Curly surely

hates it

when words

are spelled

correctly

but are

the wrong

words

and he doe-

sent

sea it.

Sum-

times

he doesn’t

see it for

days. He’ll

read

a poem

he rote

from

a few

daze back

and sea

“break”

for “brake,”

for ex-

sample.

So what’s

he sup-

hosed

to make

of it?

He kneads

a leg up on

it.

Em-bare-

assed?

Shirley!

A reput-

ation at

steak?

He’ll

sea it in

another

day or

too.

Sooner or

later, it’ll bee

OK

or may-

bee

even grate!

The trout up-chucked four small pieces of pink

plastic before giving up the ghost in

the shallows of a stream

flowing through town. The dog romping through

the sand in pursuit of a Frisbee stepped

on a hypodermic needle,

was taken to the vet for blood poisoning ultimately

losing the paw but saving the leg. The

whale tried to flap its fins

but the fishing line entwining its body held the fins

flat as the whale sank to the bottom and

drowned. Plastic’s progenitor

spills into the now diseased lungs of dolphin in the Gulf

and sea turtles search for a home they can’t

see beneath the sludge. McGuire: “I

want to say one word to you. Just one word.”

Benjamin: “Yes, sir.” Mr. McGuire:

“Are you listening?”

Benjamin: “Yes, I am.” Mr. McGuire: “Plastics.”

Benjamin: “Exactly how do you mean?”

Mr. McGuire: “There’s a great

future in plastics. Think about it.

Will you think about it?”

How will he survive? How will he make it?

How does he go on — a head-on crash from

a car going in the wrong direction across a

divided interstate highway?  What small talk

were they making? Surely they were old

enough and married long enough not to be

arguing about inconsequential things, it

can only be hoped about those last mom-

ents. Were they going to a medical appoint-

ment in the big city or a big night on the town

from their little town? Did they have those

“Little Town Blues” and yearn for the bright

lights of Broadway to help melt them away

for a night? She died, and if there is anything

for which to give thanks, pain-free, apparently,

hopefully. He remains in serious condition but will

survive, the serious people in white coats say. Will

this vibrant, energized, fighter for justice, so young

for his eighty years ever thrive let alone survive in

so short a time left?  Kyrie Eleison.

On a Sunday Morning, from the pet friendly

motel parking lot, the two jogged with their

Chocolate Lab on the sidewalks along an

industrial park and massive auto auction

corral with silent mustangs, cougars, jaguars,

rams, impalas and strange animals like camrys,

corollas and beemers. It was quiet except for

the joggers’ breathing, foot (paw) steps and

shouts at the dog while tugging at his leash

when he stopped every tenth of a mile or so

to mark his territory and scrape his feet in

the grass to stir up his scent telling all ladies

near and far that he was there, even without

the family jewels. Lumbering eighteen

wheelers, emerged from nowhere,

trying to wake up and shake off the

dust of the weekend, shifted up and

down heading out for places like Newark

and Las Cruses. As brakes squealed, the dog

almost tripped the joggers as he stopped

and, in fear, scooted away from the roar.

“Violence and death

are a huge challenge

to meaning,”

said the acclaimed poet who,

when twelve, accidentally

shot his kid brother

to death

while hunting

and the man’s mind

ran to his father

stepping in front of a train

when the man

was a teen,

then his wife’s veins 

exploding in her brain

while she sat in vain

on the

commode

thinking that would fix it all

before she dropped to the floor,

never to get up,

silence, slamming, screaming, slow

motion,

distance, wandering,

groping,

clawing,

and then after months

and months hoping

and life happening

and then (Was it a year or two?)

actually

realizing that life was happening

and then, impossibly,

once again, caring

and seeing the

colors.

The rain replenished

the earth, the

garden, the new white

pines

designed

to replace old red

pines more at

home farther north.

The Chocolate Lab

still huffed and

puffed his way

through the

thunder and

lightning

not knowing how

important the rain

is to the backyard

he loves to roam.

The blasting and shooting have

saturated by osmosis

to the marrow of our bones since

black and white Red

Rider and Hopalong Cassid-A

and the scores of cowboys

who now appear

in the mov-A

with heavy

artillery and shoot

from their crotch, killing all the

bad guys, when, in

realit-A,

they are just blasting forth

from their limp

manhood in the most misogynistic,

homophobic death

celebrating, sick-assed way,

which we, celebrate every day

as we stroll to the mov-A

without knowing what’s happening

this, that or any other way.

Lord, have merc-A,

Kyri-A

e-LAY-

son.

They took off along a new, local trail for a jog on the morning

of their nineteenth wedding anniversary, having had

fifty-years of marriage experience combined before their late

spouses died, very, very, young. They hadn’t been

able to jog at this particular trail all summer because part

of the wetland trail had been under water. This

day, their Chocolate Lab led the nine a.m. jog along the now

mostly dry trail. Wearing bug spray (including the dog),

they ventured forth with as much adrenaline flowing as what

might have flowed through the veins of world-class

adventurers to places north and south to the poles, up McKinley

and Everest, down the Amazon. He was glad

he had his compass because they got lost a time or two along

the way on what was supposed to be an easy,

straight, out and back path, but which, in reality, wasn’t marked

very well and which, in another reality, was just fine with

them because they loved the feeling of being lost if only four miles

from their home. When they made it back to the

parking lot, they high-fived, kissed a sweaty kiss and slapped a

congratulatory slap on the Chocolate Lab’s butt.

My mind flashes: projects left undone,

Tools in disrepair, latches broken

All these are discarded in favor of

New discovered challenges.

Situations are analyzed; solutions

Are never easy

Wind blows mist in from the lake

The very sound is relentless and wearing, as

Foggy air shrouds what I should see clearly

The sun is vacationing on this day of labor

Fitting for my state of mind:

Scattered, unfocused and jumpy

I look to others; they look away

As if to say “You’re in this alone”

They are correct and before

I walk away I bow and bid “Namaste”

Time for me to wake up and

Get down from my high-horse

There are no villages to conquer

Just details seemingly insignificant, but

Important in the bigger picture

Vince Lombardi would say

“Run to daylight”, but it is gray and

The wind is still blowing

Time seems to stand still on these days

I look at the clock; realize I failed to

Swing the pendulum after winding

My notepad is handy and a list is made

I start the clock and myself

Significant and well-timed

Stanislaus Kuperski the Firski

September 1, 2014 ^

By September 11, 2014, there will have been approximately 585,000 deaths on U.S. roads from automobile accidents since September 11, 2001.

There have been approximately 3,000 – 3,250 deaths from terrorism on U.S. soil since Sept. 11, 2001.

That is approximately, 581,750 more deaths in the U.S. due to auto accidents than from terrorist attacks since Sept. 11, 2001.

That’s an average of 45,000 deaths per year from auto accidents, the total of U.S. soldier deaths in all the years of war in Viet Nam.

That’s an average of 250 deaths per year from terrorism, 3,000 of all deaths having occurred in one fell swoop on 9/11/2001.

So, seriously, given the statistics, what are your chances of dying in a terrorist attack as vs. your chances of dying in an automobile accident?

Yet, the media is all about terrorism, terrorism, terrorism.

Question: So, why are T.V. news shows (mainline, conservative and liberal) talking incessantly about terrorist attacks and not incessantly about the real danger to lives in America, that is, traveling by car on the roadways of the country?

Answer: Scaring the bejesus out of people keeps them watching and sponsors love that. The marketing experts know we do buy the stuff we see advertised over and over and over.  Keep them scared, keep them watching, keep them buying.  Buying to alleviate fear?  Feeding our fears?

Since the start of the war on Iraq in 2003, the war effort in Iraq, a country, which had nothing whatsoever to do with the 9/11/2001 attack, has resulted in a total of approximately one million deaths (according to a Johns Hopkins study).

That’s 333.3 deaths in a country that had nothing to do with 9/11 for each death on 9/11/2001.

There shouldn’t have been one death in Iraq because of the 9/11/2001 attack, but given that the U.S. Administration insisted and Congress folded, what happened to an eye for an eye, the Old Testament guide from the Babylonian Code of Hammurabi as a guide, not even mentioning Jesus’ fulfillment of the law through the new law of forgiveness, prayer and non-retaliation?

Apparently, as a nation, we don’t even know how to pick the right enemies let alone have a clue about following the Code of Hammurabi let alone listening to the words of Jesus: “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and tooth for tooth,’ but I say to you, do not resist the one who is evil.” “You have heard it said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy,’ but I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who prosecute you.”

I’m all for scaring the bejesus out of us each evening on the news programs about the mayhem on the roads of America. Show bodies being burned alive in the horror on the highways like we showed bodies being blown to bits in Viet Nam.  Maybe we would all slowdown and practice enlightened self-interest, thus saving thousands of lives a year.

By the way, anyone know the sobering numbers on Labor Day Weekend deaths in auto accidents?

Not in yet for 2014. How about 2013? Somewhere between 338 and 459, not counting thousands upon thousands of injuries.

However, by now, as horrible as it was, we have all heard about the one journalist who was murdered by the terrorist group ISIS over the Labor Day weekend.

Could we please have equal coverage for the 400 or so who died on the highways?

I didn’t think so.