He spent his first winter in eight years
in the cold, upper Midwest where he
was born and lived except for a few
months each of those eight years in

Phoenix, the city one writer termed
the place that shouldn’t exist because
it is plunked smack dab in the middle
of the dry, dry desert but does exist

because the whites who settled there
got lucky the Hohokams who preceded
them were smart enough to dig ditches
from the Salt and Snake Rivers so the

village which became a town and then
a huge city could have water because
Phoenix is low and there is gravity.
And it has worked so far….Anyway,

there are many, many folk who were
born and lived in those hot, desert
climes who now live up north by the
Big Lake and he wonders how they can

stand the cold and then he remembers
that they probably at one time or
another lived in Siberia and humans
are pretty good at adaptation, if not

quite as good as cockroaches, rats
and crocodiles, that is until the
water runs out or goes bad. Is that
what happened? You would have to

ask a desert canal builder, if you can
find one. Hohokam means “all used up”
or “those who are gone.” Those who
drink the water from the Big Lake

are getting warning notices. What
will we be called and will anyone
be around to call us something or
will we all be “those who are gone”?

“A dog doesn’t wag its tale for free,” to him said she,
“so what is it you want from me?”
He replied, “So, let me see — a hug, a kiss,
a vow of eternal love
or perhaps all three
and whatever other gift you might be
inclined to give generously?”
“Now, let me see. I will give you all three
if first of all you give me three.”
Excitedly, he said, “Anything for thee,
my dear, just name the three.”
“Sweeping the floor of dog hair,
cleaning the bathrooms and planting
Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds round the old, oak tree.”
“Don’t you want a yellow ribbon round that old, oak tree?”
“Why would I want a yellow ribbon to see?”
“So when I leave, tail tucked between my knees,
you’ll often think of me.
Bye, bye, ma chérie.”

“Know Thyself’ is as old
as the Oracle Delph.
“Embrace Yourself” is on
the self-help book shelf.
“You got more nerve
than an abscessed tooth,”
is actually further proof
that others know you better
than you know yourself.
Such an epithet was
tossed the man’s way
and the man said, “That epithet
will be my epitaph
when people visit me
in the cemetery,”
proving that there is time
for you to come to
“Know Thyself” and “Embrace Yourself”
just before you are placed
on the columbarium shelf.

I hear all the bad news of the day
the things the Republicans say are A-okay —
like imposing stiff tariffs
which will bring higher prices
as if anyone cares if
there are any tariffs
and stopping the deal with Iran
so we can get into another war — again and again and again.
I try to ignore all this, first thing in the morning
by reading meditations, my spiritual calling,
and then some poems, some I understand
and others I read before embarking on things planned
like doing last night’s dishes, making coffee,
jogging and then thinking America is on a
flight kamikaze.
It’s all quite disturbing
with an unknown ending,
so I’ll just read a mystery
and try to get a good night’s sleep
and hope for another morning
and wait for my meditations
appearing on my computer the next morning,
assuming there will be a next morning.

The man’s dad had been a three-pack-a-day
Chesterfield smoker who had a heart attack

when he was 55 and died when he was 56.
One day, after the man had gotten home

from high school when he was a teen, he
encountered his dad sitting in the living

room looking out the big, bay window, in-
haling deeply and obviously appreciatively

on but another of his unfiltered, chain-of-
love sticks. It was after one of those long,

deliriously deep draws, that he exhaled
seemingly forever and then said, “Don’t

ever take up smoking, my dear son. It is
a low-down, filthy habit.”

The pond was cleaned,
the pump lifted out,
put in place
along with the skimmer.
A UV light was installed
and plugged in — all in
a pretty darn good
attempt to create the
appearance of a natural
pond and waterfall
for just a few dollars a
month; the gorgeous fish in the
pond — dressed gloriously
in glittering gold,
outrageous orange,
brilliant brown and black
— even one goldfish disguised
coyly as a koi,
all innocently unaware to
be grateful for
their existence, swim
freely, in an artificial
place just right
for their size,
unaware also that they
look infinitely
better than the attendees
of the Met Gala
who also undoubtedly are
unaware, but not innocently,
to be grateful
for their existence
in another fishbowl.

In celebration of the bi-
centennial of the birth of
Karl Marx, the man would pen

a note to the board of the
beach association stating
that the rules and regulations

for beach use are petty and
bourgeois and reflect a board
made up of the petite bour-

geoisie and the oppressor
rich and therefore, the pro-
letariat in the beach assoc-

iation should rise up in Marxist
revolt, but his wife reminded
the man that he is middle-class

and retired on a fixed income
so he is the very definition
of the petite bourgeoisie. With

that the man decided to go to
the beach alone as a true believer
and drink a PBR to Marx and

to Cinco de Mayo when the
Mexican army defeated the in-
vading French in 1862, an event

hardly celebrated at all in
Mexico but a wildly popular day
in America for reasons almost

completely unknown to most
Americans and it is now a fact
that it is the day the most

beer is consumed in celebration
of an event about which almost
nothing is known and hardly

anyone cares except the petite
bourgioisie has an excuse
to drink lots of beer without

the due appreciation of Mexico’s
victory, and so the man hoisted
his bottle to the rise of the

proletariat and the victory of
the Mexican army when behind
the man a voice was heard

to say with the scariness of
the Gestapo, “No glass bottles
are allowed on the beach.”

He read about some tender good-byes;
half-way through, he started to cry;
the good-byes
were tender enough for
it’s antecedent, “God be with you”
to come through;
and then he realized he had a really
hard time saying good-bye
to two of the most important people in his life,
because those two of the most
important people in his life
left this life
before he had the chance or
even the thought to say good-bye.
Now, all these years later, he still
doesn’t know how to say good-bye
while he says over and over and over
to them, “God be with you,” before he
is sleeping
and meets them with a greeting
before their dawn’s leaving.

*idea from a meditation by Frederick Buechner

Whenever I order anything in a restaurant,
the response is, “Perfect.”
When I check-out at a drug store and pay with a debit card,
the response is, “Perfect.”
When I check-out at a drug store and pay with a credit card,
the response is, “Perfect.”
When I check-out anywhere and pay with cash,
the response is, “Perfect.”
Whenever I call a vendor to inquire when the company might be arriving
and offer a suggested hour when I’m asked,
the response is, “Perfect.”
Whenever I stop at the one gas station with gas-jockeys and say, “Fill ‘er up,”
the response is, “Perfect.”
If I say, “Ten gallons, please,”
the response is, “Perfect.”
If I order a happy-hour pinot grigio,
the response is, “Perfect.”
If I order a happy-hour double, well bourbon neat with ice on the side,
the response is, “Perfect.”
If I order a happy-hour single, well vodka on the rocks,
the response is, “Perfect.”
Whatever I do or say,
the response is, “Perfect.”
Why wasn’t that word in common use as a response
when my kids were growing up —
as in any parental request, instruction or advice?
“Perfect, dad.”
Do you think I would have believed them —
even for one second?

It just started to rain, a needed rain,
Which under most circumstances would
Be more than enough for vivid images in
A dream, but my dream was musical
Featuring “Chances Are” by Johnny
Mathis and vague, ghost like images
Of life back in the day, which in the
Bright light of day, wasn’t very good
At all having attended a reunion which
Blew the myth to smithereens, so I
Wonder what the chances are that I
Would have a heart aching dream about
An old girlfriend who I was head over
Heels in love with and learned at that
Reunion that she had died a dreadful
Death of a horrible disease. Chances
Are.