The sun shone brightly through the
Kitchen window clipping the edge

Of the upper cabinet highlighting
The green stain and pattern of the

Grain of the wood, moving across
The sink and cutting board down

To the edge of a lower cabinet show-
Ing the pattern of the natural brown

Oak. As he sat at the counter, he
Watched the warm rays of the Indian

Summer sun move across the drying
Dish towel hanging on the door of

The range leaving it completely
In a shadow as fall passes by.

The blades of grass
are just the right height.
The lawn is mowed twice
a week rain or shine
by a landscaping
company.
Nothing is out of place.
The yard reflects the
perfection of the
blessed lives —
chosen, elected,
predestined.
Luxury cars sit
quietly in stalls
ready at a moment’s
notice to carry the
blessed speedily to their
appointed tasks.
Golf bags sit near trunks.
The joyous, blessed one
walks across the
insecticided, herbicided,
purified, sterilized
lawn, pulls dune
grass creeping into
the elects’ perfection
and tosses it into the
neighbor’s yard
with just a hint
of righteous
indignation
and maybe a bit of
disdain.
Everything is once
again in its perfect
place witnessing to
the wonder of Election.

There are those who just don’t fit in along
the way. This guy is one of them: he read
an article about the runners’ boom of the
1970s and the skinny runners’ club of guys
who averaged ninety miles a week, that’s 12.
87142 miles a day and he started running
three or four miles five days a week back in
that day and never was in the elite club even
after forty-five years and 26,000 miles logged
to date. He pastored churches along the way
and because he was the pastor couldn’t ever
count himself in the community, but had
several ministerial friends along the way
who were buddies and friends of a very
small club back in the day and drifted away
as he and they moved away. He retired and
joined a congregation thinking he would have
community finally but the leadership was so
bad, they turned him away. He moved into a
neighborhood where people then tried to
keep other people away and he opposed that
and felt ousted from that community, so he
keeps in touch with a few buddies now geo-
graphically far away who have stayed in
touch along the way and even though they
may not make up an exclusive club, they
are part of an ultimately inclusive
community of Jesus’ way, and for that
he gives thanks every day. There are
those who say at the end of the day,
if you have friends counted on one hand
and immediate family, you are a-okay.

e-mails lauding the 50’s and 60’s
and how wonderful
life was back in the day
come my way.
never sent by blacks, hispanics or
asians are they,
but by old, white people
soon on their way
to exit stage left
after their brief stay
and their disappearing
heyday.
And the curtain is
coming down
presentlay, promptlay,
speedilay, directlay,
and for some — today.
.

I.
Green disappeared.
Yellow, Orange, Brown, Red appeared.
Rain fell.
Wind blew.
Leaves left.
Snow descended.
Buffalo moved.
Tepees loaded.
Good bye.

II.
Green disappeared.
Yellow, Orange, Brown, Red appeared.
Rain fell.
Wind blew.
Leaves left.
Motor homes and Fifth Wheels went south.
See you in May.

His mistress admires him;
his wife loves him
and those are
parallel universes
separated by
an infinity
of
forgiveness.

He read a clever poem about
this, that and the grave
in the following Greek phrase:

Ουδέν μονιμότερον του προσωρινού:

“Nothing is more permanent than the temporary.”

Now approaching seventy-one,
he thinks more about
all those he knew
now in their graves.

When his time has come,
he will eschew
said graves
as a resting place,

and have his ashes tossed
to sand dunes and the Big Lake
— the wide open space.

Of this one thing he is sure,
that what he occupies now
is only a temporary place
in that wide open space.

They are gone, gone from the house,
gone from the neighborhood, gone from
the motor home, gone from the trips
south, gone from the trailer park,
gone from the golf courses. Their
belongings were divvied up among the
children and grandchildren and what
was left donated. There were a lot
of belongings, more than a couple
around ninety would have had by that
time in their lives, but they were
children of the depression and may-
be that had something to do with it.
While relatives and friends missed
them, they would say the couple had
a good life together. They are gone,
but they are still around for good
and ill, still appreciated and still
in need of forgiveness.

Jews, Christians and Muslims,
one God followers, have gone,
for the most part, from follow-
ing first person mystics Moses,
Jesus and Muhammad to creating
empire for all three creating
a need for their conciliation
(the pre “re” condition)
because there has never been a
reconciliation as they were
never “conciled” in the first
place, as they should have
been, saving everyone WORLD-
WIDE, all this terrible trouble
and epic proportion violence
which has spread all over the
Middle-East and why haven’t
the followers of Moses, Jesus
and Muhammad thought of that?
Because they have forgotten
Moses, Jesus and Muhammad
for the falsehood of EMPIRE?
Pretty much so.

On our trip east, we stopped at an area to rest
to exercise the legs and give the dog a pee break,
for me too and so to the men’s room did I make.
Urinals to the left, first two fitted children the best.

And so I saw a man at the first adult urinal stand
and made my way to the empty urinal number four.
I was in no hurry and didn’t scoot across the floor,
but nonchalantly sauntered toward the urinal as planned.

As I passed close to the gent at urinal number three
who stood taking what seemed to me a very long pee,
he cut the cheese right in my face to a thunderous roar.
Figuratively, I had been pissed on but never literally
farted on before.

I can only assume it was a coincidence and no harm was meant,
but nevertheless, I moved on to urinal number six,
well past the peeing and farting gent.

Now, we all get farted on metaphorically speaking,
but we need to buck up and stop unnecessary weeping.
In the great scheme of things of which we are a part,
metaphorically speaking, we, too, upon others occasionally do fart.