It’s the end of the month

and the end of the day

and feeling a need to post

one more poem

before July intrudes

and he embarks on a new way,

he considered the previous

two weeks’ traumas

and instead of rehashing,

rehearsing,

revisiting and retelling,

he decides simply to say

Kyrie,

Lord, Have Mercy,

Christ, Have Mercy,

Lord, Have Mercy,

and see you in the dawn

of a new July day.

The art of irrational romance

is a term used for a super

expensive, super-charged

car that gets about negative

miles per gallon and is purchas-

ed by gazillionairs who, obvious-

ly, care about things gazillion-

aires care about but who, also

obviously, don’t care much

about things like the environ-

ment and kids breathing with-

out inhalers. The art of irrational

romance is a sexy term but is

sexy always in-your-face exploit-

ative, out of your reach, like a

sleek, low fender over roof to

fender arch made up, anymore

of a little steel, some aluminum

and a lot of plastic inorganic

stuff? Or is the art of irrational

romance more about what most

attempt on a daily basis after

the wedding bells signal that

the irrational is about to kick in,

and so it does for as long as the

marriage lasts?

Don’t worry about him what was.

Worry about her what is.

When she finds out what was

and still is,

she will determine what will be,

and it won’t be what could

have been;

it will be what everyone

fears will be

and that certainly

is the

certainty

of taxes and a quick trip

to eternity.

She’s going to kill

when she gets her

hands on thee,

and that’s a

guarantee.

Grackles swoop down chasing

each other along the road that

runs through the neighborhood.

They rise cawing all the way

over the housetops on their way

to another association along the

shores of the big lake. A red tail

hawk sits high up in one of the

old, old Oaks. Scores upon scores

of chipmunks burrow all around

people’s property. As the sun sets,

mosquitoes attack people sitting on

their balconies, decks and front porch-

es. The breeze off of the lake blows the

carriers of disease away for now. A man

watching the crackles fly away, rubs the back

of his neck and feels a deer tick moving

into his hairline, picks it off and crushes

it between the nails of his thumb and

index finger. Six deer in the local herd

move up the east side of his property,

cross the street and disappear into

a dune. The man retreats into the

sanctuary of his great room, washes

his hands in the kitchen sink and

anticipates the exterminator’s visit

the next day to flush out the rod-

ents, which crept between the walls

last winter, got stuck and died leav-

ing, in early spring, after the thaw, a

horrible stench downstairs in his

wife’s art studio. At least the

termites are gone, guaranteed for

ten years with an annual inspection

by the pest control company for

$150 per visit in the fall of each year.

The ants go marching down in the

ground to get out of the rain

and come back up in every household

drain,

hoorah, hoorah.

The members of the board of directors

of the condominium association in

Arizona sit on their thumbs instead of

tackling important issues and making

something happen.

The members of the board of directors

of the beach association in Michigan

over-reach their authority, hire an attorney

at association expense and the members

ask what happened.

The members of the council of a

congregation get into the aggressive

phase of their passive-aggressive be-

havior and some know what was

about to happened.

Chipmunks burrow between

the outside wall and the drywall

and leave food particles, fecal

matter and urine soaked insulation

which drops in buckets

to the floor of the family room as

the exterminator holds back a gag.

The couple who belong to the

associations and who own the

formerly vermin infested home

and are now without a church,

shake their heads, open a bottle

of sauvignon blanc, look into each

other’s eyes and say simultaneously,

“Shit happens,” laugh and pointing

fingers at each other, say, “Owe me

a coke,” which dates them terribly

but also allows them the wisdom

and freedom of a line from an old

Doris Day song, “Que sera, sera.”

Rain poured all night long and in the morning,

it became a shower, then a drizzle, then a sprinkle,

then drops and then he drove to the hiking trails.

He jogged, humming familiar tunes appropriate

to the moment, he thought. He dodged puddles

in soccer’s World Cup and kicked off to a team

mate. He noticed that he had an orange t-shirt on

and raised a fist for the Netherlands. When he got

to the woods, the sandy trails dried, but water

dropped from the pines, oaks, maples, and beech

upon his head. Water clouded his glasses. He put

them in his shorts, wiped the water from his eyes

and rejoiced for the rain, the puddles, the water drip-

ping from the trees, the cool drops on his warm

head and running down his throbbing temples. As

he emerged from the woods, he saw a large puddle

engulfing the entire width of the trail. He jogged to

the left along the edge of the puddle; he jumped to the

right making it just over the puddle, his heel slapping

the edge of the puddle splashing cool water up his hot

legs and then he kicked the winning goal. When he

arrived back at the parking lot, he took a victory lap,

bowed, got in the car and drove home as the drops

became a sprinkle, then a drizzle, a shower and

a downpour as he drove in the garage eager to

tell his wife that he got in forty minutes without

stopping.

West,

One scene of his life to

complete 360,

the other 180

from 1980 —

five young would be

ballerinas,

four in black

a hoop they are holding;

one in white

looking on with

piercing sight,

observing the

drama unfolding.

The scene plays out behind

(always behind)

the green leather chair;

he need not see.

The image sears his mind;

he knows the drama,

in both joy and pain,

from memory.

North,

a sandy beach, white caps on

blue water lapping against

the shore, strands of clouds

dividing the light blue while

he walks the beach and

then sails away on

the boats

in the distance.

Moving east,

a Labrador Retriever,

dragon-fly, black cat

all dancing beneath

Kokopelli’s pipe and

stacked like a friendly

cobra emerging from

a rattan pot while dry

oats sway

in the breeze.

In the northeast corner,

from bottom to top

shelves, a Spanish

priest, ballerina and

woman from mother’s

sewing basket converse;

an African king, Indian

chief, mermaid swap

stories; big, fat, burly

woman, Indian maid,

pixie just stare and on

top, three black and white,

dancers entwined and

beckoning him to the

dance macabre or

is it the

Cirque du Soleil?

Northeast,

still, Florida, Atlantic coastal

waters and azure blue sky

meet at the sandbar he

swims to and walks

along.

Due east,

splashes of blue, brown,

tan, red, yellow, squiggles

all around,

up and down —

the dunes,

sky, inland sea, bright life

along the shore and

along the shore,

the dancing magician

performing for his

pleasure.

Straight east,

shadows of two people on a

ledge fingers touching, the

Grand Canyon opening

beneath them in red,

green, blue, brown

and he considers

hiking to

the bottom after

the wedding.

Southeast,

the matrix from which

swirls life round and

round the corners

out into the labyrinthine

universe. He greets

his friends standing along

the mantel: Copper Pipe

Man, three Native

Spirit Women singing to

Mother

Earth/Father Sky,

the donut-shaped Indian

brave in brown, the dog

which

has been sleeping

since 1901 (Let him lie.),

honeymoon

pottery from Vancouver,

Peacock Woman, Serpent

Woman,

African Queen

standing so majestic,

all.

Southeast corner,

African women with pots

on their heads

head home from market. He

celebrates their balance and

enjoys their singing the

dreary day of drudgery

away in

their bright, colorful

dress.

Turning the Southeast corner,

translucent tulips stand

tall and he doesn’t

need the colors

to grasp their glory

and gasp.

Due south,

pilings marching along the

silver/white water. Worn

down, they march on.

Straight south,

through the sliding door

he sees the pine grove,

pond, ten-year-old gold

fish, waterfall.

He gives thanks for the

colors, the water (fresh and salt),

sand dunes, woods, deer paths

into hiking trails, desert canyon,

and all his wild and wooly

friends surrounding and

emerging from the matrix

of his 180 degree

world.

“Closed minds with a direct

line to the Divine….”

She spoke mockingly as a sort of

throw away line

revealing disdain in the dismissiveness

of the very repetitive rhyme

of those who long ago gave

up any sign

of using their minds

in the pursuit of critical,

exploratory finds,

new ideas, understandings

and a more inquisitive,

wiser mind.

So those bogus leaders of,

for and by the people

claim, in their ignorance,

that they know the

exact will of the Divine,

but keep living one

verse over and

over, time and time

and time

again,

“They are the blind

leading the

blind,”

thus ill serving the needs

of those back home,

the ones they left

behind

while

they wine and dine

inside the belt-line

and, in their

pompous, putrid, piety,

blaspheme the

Mystery Divine

by assuming and asserting

they have

all… the… answers.

If only crazy, scared, gun dependent, whites
understood the wisdom of Jesus’ words so bright,
what a wonderful world it would be,
and that sounds like an Armstrong song to me.