They stripped him and strapped
his black body to a chair and
tazed his testicles until he stop-
ped screaming and was dead as a
doornail about three hours after
they said they found him unre-
sponsive in his jail cell. He
was in need of care in a hosp-
ital ( root word: hospitalis, for
a guest ) for a psychiatric
break so they gave him the ul-
timate Southern hospitality —
they made him a guest of a jail
cell and tortured him right out
of his misery right here in the
good, old U S of A, January 2,
2015, Anno Domini, in
the year of our Lord, who was
stripped, beaten, hung up on
and nailed to a tree till he, too,
was dead as a doornail. Odds are
those good old, white boys in the
cell just doin’ the dastardly
deed claimed Jesus as their Lord
and Savior. They had Saturday
to “get it on” for awhile and
then to clean up before puttin’
on their “Goin’ to Meetin'” best
for Sunday. What was that Jesus
said? “You shall know them by
their fruits,” and “Not all
who say Lord, Lord, shall
enter the Kingdom of Heaven,”
for right then in that cell,
that poor, innocent black man
wasn’t the only one in hell.

In the postage stamp
backyard in
the old neighborhood
before it was abbreviated
to hood,
I stood
at a make-believe home plate
and Bobby, my best friend
and next door neighbor,
took the first swing.
It was his yard.
Unfortunately,
he was standing
and
brandishing
a bat
right in front of me thinking he
was at home plate or maybe
he decided where home plate
was (Remember, it was his
yard.)
and
clubbed me
upside the head as
he completed his
swing —
collateral damage
for standing in the wrong
place
at the wrong plate
in his backyard.
I saw stars,
a welt formed
just above my left eye;
thank
God for an inch
of elevation.
The welt went away and
right now I think
I can still feel a tiny bump.
I don’t think he ever said,
“Sorry,” and probably
wouldn’t remember it
after sixty years
or even sixty days.
Bobby was that kind
of kid, besides, it
all took place in
his postage stamp
backyard in the old
neighborhood
before it became the hood.
Come to think of it,
I don’t even know if
Bobby is alive.
I’ll Google him.
I just did and if
this is he,
my Bobby,
this is his
specialty:
law practice
focusing on
property
liability,
real property
and
intellectual property
litigation.
It really was his
back yard
and still is.

He was going to a familiar resort with his wife.
She had things to do there. The car broke down

in the parking lot and the clerk at the front desk,
a retired army colonel who had been a parishioner

of his but went into the ministry and stole parish-
ioners from him, especially dowagers with a dowry,

called and told him to move the car. He winced when
he heard the voice and said the mechanics were on

the way. He and his wife left their resort room and
were riding in the tow truck presumably to the repair

shop. Next up they were in a strange, large room in
another place and he asked his wife why they were

there when they had a room back at the resort, a
familiar room with several friends in adjoining

rooms who would join them for happy hour, dinner
and attend whatever it was that his wife had going

there. That was vague but he believed it had some-
thing to do with her art. He wanted to know how

much the new, not very nice room (It had cheap
plywood cabinets in the kitchenette and a big

bed with a flimsy, cheap mattress, bedspread and
dusty floors.) cost when they were already paying a

significant amount for the resort room. He asked
several times and his wife now wearing a pink chiffon

gown went to the window, looked out longingly and
said she just needed to get away. She started to

cry hard and crawled under the bed. He helped her
out from under the bed and she sat sobbing inconsol-

ably on the bed. He put his arms around her to
comfort her and when he felt her back, along her

spine he realized in the touch it was his long
dead wife right there and he was hugging her.

Emu females are thoroughly modern Millies
and go about their business willy nilly.
They seek to get pregnant and have great Emu sex
and then wonder which Emu male will be next,
while the Emu father faithfully sits on fertile eggs
while mother Emu for more sex does beg.
Months and months later, dad watches the babies hatch
and guides them through treacherous places
to water and a feeding patch.
Female Emus keep having great Emu sex,
laying those eggs for fathers to care for best.
Male U.S. elected officials, attention paying,
watch your liberated wives procreating
Emulate Emu behavior and take a hint.
Stay home and care for the kids and embrace the
thoroughly modern Millie experiment.

What a situation: commercials really
are funnier and more intelligent
than the programs and the promos for
local and regional news shows have
but one purpose — to scare the
wits out of you, but take heart;
you know that the storm team is
there just to save you from the
sunny, 78 degree, 20% humidity
weather prediction for the next
seven days that threatens the safety
of not only you, loyal, apprehensive
and perhaps even scared viewer, but
everyone in the viewing area.

Long pine needles 
        sway in the 
cool breeze from 
        the west; brown 
needles 
        fall and fall
in fall. 
        Sky blue sky in the 
western sky
        over the Big 
Lake. Bright 
        sun directly overhead. 
Sun dial on 
        zero. Waves crash 
the shore roaring 
    over and 
	down the
               dune. 
	Not quite 
Indian
	Summer
	    but
	       soon.

By now you have heard the
news. 158 families gave near-
ly half the money in the early
going of the 2016 presidential
race. So, what else is new?
Super rich, old, white people
(mostly men in the family mak-
ing the decisions, duh), 138
of whom dumped tons of money
in Republican coffers. This when
the country is going female,
young, brown and black. Oh,
there is one descriptive word
missing regarding the super
rich, old, white people —
frightened — frightened of
female, young, brown and black
and losing all their dunamis
and maybe even the mansion
on the canal and the huge stink
pot docked out back.

My wife called from downstairs
up to the kitchen, “Quick, look
at the left side of the pond. A
magnificent, large blue heron
stood by the side of the pond
staring at the fish. The bird must
have seen my movement to the
window because it flapped its huge
wings and rose almost straight up
in the small window of opportunity
between arbor vitae behind it, red
pines in front of it, the house to
one side of it and hemlocks on the
other. Its huge body rose with the
grace of a tiny sparrow. Three flaps
of its wings and it was gone. My
wife bounded up the stairs exclaim-
ing, “Did you see that take off!”
Amazed at the feat I remained
silent for a moment and then quip-
ped, “Yeah, I think I spoiled its
breakfast.” Coming back down to
earth, she replied, “I think that
explains why the fish numbers are
down.”

He breaks branches from the bottom
of the birches.
They snap dead as a doornail.
Up he works and then one branch
bends and doesn’t break.
But the bark breaks revealing a green
wound in the wood.
“Ouch,” he says on behalf of the birch,
which cries too quietly to be heard.

He thought about joining the
Dead Poets Society
but he didn’t like the initiation
requirement,
so he decided just to continue
writing poetry from
this side of death’s door and
sit around and catch
the hard balls, soft balls,
curve balls and moth balls
(almost 7,000 spam balls)
tossed his way by way
of the internet highway —
ball four — take your base.
Batta up! Batta up! Batta up!
Harry Carey and Ron Santo,
the seventh inning stretch
and the Dead Announcer Society,
and the Cubs go on and on and
on.