Bruno was invited to join the Good-looking people from his Bible study group following the weekly lecture. There were three predominant groups at this, rather large, singles Bible study: the Good-looking, the Homely, and the Inbetweeners. Bruno usually mingled among all three, related to them all in someway, but he found the most resistance among the Good-looking, a silent war between homo-hormones and egos. But it must have been a mix up, he got caught in the traffic between the handsome men and women. Bruno was handsome, but their coolness and indifference were intimidating. Bruno was too often betrayed by his flowering doubt.

How it happened: the women were invited out to “fellowship,” Bruno was talking to the women, caught in the middle he was invited along, “You can come, too, Bruno.” Christian charity.

At the time Bruno was actually feeling like he had made a good impression on the handsome women. He had felt like things were rolling quite nicely, so why not continue it? He accepted the invitation. All three of the women seemed animated and interested in him coming. From them there was no hidden animosity, but that was because he wasn’t their competition. He was hoping, though, that he was being fought for.

In the car ride over he thanked God for bringing this opportunity. He had only a week ago written one of these women, Mable, a sonnet. He didn’t really know her well, at all really, but wanted to get to know her better, to ask her out. He always screwed things up and seemed to make things awkward when he pursued women, so he planned a sonnet to steer his mouth. So often those moments of execution locked his brain where his mouth followed. If rejected at least she might be touched by the poetry and would have a story to tell. The poem might even relieve him from the shame, for a bit, from his past. In his eyes his baggage always seemed to powder up, fogging over any shine that was only just there. It was always ready in the lower folds of his eyelids, crowding his tear ducts, for the slightest sign of heart flutter. His poem, he hoped, would be distraction enough.

That hope, itself, was distracted the next day, when following Mable out to her car found her embracing a tall red-haired man. Bruno’s poem suddenly joined the rest of his collection in their impracticality. He drove home dreaming of life-long celibacy.

This week had promise. Mable, who is taken, proved to be a bit caddy when Bruno briefly spoke to her leaving him grateful for his deferred hopes. This week still had promise: Elisabeth, the nurse. This much he gleaned from her short, but lit, conversation before the invitation: her name used an “s” instead of the common “z.”

to be continued…

Josh brought to my attention that U.S.E. would be in Minneapolis on Wednesday, March 9, 2005 at the Triple Rock Social Club.

I went. It was ELECTRONIC LOOOOOOOVE. When they came on it totally made up for the fact that the concert started an hour and a half late, I got beer spilled on me, I smelled horribly of smoke, and I had to teach fourth graders the next morning; life tasted of sun and strawberries and the club rocked! They had seven or eight band member crowded onto the tiny stage. It was amazing how thick and together the music was considering that, from what I could tell, it was all done live. The place was not packed, which totally surprised me, but it left plenty of room to dance, babvy yeah! If you ever have the chance, see them live. They are electonic butter.

Considering my last entry I thought I’d share a poem I wrote a couple of months ago. I was in a weird mood, my cat was being weird, and I really felt like writing in the voice of an adolescent Hmong boy. If you’ve ever read ELL Hmong writers they have a distinct way of writing and speaking. For example they don’t remember to put words in past tense. They also seem to wander in free-association thought land, but occasionally they have some extrememly insightful things in their writing that I’m never quite sure whether they meant it or not. There’s something in the way they write that I warms my heart and also annoys me. I don’t know. There’s some connection there. Anyway, here it is:

Weirdo.

She not like other cats
She more like dog
It like she think I her kind
Or she my kind
Or some kind half breed,
Closer than we think.
I know where she like
to sleep best: in my lap.
When she is comfy she cleans
when she full of play she
fetch or hide or bite.
Her annoying when she get hungry
She such a baby
Whining whining whining
“Shut up,” I tell her
But she jus keep it up
Rubbing my leg or pawing my back.
I teach her to massage.
She like my slave I give
food if she massage my back.
But my cat she drool on me.
She must be imagine like I am
a piece of steak and she
is tendering me and
imagine that she slice tiny garlics
into my steak and grill it (with
butter) so that it is a little bloody.
I would drool too.
I call her “weirdo” like
she wierd or something.
She like it because I only tell
people I love “wierdo.”
I say-I say “weirdo!”
And she say “clclclclcl”
I tell her “reaowuh…^”
She responded “giblets?”
In that way she is like other cats.
That how we different too.
She get happy when she hungry
I get mad like I will
eat you when I get hungry,
But we tell, “Hello” to each other when
I get home,
I pet her fur.
She got a good fur
Cuz I turn it off the heat
When I go and she grows hairs.
That why my lap so nice to her
It warm like mother milk.
She not home until I come home
and my lap open up for her
Then she home.
Then she breaths deep and
hide her nose under her wrist,
curling like orange cane,
wrapping like a gift
I open knowing what inside, a boy
who picked out my own present but
have to wait until my birthday.
Her white belly and gold eyes
open to me and tell me
” I like you. You the kind I
can trust.”
I stretch the orange accordian
Her buttons click and chirps.
Weirdo. Simple cat.
You kinda dumb but you different.