May 6: Saint Peter Nolasco

Yes, my pastor friend and I celebrated Manly Man Poetry Night. We went to Big Boy, ordered the appetizer platter which consisted on chicken fingers, deep-fried mozzarella cheese sticks, and, of course, onion rings. I had just come from a music rehearsal for the funeral of my wife's great aunt. My friend had spent over eight hours in meetings. To make a long story short, we were both tired, ready to eat and relax.

Let me backtrack a little. Being involved in the worship and music ministries at church means that when it comes time for family funerals or weddings or baptisms or second marriages or 50th anniversaries (you name it), they turn to you as the resource person. I've had this occur to me more than once. Tonight, I had to unlock the church, get the lights and sound system turned on, hunt down the proper sheet music, and fire up the church's computer and projector. I usually try to perform these services with a smile and a positive attitude, but tonight, I let me tiredness get the better of me. I became a little snippy and slightly sarcastic, if you can imagine. When my sister-in-law said that if she had known the praise band was going to sing "Jesus Messiah" at the funeral, she could have sang it with us, I think I said something like, "We already have a diva." The stress of the past week's events made almost all the people oblivious to my tone and mood. Thank God. I just wanted to get to Big Boy.

Now, most of my readers are probably thinking, "You selfish bastard. You can't even stop thinking about yourself at a funeral practice." Guilty as charged. If you haven't noticed by now, I am no saint, and I'm prone to bouts or serious self-centeredness. It's just who I am. For the most part, though, I don't think I'm much different from anyone else. I'm just a little more honest about my feelings/failings.

Today's saint is sickeningly self-sacrificing. Born in France in 1180, Peter Nolasco inherited a ton of money from his father when the old man died. Peter was 15-years-old. Instead of doing what any other 15-year-old boy would do with that kind of cash (throw some parties, buy some beer, buy some girls, buy some friends), he took his inheritance and ransomed some Christians being held captive by Moors in Barcelona. Now, if you're anything like me, you're rolling your eyes about now, muttering "Give me a break." I like to think that if I received an unexpected fortune (win the Powerball; fall down in the produce aisle at Wal-mart, break my leg, and sue the evil conglomerate for several million dollars), I would help out certain loved ones and friends. Not all of them. I have a few scores to settle. I sure as hell wouldn't give it all away to help complete strangers.

However, Peter took it even one step further. He became a priest and established a religious group called Order of Our Lady of Ransom whose main focus was (you guessed it!) the freeing of Christian slaves. At one point in his life, he wound up in prison in Algeria, himself, trying to carry out his life's mission. Yeah, right. The prayer following his biography in my book says, "Like Peter, our faith and zeal should lead us to lives of holiness dedicated to the welfare of and concerns for those enslaved by sin and excess."

Which brings us to the poem I wrote for Manly Man Poetry Night. In a way, it's a poem about enslavement and war. Okay, I'm just saying that so I can justify including it in this blog post. It is, however, about a self-absorbed, 12-year-old boy who, coincidentally, bears a passing resemblance to me. It is the result of a poetry exercise in The Practice of Poetry. Poet Carol Muske suggests writing a poem based on/inspired by Elizabeth Bishop's "In the Waiting Room." (If you've never read it, you should. It's brilliant.) So, in blazing, self-centered glory, I give you...

In the Holiday Inn Bathroom or:
How I Learned to Start Smoking and Love the Bomb

In Manistique, Michigan.
My older brother, Paul,
Took me for a guys' weekend.
Cigarettes, porn, cable TV.
Almost spring. Snow still
Humped on the ground
In muddy piles, air full
Of ice and fog and dark.
On the tile floor
By the bathtub at 3 a.m.,
I flipped through pictures,
Smoked filtered Merits
The way any 12-year-old
Boy would smoke.
Suck. Inhale. Cough. Blow.
Taste like the upholstery
In my brother's Dodge Dart.
Tobacco and mint.

I stared at the women
In the magazine:
Babes in the Military.
Posed on tanks.
Spread on subs. Holding
Rifles, guns, sabers,
Fingers curled, loose
As a middle-school girl
Holding hands with her dad.
They wore parts of uniforms,
Hats with visors,
Olive-drab unbuttoned
To expose vulnerable flesh,
Headlamps of breasts
Cupped white where sun
Hadn't touched.

I listened to make sure
I was alone in this land
Of towels, bleach marble,
Drinking glasses with paper caps.
This alien territory
Of naked, smiling warriors.
Protecting. Serving. Me.
The Sailor's shaved
Waves, sandy clefts.
The Marine's curved back,
Muscled buttocks,
Hard as the Berlin Wall.
The Navy Seal's wetsuit
Unzipped, puddled
Like an oil slick
Around the equator
Of her hips. The world
Seemed secure to me,
Guarded by these Amazons
From the pages of Penthouse,
March of 1979.

The U.S. was warless,
Vietnam not quite history,
Iraq, Afghanistan
Distant as the planes
Over New York, the towers.
The only battleground
Were the jungles, desert hearts
Of girls. I wanted to be
Teddy Roosevelt, charge
Up San Juan Hill. The Duke,
Swagger with Green Berets.
Patton, push the enemy
Back and back to the bunker.
March. Fight. Conquer.

I heard a snort,
A growl of sleep,
From Paul in bed.
I suddenly realized
How far I had to go
To know the codes
To launch the missiles,
To have my hand
On the red phone
To give the orders:
Scramble the jets,
Invade, overcome.
I was still in basic,
Slogging through swamps,
Doing push ups, sit ups,
Surprise inspections,
Waiting for my chance
To engage, go
Hand-to-hand,
Face-to-face,
Body-to-body
With the babes
Of the military.
Be Slim Pickens
Riding my bomb
All the way home.