In the morning
he goes online,
reads two meditations
and the poems of the day.
About half way through
the poems, written
by the best and brightest
of the twentieth
not to mention the
twenty-first century
(which might be a
bit premature
given that we are
only fifteen
years into it),
he has an irresistible
urge to write
a poem not
unlike what
he just read
and then read out loud
to his wife,
and so he does
for practice at
writing poetry and
then he posts it
usually without
attribution
unless he actually
uses some
quotable words
which he
religiously would
put in parentheses
and then he thinks
to himself
that almost
everything needs
parentheses —
maybe everything
does. Perhaps
life is but a
parenthetical
phrase or at
the very least
deserving of
an asterisk.

The dog with the torn ACL
dreams of running in his sleep.
How do we know? His shaking feet.

Walking the perimeter, passing
all the exhibits, showing support,
affirming a historic, landmark
decision, stopping to say hello,
seeing people who don’t see him
except to offer the perfunctory
nod and move on to important
matters, he thinks to himself, he
could vanish right this very min-
ute and it wouldn’t matter, in
fact, he has vanished and invisible
he watches people flit here and
there doing things they believe to
be urgent and needed. He thinks
of himself as floating right up to
the door of the car whereupon
he comes back to earth, climbs
in and drives away unnoticed.

“I’m not making any point;
I’m just asking a question,”
said the young woman as
she was ushered to the
guillotine.
The crowds all gathered
ecstatically as life once
again lost all rational
meaning.
The answer was perfectly clear;
if you want to get along,
you will stop asking questions
and simply, innocuously,
ignorantly, uncritically,
unreflectively, and perhaps
most importantly cowardly
be of mindless good cheer
like almost every one
else there,
everywhere
and of course,
here, here, always
here.

Ignorance usually wins in the short-term.
The Lamb wins in the long run.
The challenge is to remain firm
and enjoy the interim fun run
of living now
and following the Tao,
breathing deeply,
weeping freely
and laughing in true community
with the Holy Trinity.

Is it true that capitalism decapitates
the creative energies and saps
harmony from the human race?

Is it true that striving for the almighty buck
is America’s favorite pastime and
frustrates the countless down on their luck?

Is it true that poets are a dozen per dime
in this system of worth by counting
while words count for nothing most of the time?

The capitalists cry, “Just give us the bottom line,”
and Dow and Jones and S and P and Nasdaq
all agree that all will be fine on down the line

for those on the top rung of the teetering ladder,
but not for the 99% who stand looking up
and eventually say, “Oh, what does it matter?”

So, no need to ask if capitalism decapitates
the creative juices.
It squelches life of its myriad uses
and brings it down to single digits
of animosity, jealousy and hate.

All hail the Almighty Buck.
It seems the God of Creativity
is plum out of luck.

The breeze off the Big Lake
cools wet bodies worn from
weeding, weeding, weeding
in the now summer sands.
Thank Thor for the ease
of pulling just with hands.
The weeds relent and release
their roots yielding to those who
understand that East of Eden
must be tilled again and again.

A friend used
the word
redolent.
How rich, savory,
wonderfully
indulgent.
No, not indulgent,
for who would wish
to indulge
oneself in lost love’s
painful
remembrance
besides, perhaps, the
masochistic?
And so, poignant
comes to mind
as it was in reference
to a momentary,
flashing, good,
but painful
remembrance of
deep love
lost in years
but forever
harboring
sweet and
salty tears.

Empty one’s self
of all that
neediness
and one will be filled
with the love that
casts out
greediness.
Enter again
God’s loving domain;
be washed
with the
saline waters
of life eternal’s
refrain, again,
again and again
we are called to
enter the tomb
and find the
womb —
not of Eden,
nor East of Eden
anymore,
but the Realm
that Jesus came
to restore —
our home, here,
there, everywhere —
forevermore.

Every action has an equal and opposite
reaction Sir Isaac told us,
so in light of nine dead,
Southern politicians followed
political correctness.
Then, naturally, sales of Confederate flags
blew through the roof,
but instead of flying all over the land, they
will hang in dank, downstairs dungeons
for awhile and what more Newtonian proof
do we need that sin reacts opposite and fast?
And it hides underground only to pop up later
falsely claiming absolute truth.
So stay alert, watchful and mindful;
be innocent as doves with eyes
on the heavens and wise
as serpents close to the ground
and you will see that evil surely
will be found.
It’s not going away anytime soon,
but you have the tools of mercy,
justice, peace, patience, kindness,
self-control and power from above
to greet that evil with God’s eternal,
life-giving love.
The Lamb wins.