The Trackless Path

I love the places where nobody cares

Like this parking lot.

It is a miracle that nobody

Is rushing out to tell me to leave.

But on the other hand, I'm clean.

It might be different if I made a mess.

And I am not a vagrant.  I serve a purpose here.

I simply prefer the peaceful places

That, at this particular moment,

Man's ambition hasn't claimed.

There is something sacred there,

A quiet that the world can't find

In all of its frantic getting,

And keeping, and protecting.

In the absence of all of that, I think, 

God claims the solitary places

For those who do not care 

For the accumulation

Of earthly things.

I live in a mini-van

All cramped and small.

It's like living in a box.

But that's ok.

The rent is cheap

And I don't mind

Because I am a poet.

I don't need much -

A place to sleep,

And a chair,

And a typewriter.

And I sit there all day long and write

Except for the days when I stand in the open air

And rhyme for spare change.

A mini-van is just right

For one like me

Who lives on the move -

A poet's palace -

A mini-van.

A night of busking, 

Two dollars earned.

It’s the beginning of another life 

And the way of the traveling man.

My table’s out with copies of my book.

And I lure them with song.  Why?

Because if I don’t do it,

Nobody will.

The Fender Acoustasonic 40,

The beginning of amplification.

What does it mean?

I am not sure.

But I bought one

With the intention of singing a song

That people can actually hear.

The Yamaha NCX1FM,

A beautifully sounding guitar,

With electronics built in.

I bought it on a whim.

Which is a thing I never do.

An investment. An intention to spend 

My life playing the song that God intends.

I am surprised at how little I care.

I once used to believe that it was my duty

To be disturbed by the wickedness of the world.

I no longer feel that way.

It is not my duty to be disturbed by anything.  

It is not my business.

And I no longer expect to change the world

By letting it disturb the heaven 

That lives inside of me.

I trust God with the world that he has created.

I believe that he knows what he is doing.

And paradoxically, I find

That I am better able to help the little world around me

By remaining undisturbed.

There are truths that cannot be written down.

They are dispensed from heaven

Directly to the individual.

And they are precious,

Sacred, redemptive.

Believe in these,

Even before you have heard them.

And if you seek God and obey His voice,

Sooner or later you will be taught from on high.

Many believe 

That they have found God 

Because they have uncovered the supernatural.

But God is not to be found in parlor tricks.

He does not bend himself to satisfy our lusts.

And just because you can manifest a million dollars

Doesn't mean that God intends it.

And yet,

All good things 

Follow them who believe,

Not because they set their hearts upon them,

But because God provides for his own.

Indeed, one of the greatest struggles 

Of enlisting to follow that voice

That speaks from heaven,

Is that the more like heaven you become,

The less you are able to focus on earthly things.

Your whole desire becomes for the healing of the human family.

Your life, your work, is to mend the breach

Between heaven and Earth.

And the paradox 

Is that once this world is forsaken,

Every element, every breath, every earthly thing 

Enlists to further that cause along

So that you truly need not worry 

About what you will wear 

Or eat tomorrow.

All things are yours

And you are God's

And that's enough.

If you endure it well, you’ll find

That the places, the times, 

When you sacrificed the most

Are the most endearing to your memory.

4:30 am

Sitting in my van,

And I hear coughing.

I gaze out the window

Toward the McDonalds

And see the silhouette of a man

Step, step, cough, cough, cough

Step, cough, cough, step cough

Homeless.  The shelter is nearby

And they are all over around here.

And I wonder as I cough, cough, type cough,

And pretend I do not see,

What can be done?

3 hot meals a day

A block away.

A bed for some.

But it is more than that,

Demons that the benevolent cannot touch,

Death that works its way into the heart, the lungs.

And I think as we cough, cough, type, step

That we are connected.

And yet I notice him.

And he doesn’t notice me.

What does that mean?

Nothing perhaps.

Or not.