I am the scourge of the earth.
I am an old, white guy
hated by all from their birth —
young whites, browns and blacks and oh, my,
yellows, reds, gays and so forth.
Women of all ages blame
me for all that is wrong
from unequal pay to matters
related to childbirth.
Even other old, white guys
hate me for siding with the
young, brown, black, yellow, red,
gay men, lesbians and all women for their
complaints of infinite worth.
I just can’t win — an ogre
of age, gender, race and
straight sexual orientation
it seems,
a puzzle to myself, a
liberal among
right-wing conservatives,
a heretic of progressive
Christian views,
an anachronism, too.
I have to admit that as
an old, white guy, I
am yesterday’s news.
Not a one percenter,
just a man of modest means,
but, go ahead and lead me to
Robespierre’s guillotine
as I sing the blues
and blame my parents
for giving me birth too soon.
For, if I could have been born
much later,
I, too, could have been an old,
white guy hater.

Poets have the world by the tail.
They show up as invited guests
at inaugurations and say some-

thing on really cold days that
people don’t understand but
which they think must be very

important, boding, in fact, har-
boring, too, or they wouldn’t
have been invited. They are

quoted from pulpits on high to
give a climactic seal of approval
to the preacher’s profundity. They

are quoted by philosophers who
think that everything really smart
was written in verse back in the

days of the Greeks and later on
by a few Romans. The poet’s
word, if ever so simple, evokes

a response that the poet is saying
something ever so deep and com-
plex. If ever so deep and complex

as to be beyond comprehension,
the response is that there is some-
thing elegantly simple going on

here. Poets have the world conned
as they give readings in the evening
at bookstores where a handful of

ever so insightful people, Gnostics
even, listen intently with knowing
smiles and an occasional muffled

chuckle or the “ahhh” of an “of course”
while the poets demur appreciatively.
Perhaps, it works both ways.

He didn’t know the etymology of
“pandaemonium.”
Pan — all, everything;
daemonium — devil, evil one, a thing with
a big sting.
It was brought to his attention and
he knows he has emotional meltdowns
and goes into
his own pandaemonium;
the demons have him completely.
Then spiritually he is left empty.
His wife has said he should see
how he looks, like a crazy thing.
It was then he knew he was like the
crazy man from Gerasene
and had to ask Jesus to
exorcise those demons and
make him squeaky clean.
Jesus said, “I’ll help you
with the pandaemonium,
but serenity is yet to be seen,
so, hang in there, keep
your cool
and eventually you will
no longer be such a daemon-y
fool.

I have a friend who,
in a recent blog,
used the wonderful word
apotheosis.
Five syllables or three —
a/po/the/o/sis or
apo/theo/sis — meaning —
becoming God like.
I like becoming like God,
but I have enough trouble
with apoanthroposis –six
syllables or three —
a/po/an/thro/po/sis or
apo/anthropo/sis,
becoming human like.
Jesus said we are as gods.
Maybe so, but I would
just like becoming the human
God created me to be.
That would be
apoanthroposis enough for me —
whether six syllables or
just three.

Oh, what a night,
what a fun, fund-raising, barn-burning
night.
“Oh what a night,
You know I didn’t even know
her name
But I was never gonna
be the same
What a lady, what a night!”
Oh, what a night? It was
so special you didn’t even
know the lady’s name
while you remembered the
month but not even which day,
just toward the end of the month?
Was it before or after Christmas?
During Christmas break?
You were never going to be the same?
Because you were no longer a virgin boy?
You didn’t even ask her name?
Maybe she was “Lady of the Night”;
well, even that’s better than generic lady
How about names for you —
teen-age chauvinist, misogynistic
male? Were any females
really listening; were the blue
hairs on the set listening
to your coming of age silly saga
or were they just bouncing
to the back beat?
Oh, what a shame,
late Dec. 1963
what a pitiful night for thee
that all you could think
of was that you were in heat
and that you would
never be the same —
what a total, unadulterated,
tawdry,
adolescent shame,
and as for the
fund drive, just keep bouncing
that blue-haired mane
and don’t ever listen to
the lyrics.
They might drive you
insane.
But, hey, it was ’63,
and boys were just boys,
and the network needs
the money for
season six of Downton Abbey.

His sister called and said,
“Our old house is for sale.
Want to see how it looks?”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to
do that, given everything
that happened there,

but there were some good
memories, too, and so he
said, “For sure.” They

met and the realtor let
them explore as they wished.
It was the biggest house

in the neighborhood
when it was built and
all his friends thought

they were really rich. Of
course, as always, it
seemed a lot smaller

and much less imposing
than he had recalled.
Had such life forming

events for good and ill
really have taken place
in this small space?