He flips his wrist
And down they go.
He jerks his wrist
And up they go
Just like a giant yo-yo.
He walks the dog
And twirls them
Around the world,
He goes whole hog.
The crowds cheer and cheer
And watch him
Pull a coin from behind
The crowd’s collective ear
And doesn’t give it back.
He puts it in his backpack
Filled with promises and
Taxpayers’ dough
While the unsuspecting
Crowd just calls for more
Of the celebrity’s show.
When, oh, when
Will they realize
He says he’s got a royal flush
But he’s just rolling snake eyes
While taking all the Native People’s
And Immigrants’ dough
From this venue and that?
He’s the exploiting fat-cat
Who wouldn’t know
Fiction from fact,
But he’s got them convinced
For now that he’s a class act.
He’s got all the attention
And his sleight-of-hand
Goes without mention.
He’s Robin Hood in reverse
Taking from the poor
And giving the rich the poor’s
Coins to disperse.
He’s got them where he wants them.
They are eating out of his hand.
He’s our duly elected flimflam man.

I am in heaven
posting mostly poetry –
two-thousand today.

The travel weary guy flew home
after six months in Scotland via
Edinburgh, Iceland into Los

Angeles. He left before the pres-
idential election and after the
election thought, facetiously,

of requesting permanent residency
in Great Britain, but who then
thought, seriously, that he had

better hightail it home before he
might be stopped at LAX which he,
a white, middle-age, heterosexual,

Christian male might be thinking
that one day they would come for
his demographic not even consider-

ing that it would be for, upon dis-
embarking, overhearing a snarky
remark about the new president

and responding by letting out a
little laugh, which is what happen-
ed. The White House press secret-

ary speaking to the fake news,
lying journalists denied any sur-
veillance of any demographic of

any Americans having a good
laugh at the new president’s ex-
pense saying the president had it

on good, reliable reports from
truth-telling right-wing media
that the white guy was, in all

actuality, a brown skin, Muslim
extremist terrorist in white
face. When said guy heard this,

he laughed again, thus sealing
his fate while wondering if they
had beach time so he could get

a little tan for his pale, white
face and happy hour with single
barrel, small batch rum and

Cuban cigars at Guantanamo.

The afternoon air hung heavy
In the desert
Like a mild haboob.
Morning relief
Was sought with
Doors and windows
Flung open and
Fans set counter-clockwise
To pull in the
Morning air like
A cool, cleansing mist
Dropping down on dry, dusty
heads.
They thought about
The suffocating, summer heat
To come and looked forward
To the road trip back East
And summer on the shore of
The Big Lake.
Four months ago, four more
Days on the road
Would have felt oppressive.
Now it seems a liberating
Ride to freedom — at least an
Escape of sorts from
Things as they are.
If only such were so
For the country enduring
The suffocating haboob
Of a presidency not
Quite two months into
What now feels like
An infinity of four years.

Wishful thinking?
Not a chance.
Stinkin’ thinkin’?
This ain’t no rain dance.
Looks like we’re headed
into plutocratic expanse.
Yes, that’s so dreaded,
but it’s now fire under their suited pants
of those spirited women.
They’re leaving nothin’ to chance.
They marched with an omen
taking a firm stance
against politicians with egos swollen
and those seeking riches to enhance.
Don’t give up on our democracy.
Strong women and men with integrity
Will step forward for our posterity.
Grab those signs
March in time.
Stay diligent.
Be peacefully militant.
We have a Constitution
And a Bill of Rights.
We will throw the kleptocrats out
and duly elect public servants
who will rain down justice
like fire and ice.

He started reading a book about
Bardo – no not Brigitte who is
French and her last name has a “t”
on the end, which, leave it to the

French, is silent and a movie
actress he really liked when he
was a kid and not for her acting
ability. It’s Tibetan for “inter-

mediate state,” only with
several states and roughly like
a Buddhist version of Catholic
purgatory only about karma

and not sin and a lot more
is up to the person in Bardo
than in purgatory where
residents are pretty much

helpless without someone like
his Catholic ex-brother-in-law
who prays for about a thousand
souls in purgatory every day

in the hope that he can pray
those people’s sins away. So
he conjured his “intermediate
state,” imagining that he could

overhear what people were say-
ing about him at which point
he exclaimed, “Hey, it isn’t
nice to speak ill of the dead,”

which no one could hear except,
apparently, his chocolate
lab who always had that sense
about something being wrong

and would come over and give
him sympathy, which is where
the dog was just then at the
foot of the couch and who hear-

ing those words from the beyond
spoke in perfectly clear English
and not French, “I always thought
Brigitte Bardot was a fine act-

ress.” And he was sure the dog
was going to say something nice
about him. “Merde!” the man
shouted, which is French for

shit and the “e” is silent, and
the dog jumped. He reached
over and gave the dog a pat
and said, “Sorry, Buddy. I’m

awake now.”

The content of garages tells you a
lot about the people who live in
the house, especially the men, but

not always.

His neighbor on one side has a
very neat garage, everything in
its place – a workbench cleared

of clutter, swept clean of debris,
lots of expensive tools with
engines; on the wall behind the

bench, clear glass jars of various
sizes are secured. The jars contain
nails and screws, rows of metric

and rows of standard size. Work
boots are placed neatly next to
the door into the house. The man

would call this neighbor if some-
thing mechanical broke down at
his house.

The neighbor on the other side of
him also has a neat garage. Hooks
hang from rafters holding bikes by

their wheels. Hooks hang from the
walls cradling kayaks. Hooks hang
along the back wall holding up skis

and fishing rods. Big plastic con-
tainers in front of the skis and
fishing rods contain camping equip-

ment. There is a little workbench
with a few items for doing yard
work. He would enjoy a weekend

away with this neighbor.

The neighbor across the street
has a garage stuffed with stuff
and every garbage pick-up day

there are empty bottles of wine
and liquor in the recycle bin,
not secured in brown paper bags

to hide from the prying eyes of
neighbors but unabashedly there
for God and everyone else to see.

He would enjoy having happy hour
with this neighbor.

Well, we are arriving at the next place
along the way,
the next step on the journey.
We are in a new phase.
We couldn’t stay in the old place,
which actually was a recently new place
but a very uncomfortable place;
it was a place very upsetting and scary for
most everyone, well,
for over half the population, anyway.
We were horrified at what
had happened
and we did the natural, normal thing,
which was to cry out in protest;
it was energizing rather than enervating.
No one can live in fear and anger
for very long.
It’s unnatural; it pinches and shrivels
and so, now, we are saying that we will
focus on gratitude and thankfulness
as a new way to protest
the grotesque state of affairs.
Oops, I just went back there and now I feel
fear and anger and a need
to find a protest march against
the invading
forces of sheer lunacy which
will turn quickly into Kafka’s, Sartre’s
and Camus’ existential nightmare.
Okay, I will be grateful and
thankful for those who gather in
protest and
I will take a deep breath.
Breathe in Yah;
breathe out weh.

After reading about the Yale educated,
Southern Mississippi raised, foul-mouthed

preacher who, when asked how he could
possibly be a preacher with a mouth

like his, stated that he “had the call,
Goddammit!” which he did because he

courageously preached the love of God
for everyone regardless of the color

of their skin to the obstinate, obdurate,
white, racist KKK, the reader/ preacher

thought about “being called” to preach
Christ’s mercy, justice, peace and love

to all having been given license to
use rough language just like the

Southern preacher and then one day on
a bike path in Phoenix he was almost

sideswiped by a cyclist, in spandex,
riding his bike at the speed of sound

scaring the bejesus out of the preacher,
who, instinctively, yelled at the top

of his lungs, “Hey, ass-wipe, are you
trying out for the Olympics?” Fortunate-

ly for the preacher, the cyclist was
riding so fast, he was out of ear shot

when the stunned preacher uttered the
words and then a little birdie descended

on the preacher’s shoulder and told him,
in a Southern Mississippi drawl, “that

ain’t exactly what preachin’ Christ in
rough language is all about, Goddammit.”

He could be standing at the
Kitchen sink doing the morning
Dishes when a memory hits
Him and he relives it knowing
That at that time he was a
Callow fellow just experiencing
The moment, full of himself and
His experience in that moment
And he actually wants to go
Back and give the moment a
Greater meaning, a bigger picture,
A more profound appreciation
For what was going on, especially
The times with his late wife and
Children when they were young,
But then he thinks he is giving that
Moment the profundity that each
And every one of the moments he
Recalls deserves. He does that as
He begins to cry not knowing exactly
Why except maybe because those
Who were with him then are not
Now and he wants them to know
That all those moments were much,
Much more significant to him
Than what he indicated at the time.