The Dog

He, with guilt and remorse, told me to go over
to the hillside and speak to the one who knows,

so I looked at the different people there and he
said no, that it was the dog to whom I should

speak and so I just listened to the dog’s story,
which was the man’s story of guilt and remorse.

The dog spoke to me of a stormy day when he and
the man’s dog played among the waves and the

waves became too high. The dogs had planned
to journey away but the waves continued to grow

and the storm became great and the man’s dog
drowned and wasn’t found. I felt so bad for the

man because I know how much he loved the dog.
The dog would have come back, I’m sure, but I

don’t think the man knows that and so he just
lives with the guilt and remorse not just be-

cause he couldn’t save the dog but that, in his
mind, he did something to cause the dog to want

to go away, and, in a certain, final sense, the
dog did.

what the one percent wants from the one percent’s perspective

of course, it doesn’t work;
it isn’t intended to work
because that begs the
question of for whom it
is supposed to work
and that begs the question
about the constitution
and that isn’t intended
to be an issue because
if it works constitutionally
that means it isn’t working
for me and all i want is for
it to work for me and that’s
why i pay all the money i
do to lobbyists basically to
bribe legislators to do what
i want them to do. lobbyists
and legislators get rich in
a minor sort of way but
enough of a way to keep
them in line and do my
bidding. pretty simple,
hey? as the ad goes,
just do it.

Drifting Off During A PBS Fundraiser

He drifted off to music heaven
Heart and soul,
Hoagie Carmichael, Glen Miller,
Jimmy and Tommy Dorsey, to the sounds of
Saxophones, trombones and
Duke Ellington’s piano bones.
Duke sang so heavenly —
Dreams never are as bad as they seem
So dream, dream, dream to Guy Lombardo
And all the way to Chris Montez and Call Me,
And the old song, The More I See You,
From childhood to high school, from Star Dust,
To It’s Only A Paper Moon to Blue Moon, You
Saw Me Standing Alone
And Let’s Dance and so we did
On the sentimental journey back in time
And we owe it all to the backbeat, finger
Snapping, drum roll of the African American
Who’s got a gal in Kalamazoo.
All that great music owes
It’s soul
To all the blacks from slavery through Motown
And not goin’ back.
From yo mama
To Yo-yo Ma.
Pat Boone stole
Tutti Frutti
From Little Richard.
(Good Grief! and
Lord, have mercy!)
Blacks cringed en mas
And Little Richard
Got his groove back:
Awop-bop-a-loo-mop alop-bom-bom.

The Day

To laugh at the day,
to sigh in the night,
bad dreams to allay,
that is my delight.

To wonder at the day
in spite of politics
and not dismay,
to such hope, I would affix.

To celebrate the day
and meditate therein
come what may —
ah, peace within.

For Eons

For eons upon eons
we’ve been moving
toward the
perfect absurdity
of masculinity,
the embodiment of
misogyny —
the ludicrous
misanthropy
of everything
over-the-top
testosterony.

And now we
have him for
all the world
to see
and flee
all the blatant
baloney.

We dumb
males
have cooked
our own gander
and made it
a smooth
transition
for the
female gender
to gather

and finally,
by the grace
of Esther
and her
estrogen
to take over
and fix
the broken
condition.

You, go girl!
Er, woman,
person.

Oh, for Sophia’s
sake,
Just Do It!
Please,
by any means,
before we
schoolyard
bullies
and insecure
phonies
blow the
world to
smithereens
just to
prove
we’ve
got big
cojones.

It’s Been a Wet Spring. Just How Wet Has It Been?

It has been so wet, I have moss growing out of my ears.
It has been so wet, we keep the dehumidifier going so
     the walls don’t weep with sadness at how damp it is.
It has been so wet, when the dehumidifier fills we throw
     the water up in the air to catch the edge of the rising water.
It has been so wet, the edge of the water is a few feet higher
     than the dunes around the lake and we are wondering how long 
     it's just going to sit there without pouring over the dune 
     down to our house giving us a ride on the top of a tsunami.
It has been so wet, the frogs and toads are having a hard time 
     coming up for air because the air is now so high up in the 
     sky.
It has been so wet, only the fish are happy because they have so 
     much more water in which to swim.
It has been so wet, the fish have looked up to me for the ten years 
     they have been in the pond, but now they look down at me and
     call me funny names like Mr. Gurgle Gurgle.
It has been so wet, I now can feel moss in my nose and algae 
     in my eyes.
It has been so wet, I'm grateful that I look good in green.

Native Lady Justice Will Come to Stay*

Is there no final depth to depravity,
no final hell of evil’s machinations —
taking native women and girls into captivity?
Must the devil ravage the reservations?

Years go by;
not a word is said,
not one cry.
Are they dead?

Thousands of them vanish
into thin, mountain air.
Will no one — the White Devil to banish?
That devil has bought off the people —
( the devil’s tools — poverty, anger, hostility reign)
doesn’t anyone care?

And so we drug, dope and sell women
— they are just (sex organ) squaws —
into the burning carnage. Beware the omen!
Where is the cause; where is enforcement of the laws?

But beware! Phoenix will rise from the ashes;
for justice she will scream;
the devil she thrashes
her sisters to redeem.

The Great Spirit Sophia cries,
“Set my sisters free!”
and stares the White Devil in the eyes
and laughs as the devil flees.

The voices of the missing rise
on the mountains and over the plains
echoes of thousands’ rise —
a craven, male, white culture to blame.

You, White, European Devil, have had your day.
Native Lady Justice will come to the reservation and stay.

*idea from the following, searing article:
https://www.marieclaire.com/politics/a27560457/native-american-women-missing/?utm_source=pocket-newtab.

You, Norseman, of Viking Blood

Well you, Norseman, six-foot-four, steelworker,
Swedish on the border of Norway, descendant
of invading, terrorizing Vikings, child of
Odin by Thor, a Hanson changed for reasons
unknown, not explained satisfactorily (too
many on the block and the wrong mail kept
being put in the box?). She said you were the
father of her child. You said no. She had been
a dear friend, only. But you, Norseman, paid
support for years and years through years of
your own marriage and your own children and
then one day the descendants of the woman and
your descendants, Norseman, child of Odin by
Thor, compared genes and they were not related
at all. You, Norseman, said you had not had re-
lations with the woman, that she was simply a
friend, but you, Norseman, helped the woman for
years and years when there was no one else to
help and, Norseman, steelworker, your descendants
are proud to be of your caring, compassionate,
gentle Viking blood.

Interesting How Things Get Their Start

The ex-nun, invited by the
pastor, spoke to his youth
group about the evils of Roman
Catholicism. He squirmed in

his seat. It just didn’t seem
right. It seemed like a betray-
al. That was back in the
day when Protestants and

Catholics could go to school
together and live in the same
neighborhoods but couldn’t
enter each other’s churches

for fear of eternal punish-
ment. He had a close friend in
grade school and high school
whose dad had died suddenly in

their freshman year. He attend-
ed his friend’s father’s funeral
mass. As he sat in the pew in
awe of all the beauty, bells,

whistles (or should he say
chimes?) and incense, he felt
viscerally sated. He wondered
why anyone could say that such

a place was of the devil. Years
later, he wrote his doctoral
dissertation on the relation-
ship between the pastoral care

function of reconciliation
and the observance of the
Eucharist. As he thought about
it, such a ministerial journey

started that sad day, in that
beautiful church, for that
funeral mass for the father
of his good friend.