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.

Come what may, evil
sticks like glue to every-
one, including me and

you. It just won’t go
away. Even if one is
innocent, evil pursues

throughout the day — some-
thing sticky on the hand.
One shakes and shakes but

it won’t go away. Conseq-
uences latch on, too. Lady
Macbeth tried to wash the

blood of Duncan away. She
screamed “Out damn spot,”
but it remained indelible,

regardless of what others
might say. Evil sticks
when you think it has gone

away; it pursues in ven-
geance to one’s dying day
and the consequence of

evil sticks like glue in
guilt, too. What to do? His
father once told him to

declare his innocence, if
true, through attack after
attack after attack and

come what may, he would
still have his integrity.
Come what may, come what

may, come what may, evil
can’t take one’s integrity
away.

We met along the trail.
I was walking the chocolate lab.
He was heading out for a jog.
Without the dog, we would have
said hi and that would have been that.
He stopped to pet the dog.
“I’ve got two brown labs at home.”
“This guy is our fourth.”
“He’s beautiful.”
“You can’t do better than sweet chocolate.”
“Have a great jog.”
“Thanks. It was nice meeting you.
Bye you beautiful boy.”
And so it goes — a variation on a theme.
In the cause of world peace, everyone should
adopt a chocolate lab and go for a walk.

Everyday we hear vulgarities
And blasphemies uttered
In language most coarse.

People feel free to be
Politically incorrect
With no apparent remorse.

Rudeness and incivility
Prevail all day, everyday,
Of course.

Drivers give no room to
Other drivers making roads
A demolition derby course.

Horns blast and shouts
Can be heard referring
To the large ass of a horse.

The middle finger, the mocking
Sign of peace, is thrust
With great force.

Reds shout at Blues;
Blues shout back
Until everyone is hoarse.

And the biggest casualties
Are ever and always
The poor and minorities
Who get no justice
In due (or old or new)
Course.

In a country grown
So fearful and hateful,
The least (the poor and
The minorities), as Jesus put it,
Are his brothers and sisters,
Of course.

Jesus calls all American
Christians to repentance
And great remorse

And the will to do justice,
Love mercy, walk humbly and
Get the hell off our
Death bearing high,
Pale horse,

Hearing Jesus say, “Fear not,”
And Julian of Norwich pray,
“All shall be well; all
Manner of things shall
Be well” in eternity
Which is right now,
Right now, right now,
Of course.

In the church courtyard
after the march and protest,
we sat around a table. I
listened to the biracial,
young man speak about
his religiously and polit-
ically conservative
mother in Memphis. I
asked the young man
if his mother were black.
“Oh, no, she is white.
She had an affair with
my father when they
were very young. He
was from the wrong side
of town. They never
married and I only met
him once.” After that
he continued to tell
stories about Memphis
but I lost the gist of
his words. I found my-
self looking at his
rich, bronzed skin
and then at my reddish
white arms with blue
veins and blotchy,
age spots here and there.
I just sat there staring
at his face, remember-
ing to blink my eyes
periodically so he
would think I was
listening, but I wasn’t;
I was mesmerized by
the glistening beauty
of his skin.

They keep finding ways
To hire other gays
To tend bar,
To park the car,
To bus the dishes,
To quietly call each other “bitches,”
To wait on tables,
To carry ladies’ sables.
There is eye candy
To be had — all randy.
Take your pick
To pick up a chop stick –
There is the stocky stevedore.
The surfer dude holds the door.
There is the black model so pretty.
There is the tutti-frutti cutie.
This is how they joke with each other.
They are all brothers by different mothers.
They stand by, with and for.
They call themselves The Brothers Four.
They aren’t looking for a fight
To defend their right
To be who they are.
They’ll be pushed only so far.
They will defend their right
To have a legal fight
To be who they are –
They call themselves The Brothers Four.
They don’t live in closets anymore.
This is stopping off space
To a bigger, better future place —
To professions, to the arts
To places they may ply their arts.
These men so gay,
They, God bless them, aren’t going away.