Lt. Fran

Little old lady
with no legs. She said, "Under
my left boob. It hurts."

Barnes and Noble book
club. Can you return the ones
I didn't get to?

Her body was in
a box in the church in the
town she lived always.

This was the same stained
glass as in 1970.
Familiar wafer

slipped into pockets.
Paul bearers, and you got out
of the car, saying,

"I want to see that."
And you listened to the stuff
people say every time

in the first pew, same
windows as 1970.
There's nothing inside

that box. There's a dish
of potato sour cream cheese
something we all like.

The pious cooks hint
it's time to move on from the
congregation's gym.

Tables are folded
and suddenly there is a
basketball at play.

Then a few. The men
in their ties and black slacks shoot
around. The moms and

daughters and sisters
watch on. Watch on. Not a bad
way to go in June.

Step One

Jamin & Me, Freshman Year Winter Quarter

Sometimes when I think about how much I have changed in the past four years I feel like I am going to explode, or I should have, or I am going to soar to outstanding heights.

Today's anthem has been guilt. I can't explain it. Maybe my father's stint with Catholicism is hereditary. Some days it is all I feel. For everything. Vegan April has magnified this emotion/feeling/burden--there will be a grand update on the whole thing when the time is right, but for now, just this:

Guilt is more wasteful than poor environmental practices, and it serves no purpose in my growth. Or yours. That said, ignorance should still be uplifted, joy unbound, life free, but the guilt, oh, the sagging, dragging, bumping guilt can be cast off. Obliterated by a trillion peace doves flying in tight formations, beaks pointed.

Step One: Destroy the Guilt