It’s the devil’s seduction —
money, power, prestige,
the cushiest job in
Washington.
It’s Mephistopheles
saying, “Such a deal
I have for you, you
already corrupt and
even more corruptible
you” to Faust.
It’s the world’s fool’s
gold coveted by the
most self-righteous,
white, evangelical,
Christian legislators
just like Aaron’s
gold bull lusted
after by the chosen
people when
Moses got delayed
at a red light on the
mountain at a stop-
over on the way to
the promised land.

Watching television in
the evening mostly they
see two types of ads —

Big Pharma pushing
the latest pills to pop
for what ails you or for

what you think ails you
and debt relief compan-
ies vying for the attention

of those underwater fin-
ancially. Big Pharma
pushing people’s heads

under the surface and
debt relief companies
looking to make a profit

off of the drowning. Is
there a connection?
Oh, yeah, and the diet

companies marketing
ways that out-of-shape,
obese people who pop

too many pills and are
in debt way over their
heads are offered sal-

vation in meals deliver-
ed directly to their door
and the first month for

free. Follow the money
into America’s poverty
and desperation on TV.

Today is the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr.

Here is a quote of King’s in today’s Writer’s Almanac:

“We must move past indecision to action. We must find new ways to speak for peace in Vietnam and for justice throughout the developing world, a world that borders on our doors. If we do not act, we shall surely be dragged down the long, dark, and shameful corridors of time reserved for those who possess power without compassion, might without morality, and strength without sight.”

I’m sorry to say, he was prophetic and correct. We are being dragged down the long, dark, and shameful corridors of time reserved for those who possess power without compassion, might without morality, and strength without sight.

Victims of their fears,
so many white people want
brown, black, yellow, red
people to disappear,
to just stay away;
they want one more
Father Knows Best day.
Let’s see…
a white husband, a white wife
and two white children —
that’s four and no more.
Now it’s down to three…
a white husband, a white wife
and one white child;
that adds up to no retirement
for those three
because there aren’t
young workers to
help pay
for an aging population
in what is becoming a
no retirement nation.
Good grief, white people,
if you can’t endorse
immigration
from a field of moral force,
at least, see your fears
as misplaced against race.
Enlightened self-interest
is a better place —
immigration is good;
bring in the blacks and
browns (yellows and reds
already here) to the neighborhood.
let the US be fertile ground
to help whites get to retirement
while they are around,
taller than the grass,
vertical
and, at least for a few years,
retired while still above ground.

The abused sidle up to the abuser,
over and over and over; they are
there looking lovingly in the totally

desperate hope that the abuser
would not strike again, but the
nature of the abuser is to abuse

and the nature of the abused is
to stay close, to hide close by,
to lick the hand of the abuser

and to duck when the abuser’s
hand comes down even when
trying to show others what a great

animal owner he is and the Occu-
pant does that all the time and
the Republicans do that servility

all the time and then I look at my
Chocolate Lab who looks back at
me and sometimes says, “Yeh,

you’re okay.” Sometimes comes
over for a hug, a pat, a kiss. And,
of course, the dogs always know.

The new movies are arriving
faster than a BMW in a com-
mercial where the BMW is the
only vehicle on the road and
there are no stoplights. The
ads show all the fun — bomb
explosions here, automatic
rifle shots there, handguns
blasting away, bodies flying
up, down, all around and
every which way. The movies
star Hollywood’s favorites —
funny, handsome, in your
face stars with their guns
blazing and their cars chas-
ing and the audiences’ hearts
racing and then after shoot-
ing the final scenes, all those
super conscientious stars
meet up at a rally to protest
guns in America while millions
of people across the country
sit together in restaurants
and coffee houses and micro-
breweries not talking to each
other or looking at each other
but watching on their phones
their favorite movie stars blow
up everything and one, put-
upon, bullied white boy sits
alone in his bedroom staring
at the phone plotting.

It’s the playoffs and the
winning team’s cheer-
leaders were stacked
three deep behind the
commentators, smiling,
twirling their pompoms,
smiling plastic smiles
for however long the
commentary went on —
smile, smile, plastic
smile, twirl, twirl, twirl
and the billionaire own-
ers must have been
happy as the beau-
tiful, by and large,
blond cheerleaders
cheered and the one
percent loved it as
the grunts, albeit well
paid grunts, on the
field won or lost the
game and made the
one percent even rich-
er, win or lose, and
when the well-paid
grunts retire they have
may have a few dec-
ades before they lose
their brains or have
heart attacks and the
one percent smiled
as they got richer and
the cheerleaders kept
their plastic smiles as
long as the TV com-
mentators had them
as window dressing
and the one percent
wanted them to keep
those incredible smiles
and those unbelievable
twirling pompoms not
to mention their other
assets.

He watched a PBS short
on pig farming which took
him back to his first church

in rural Kentucky and the
pig farmer family of gifted
kids, one of whom attempt-

ed suicide while in high
school and how he, in his
audacious, youthful ex-

uberance counseled her
out of her suicidal inclin-
ations while her indignant

sister confronted him with
his lack of expertise and
how he could ever think

that he could help her sister,
but he did, not by his skill,
but by the grace of God and

by the grace of God, she
went on to live a fruitful life
and then years later, he, the

then former pastor, heard
about her father’s suicide.
He just shook his head and

wondered what makes some
families tick and others not.
And then he thought, for just

a second, that if he were still
there, he could have helped
the pig farmer from taking

his life, except he was a lot
older and a lot wiser and
realized that he wouldn’t

have been of much help
and that the first time
had been beginner’s luck.

“Wolf!” the baby fox did cry
and this the only time he did not lie.
Bets on how many are going to die?
Worldwide, he has opened Pandora’s box
and he thinks he’s smart as a grown-up fox.
On his house the world curses a pox.
And all it was, was “Wolf!” the baby fox cried.

I see TV commercials today
and I think of friends from yesterday.
I don’t know why —
is it nostalgic music; is that’s why?
Something reminds me of days on campus;
something triggers the hippocampus
to thoughts of years gone by
and friends, some who have died.
There is this one in particular
and that one who was really peculiar
and all of them who were precious
back in the day
and in my memory always will stay
and then I wake up and think
that internationally we need not shrink
but sober up, get over the sentimental past
and vote in this dangerous time,
for a democracy that will last
not to mention the one million animals
who have died in a blaze
and in our environmental haze
we need to wake up, wake up,
wake up!!!