It’s Difficult To Write Negative Poems When I Feel So Positive

I have to write two, short, bitter, negative, angst-laden slam poems for my screenplay. However, all you positive posters out there have influenced me too much. I've been so positive, lately, it's hard to get into the mood.

But, I'm getting there.

Loren M. Lambert © March 2, 2014

Jesus at Starbucks (“From a very brilliant, forward-thinking friend of mine, Loren Lambert. A beautiful perspective.” ~ Susan McCarty)

After my post, I took the opportunity to sit down with Jesus at Starbucks. He came in disguise, wearing a Johnny Wier-designed androgynous outfit.  He sported dreadlocks in his hair, “HATE” and “LOVE” tattoos on his hands, and a gold ring in his nose. He was quick to tell me that it wasn’t necessarily His style, but it was the best “get-up” for Salt Lake City.

Besides, He said, He didn’t want to freak out the Mormons who came to Starbucks for their morning coffee when they noticed Him there, drinking his favorite espresso with white, chocolate-flavored sauce and steamed milk, topped with sweetened whipped cream. He didn’t want them to have an excuse to let go of their guilt. He said it would be unfair. He told me that there is nothing better than guilt to put a bigger taste edge on something. He also remarked that I shouldn’t get any ideas since, as an immortal, He could eat or drink anything.

After the usual small talk about world penguin populations, free-range assisted living patients, and the Oscars, He invited me to pop the question: Would He bake a cake or build a theater set for a gay couple?

He smiled. He told me that he wasn’t going to let me off that easy and insisted I tell Him what Loren would do. I said that what I did wasn’t the point. It’s whether or not southern Baptist Bob, who had a public business of baking wedding cakes, should have to bake a cake for a gay couple.

He still insisted: What would Loren do?

I told Him I was a lawyer and felt that since the good taxpayers had helped provide a wonderful education, court system, and a secure society that had allowed me to become a lawyer, and to make a living providing a public service for those who needed my help in the courts, I wouldn’t turn away anyone whether they were black, female, Baptist, gay, or even claimed to be Jesus Christ. In fact, I told Him that Jesus Christ came in my office needing legal services just ten years ago, but that unlike him, this Jesus looked like a homeless man.

“And ...?” He asked.

I said, “Sure, if I offered a different public service, like baking cakes, I’d do the same. But that’s what I, Loren, would do.  However, should Baptist Bob have to do it?”  I asked, “Isn’t that a private matter?”

Jesus then took a big sip of his espresso, smiled, and asked, “Was it a private matter when the Missourians would not sell goods or property to your Mormon ancestors? Was it a private matter when hotels and restaurants wouldn't conduct business with blacks? Was it a private matter when Jews fleeing Nazi Germany were turned away and sent back to sure death? Would it have been a private matter if the reason there was no room for Mary to have a place to rest and give birth was because she had a child out of wedlock?”

“No,” I answered.

After a long pause, He said, “I don’t think that Jesus – at least not this Jesus – will condemn any person from engaging in commerce that provides food, shelter, clothing, work, healing, dignity, respect, equal protection, and even joy to all, whether in a cake, a movie set, or a beautiful song.” He then emphasized that it would serve us well to do so, even to those who are viewed by some as less worthy or less righteous.

“So . . .?” I asked.

Without looking at me, He then mentioned how wonderful life’s diversity is, because it puts to the test our ability to be decent and humane, and that if we served only those who we think deserved it, we would be no better than the most vile of beings. Then, He polished off His espresso, winked, and said goodbye.

Loren M. Lambert © March 4, 2014

Thankful For Clothing

Be thankful for modern clothing and the modesty that it so charitably provides by sparing us from the horrors of receding youth, and its pull upon our illusions of lingering virility and beauty.

Loren M. Lambert © March 9, 2014

Being Part of a Profession

Sometimes support comes from sources that you least expect. I have an ally that I never would have imagined.

This ally restores my faith in the professionalism of some who understand that when the heat of the battle subsides, we move on as fellow sojourners who are all striving to play our part as well as we can. Although not perfect, and while our zeal may at times give us an edge, our hearts are true and rein us in.

Loren M. Lambert © March 7, 2014

Buried Truth

Sometimes the truth is buried beneath the misguided belief that no one will believe it unless it comes decked out in high heels, a red dress, and a stunning makeover.

Loren M. Lambert © March 4, 2014

I Think Too Much

I think I should relent while struggling on.

I think I should eat more, or less, protein.

I think I am a long-haired man with a short-haired job.

I think I must know the unknowable,

I think my ability and joy are stifled by my thoughts.

I think I don’t and I do, and I think I do and I don’t. 

I think it is and it’s not, and it’s not and it is. 

I think the many see simplicity, I think complicity.

They think they’re right, I think God’s not even right. 

I think I like too much, I think I like too little. 

I think the grass is never greener anywhere, or it is as green as it ever was.

I think there’s too much fertilizer, herbicide, insecticide, driving, putting, mowing

and not enough “ignoble-izing.”

I think I am broken.

I think I am beyond being fixed, 

I think there’s no time to be fixed, 

I think I wouldn’t like being fixed. 

I think once fixed,

I would need being broken. 

I think I like being broken, 

I think everyone is broken.

I think people who don’t think too much

are to be led, 

are to be admired, 

are to be rich, 

are to lead people who think even less.

I think I cannot love.

I think love is lost.

I think I am lost love. 

I think love is a fantasy, 

and therefore I think I may have loved.

I think bullshit is infinite,

I think the infinite is bullshit.

I think the unthoughtful monetize bullshit into infinity.

I think that my wants cannot be met, 

I think I want to try to satiate my unattainable wants.

I think I should change so I do not want, 

I think I like to want. 

I think I am inescapably trapped. 

I think I think myself into thinking I am escaping.

I think I can’t get there where I am here at this time. 

I think I never found my lost way, 

I think the truthfulness of my lies ingrained themselves into the sincerity of my soul. 

I think I am famous because I am noticed by others to be irrelevant. 

I think that when you have finally thought it, the brass is beyond its ability to resound it. 

I think we all think there is no other way to think, at least that’s how I would think you think.

I think when I thought I wanted to be liked, the very thought pushed it beyond my reach. 

I think the minute I thought I needed to follow my instincts and my heart, I was forever incapable of following my instincts and my heart.

I think wombats never worry about writing a novel. 

I think squirrels never worry about who is the president.

And I think mosquitoes never worry about having a balanced breakfast. 

I think I liked every class I took in college and thereby hated them all. 

I think “every complex problem has a simple solution that is invariably wrong.” 

And, I think about the merits of unraveling tissue and how to squeeze the toothpaste.

I think too much.

Loren M. Lambert © January 28, 2014

Blame It On Basketball

Guided by the pewter prophets,

with far-from-innocent eyes,

pointing toward a promised land.

Not a mean fibre in my body, until basketball. 

Not an exclusive gene in my pocket, until submerging. 

How did the card-carrying member of the mutual admiration society 

go so far, so wrong, so beyond human touch.

Pulled between the visceral and the supernal,

far beyond synchronicity. 

With the end always in mind

Blessings bestowed as delicate tortures.

Paying forward the pain, long before requited

then by deception retracted on 

an irresistible path to repay 

the leavings of the 

completely loved out, 

smooth-soothing slash,

slicing thin as slivered ice

filled beyond the brim,

flamed out of all value 

in an underwater vault

buried beneath without remorse.

Yet, prostate with gratitude 

for nerves laid bare before the alter,

to be offered up into oblivion,

until nothing is left but to surrender

to a hate that has to be as large as the hurt

of the memory of all lost love

to fashion a cradle of forgetfulness, 

to bury at the beginning, 

to have never loved, 

to have never been tender.

With the mornings first light

among the strewn and dismembered,

a detached hand raises to implore,

wishing to then be gathered in.

Loren M. Lambert © February 14, 2014