He sees you there buzzing
among the desert
flowers in spring.
Will you drizzle him
with orange blossom honey
or deliver that mean bee’s sting?

“It’s hard for me to love someone
with a weak character like that,”

the chef said after using octopus
broth three incarnations later into

the incredibly delicious chorizo
broth in reference to others who

just toss food stuffs away without
much of a thought adding to the

tonnage upon tonnage of putrid,
rat loving garbage. She saves

the sardines’ spines and heads
lovingly calling them baby, soaks

them in milk, fries them and
enjoys a Spanish Hors d’oeuvre,

a mixed language treat, which
she doesn’t yet serve her

customers but enjoys thoroughly
herself. New York, New York,

you are so fortunate to have
this conscientious, environment-

ally aware chef to serve you
delightful, delicious meals.

News item:
Lake Havasu City,
Friday evening.
Man rammed girl
friend’s car
with his car and
then attempted
to strangle her.
He has been
charged with
suspicion of
attempted
homicide,
aggravated
assault
and driving
under the
influence.
The report
didn’t say
what the
girl friend
did after
the incident.
Apparently
there was a
lovers’ spat
before the
road rage.

I’m just throwing
it out there;
nobody asked.
Nobody asked me
to write
anything about
my father’s life,
his life as a
Swedish kid in
a new country
and a new language,
an orphan at
thirteen
in a strange land;
nobody asked.
Nobody asked me to write
anything about my
Dutch mother’s life,
her life as the
only kid of
six who had a job
during the great
depression
and had to bring
every
cent home,
even after she was
married to my
orphaned father
six months
before they had the
courage to tell my
grandparents
they were married
and living
separately.
Their lives and
their stories are
worthy of
publication but
nobody’s asking.
Nobody asked me
to tell the story
of my artist
wife who died of
a subarachnoid
hemorrhage at
forty-nine just
when her
art was catching
on and she was
hitting her stride.
Nobody asked
when I submitted
my first poem,
story, essay, article
editorial, think
piece, but
I did it and all
that is there
even though
nobody asked
and nobody
asked about
my poetry. I
just threw it
out there and
I’m throwing
it out there
and I will
continue to
throw it out
there even though
nobody asked,
and somehow
through that,
some of those
stories get
told.
Some draw,
some paint,
some make
mixed media
sculptures,
some take
artistic
photographs,
some write,
some tell
stories.
We just keep
throwing it
out there.

He couldn’t believe the incongruity
of what he had just read only moments
apart but eons in meaning. The first:

“That is what the ‘detached’ life
is all about. It is a life in which we
are free to offer praise and thanks-

giving.” The second: “Perhaps that
was the point — To learn that what
we will not grasp is lost.” Choices:

shall he grasp to understand the first
and cling to “detachment” and detach
himself from “grasping”? Or….

So the media and
critics
are jumping up
and down about
Hillary trying
to explain that she tries
not to lie.
What’s not to like
if you try
not to lie?
We all lie
and
we all try
not to lie,
unless we are into
pathological lies.
Lies are endemic,
systematic
and pandemic
to Homo sapiens, and
then there are the
Republican candidates
who may not be
Homo sapiens and,
therefore, may lie
even more
as they have shown
over and over and
over, so much so
you can’t even
keep score
anymore.

Did the pre-existentialist
really say with his last breath
that he had been all wrong
and then say no more?
Why do we then in school over
his every word still pour?
Should we not let the words of his
last breath before death
be the last word and allow
us some other philosopher’s
work over which to pour?
Unless his last word was wrong;
in which case, maybe everything
he wrote was right,
and we must continue
to burn the nihilistic
oil till midnight
and reevaluate that
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche’s
really dark philosophy
is still bright
if not necessarily
all wrong or
completely right.

*With thanks to Jennifer Franklin for the idea.

A. Oxymoron:
“I am a very good Christian.”
B. Oxymoron:
prideful humility
C. Oxymoron:
serious joke
D. Oxymoron:
oxymoron — oxy: sharp. moron: dull.
E. Oxymoron:
Donald Trump
F. All of the Above

Hard hitting T.V. journal-
ists lob marshmallows, toss
wiffle balls, never interrupt
as the candidate does, over
and over and over, tossing
out his own innocuous,
amorphous plans delivered
with unbelievable gusto
and bravado and blistering
staccato to save the nation
from failure at the hands
of incompetent politicians.
Why don’t they stop him,
stop him, stop him cold
and say, over and over and
over, “You didn’t answer the
question; stop talking; stop
jabbering on and on and on
with non-answers and just a
bunch of blithering, blather-
ing lingo, lingo, lingo.
Answer the question and give
us some specifics as to how
all your grandiose assertions
are going to be accomplished.
Stop interrupting, stop
interrupting, stop inter-
rupting and give us the
specifics, the details, the
details, the details; be
quiet, be quiet, be quiet;
oh, for shit’s sake SHUT
UP!”?

He sits with toes dangling in the
spa as he thinks about the previous
evening with relatives by his late
wife. His late wife’s sister still
calls him her favorite brother-in-
law, even though he is now her
only brother-in-law and because
of his late wife’s death legally he
is not even her brother-in-law.
There are things about those now
ex-relatives he has never liked and
he wonders now that twenty-two
years have passed since the death
of his late wife if he really is ob-
ligated to get together with them
any more. He’ll think about that
as he continues to wiggle his
toes in the spa and have some of
the left over white wine sangria
from the previous evening’s get
together.