as I walked past and prayed... I pray, journal. Most people think that’s childish but I do, and God wraps me in protection and love. They don’t understand, atheists and the wretched, of how boundless the grace of God really is. Do you believe in God’s love? Sometimes it’s even hard for me, but I do, and continue on. I touch the sick to kiss them. Enough about all that though, I wouldn’t want pride to bring my fall. Even if I am the greatest of all prophets, I wouldn‘t let pride get me.///

4

I try to tell Marley that caution is overrated. Temperance is not a quality of God at all. God is passion and God is reckless wildness. Everybody here on Earth fears, nobody says yes. They fight. Stall at the moment ordained. They throw slurs and they toss bombs. Everybody fears one another. Everybody fears me, I love everyone. I lose.

Caution is overrated - it needs to be written. I don’t understand why people lock themselves up in their own chains, all the while lamenting over chains binding others. Throwing stones and scattering rationalities. Drivel.

I can’t believe in caution like it’s some holy thing. If God walks with me and he talks with me, then God does. God says to go in there and find her. A drug, a drink. Maybe a night of drug and drink. What’s wrong with that journal? Regardless of inebriating myself or braving sobriety, I still wake up and the day feels broken. Regardless of risky actions or resting potentials.

I am taking some mescaline soon on recommendation. It’s being delivered soon by the Doctor. I leave town, and I really need to meet with you God, so go before me and I’ll see you there, my Thunder, my Hush. We’ll walk about on the clouds.

We’ll walk about on clouds, we’ll walk about in white fields. We’ll walk about on the whitest of plains and city sidewalks. ///

3

...A few hours since I last wrote, journal...

right now the lover is walking out to the street

(he has to have seen the pigtail girl)

It looks like

He passes her, now realizes the error of his ways

so the lover enters into intense petition with the heavens

longing to once again be held by his beloved

I am like that beloved, wait by the phone

trapped and despairing everyone wants the best for you always I always feel///

2

The couple across the hall are in the worst of it. They can’t hear it, I hear it all. Their voices walking on top of another, I’m sure of it, I can hear it. They can’t see what beautiful things are outside. Right outside the window. Right now journal, there’s a young girl walking in the middle of the street. The black tar open highway, balancing the dividing yellow street line, playing hopscotch. She has pigtails and I think a lollipop. Anyway, they can’t see it, I’ve been staring out of this window for an hour. She dances and turns and weaves throughout the traffic and cars with the freedom of the newly redeemed. She knows where to find God and she is walking into the storm, into it’s black eye anger, waving her arms, she calms it, she calms me. She brings my heart to ease while across the hall - I want to throw myself through their door, broken, into their arms. Lead them to the window, point out and say, “Look...eternity.”

Only I can see her, and she dances on, wild soul

1

Three weeks, every day, God tells me to walk these streets - I look around everywhere and find no sign. Not a fucking one but street preachers jagging how they got saved two blocks down. Hammers on concrete. Drills against skeleton skyscrapers. Beeping dump trucks in reverse. Prettiest cell phones, children in tow of business mom, business dad. The Rolling Stones in a boom box. Car one passing, car two passing, car three. The trumpeted sounds of police officers now on scene. The hey mister at my leg. The hey there from the whores. So many airplanes, so many helicopters, metro cabs, so many street cars, nothing. God said go, I know it, I’m the best one for it, but there’s nothing here. Still.

There has to be something else come on come on come on///