Was it by sheer un-luck or blessed luck
that he came to the homes of the grieving?
Maybe providence in the form of a former
colleague who knew the depth of his sorrow
or was she just playing with him and his
suffering when she asked if he would apply
for the chaplaincy at hospice? Another,
years later, after he had sat with the
suffering and held their hands and joined
their tears with his, asked having just
been exposed to the unutterable pain of
experiencing the death of a loved one,
“How did you do it?”
 He said nothing
but spoke to himself, How could I not?
knowing the healing joy all those families
had brought him as a gift of sheer grace.
Ironically and with God’s great practical
joking, he had entertained angels unaware
when, of all things, he was the giver of care.

He considered the latest fad in helping to save
Western Christianity from the dust bin of history,
this one sexual liberation from the reactionary

shackles of penitent, guilty, embarrassed old
leches like Augustine of Hippo. As he read of
the artistic, ministerial, literary efforts of the

ecstatic and exuberant tattooed believers, it re-
minded him of the church camps he attended as
a teen, where the highlight (at least as was the

plan of the old, fuddy-duddy, killjoy clergy) of the
week was the night of commitment when we all
could feel such shame for lusting after each other

all week long and give ourselves wholeheartedly
to Jesus, and then the next morning, in the bright
light of Jesus’ purifying, sanctifying love, and

swearing, in adolescent innocence and enthusiasm
to BFF’s, before there was the abbreviation, that
we would write (now text, tweet, Instagram, etc.,

endlessly) daily for the rest of our lives and be
sure to keep in touch until eternity rushes us off
to the great camp reunion in the sky, and then we

forgot, except this time around, we could keep the
lust and enjoy it and Jesus, kind of like a cream-
coated communion of having your cake and

eating it, too.

He, now in retirement, asked
himself why he has given up

any function he regularly did
in his capacity as an ordained

minister, to which he replied to
himself, You were lucky to es-

in blood sacrifice. To which, he
smiling, replied, Hmm, right.

thunder roars from waves
on big lake over the dune
chilling those listening.

it rained in her heart all night long;
she woke to soaked bed sheets
wondering if those were sad tears of a song
keeping beat to her dance macabre feet.

the snow fell on her bright sarong,
as she wandered in a foreign domain
wondering if those were fearful flakes of a song
keeping beat to a dance macabre insane.

the sleet lashed her like an unruly throng
while she pondered her immigrant fate
wondering if the sleet were slashing sheets of a song
keeping beat to a dance macabre of hate.

so stopped the rain, snow and sleet
but she still moved with dance macabre feet.

i have breathed my near last,
my life has almost passed,
scant material wealth to pass,
few memories to last,
not many will be downcast,
no obituary on the newscast,
no tears in the forecast,
ashes in the wind blast,
no bronze bust to be cast,
no flags will fly at half-staff or mast,
may we move this along? people ask,
next.

JUs(t)

   hoW 

dis—-

com——

Bob—-

u—-

late—-

d

       d(o) 

					WE 

                                          f—e—e—l

?

	?
		?
				?
					
						??, 
but we are still together in our questioning (see directly above).

A man standing in the electronics section of
a giant, all-purpose department store watched

one of the giant, super-intelligent TVs and
listened to the proclamations of the person

whose face was on all the giant and not so
giant but nevertheless super-intelligent TVs

in the department. Some TVs were mute, some
on low volume but the one the man watched

was loud enough for people to hear the pro-
clamations. When the person on the TV was

done speaking, the man watching simply stated,
“He is the dumbest duck in the pond,” and walked

away. Another man, standing near, thought about
the ponds in the parks of Phoenix and how dirty

the ponds were, filled with duck dung and said
to his wife, “And dirty, too.”

When I think of what
I am going to get in return,
the answer is simply burn.

When I think only of
what I want to give
the answer is simply to live.

The male and female,
his physician told him,
forge the same basic trail.

Identical they start out
and then some parts go in
and some parts go out.

A difference smaller than a gnat —
a matter of a few hormones
this way and that.

The female point of view
he’s never understood.
Really, hormones just a few?

The physician, in words few,
said, “Maybe it’s just that
you don’t understand you.

Your brain and her brain
aren’t so different at all,
so, don’t worry or strain.”

Confused and feeling pale,
he left the office, later realizing
his physician is a female.

Telling his dear wife
what the physician said.
She said, “Not on your life.

For that she charged a fee?
She doesn’t know squat
and you don’t know me.”

Now between females both,
he sits and ponders,
“I’m just a confused old bloke;
is it any wonder?”