For whatever reason, he has

a new-found respect for math-

ematics as the music of the uni-

verse. He wishes he had studied

it better in school, but, perhaps,

the mathematical music of poetry

or the poetic music of mathemat-

ics will suffice.

At twenty years, he

realized he had

grief induced dementia

for

the first ten.

They went

to a Gershwin

musical

twice and halfway

through

time two,

he asked his wife

of eight years

if this was

new

and what came

next.

He certainly wasn’t

hitting on all

six

for those ten,

but for the second

ten and some, he’s having

fun

being reminded

of all the

runs (literally, runs

in running shoes)

around cities to

the north,

traveling, camping,

embracing, holding

and so forth –

reliving the fun

as if

for,

not the first time,

but the first time

and a half. “Oh,

of course,”

he laughed,

“I remember it

just fine

as if it were the first

time

and a half.”

Thank heaven for

Millennials who

aren’t trapped by

biases and beliefs

of the elder.

But what found-

ation is there to

choose from when

they make their

own error?

And such is the

dilemma of youth;

it thinks it has all the

answers and will be

here forever.

Only one click of the remote

takes a viewer to parallel

universes of the T.V. And so,

he did something really

science fictiony; he moved,

at the push of a button, between

those parallel universes on a

Friday evening during prime

time. He watched intelligent

conversation about the poss-

ibility of something called a

smart gun which is being

developed in one universe

to halt hasty, unwanted, un-

intended, later regretted

firing and possible harm

and/or death and then he,

with one hit on the remote,

entered the other universe

and watched bombast on

Benghazi. Back in the other

parallel universe, he watched

intelligent conversation about

race relations statistically

comparing white Republicans

attitudes to those of white

Democrats; back to the other

channel and a universe seemingly

farther and farther away from

reality and definitely in the realm of

fiction, he watched a standard

fare for that channel, blond,

white, female human, who looked

something like a Stepford

Wife robot, sitting in for

the very popular, not-so-attract-

ive, but pretty tall, bombastic,

male, parallel universe star, cut off,

as if on script, guests when they

varied from the station’s line on

Benghazi, Benghazi, Benghazi (Are

they saying it often enough for

the multitude of old, white

viewers in that universe to chant

back into the T.V. screen, “Yes,

yes, yes, Benghazi, Benghazi, Ben-

ghazi!”?), and then, he watched as

she, of all things, in light of the scandal

of the 80-year-old billionaire, racist

basketball team owner, did her

best to host, toast, roast and humiliate

two, seemingly, affable black guys as

guests on the show, cut them off,

shut them down and dismiss them

on the loaded, simplistic, and false

question of how things have gotten

a lot worse for blacks under Obama,

not president, just Obama. On cue,

they just sat there, shook their heads

up and down like bobble-heads

in affirmation of the line of the standard,

fare for that channel, blond, white

woman and smiled. He wondered

if they were being set up for an Amos

and Andy routine to tickle the old, white

watchers. He thought, If I had been one

of those guys being dissed and dismissed

by the standard fare for that channel,

blond, white woman doing her best

racist interview, I would have said,

“S’cuse me, Mam; s’cuse me, Mam.

I’ll just sit here and smile like a good,

obedient house slave on your station’s

plantation, Mam, while you tell all the old,

white folks out there what you want to be

comin’ out of my mouth, Mam. No dis-

respect intended, Mam.” Getting tired

of the parallel universes, he switched back

one last time to the channel hardly anybody

watches and watched right-wing advertise-

ments bought by right-wing, super-pacs try

to influence the few liberal viewers to that

channel in that universe, so he just shut off

the T.V., picked up a book of believable science

fiction and went to bed.

It had been a particularly,

bitter, cold winter

as remembered by anyone

whatever the case.

Hot-house flowers

stood tall in the clear,

blue, blown glass

vase,

sitting on the table

between the chalice and

cup where communion

in their home

takes place.

The guests brought the

flowers, the hostess put

them in that sacred

space,

and everyone there,

wondered when the flowers

would grow in any,

outdoor, earthy

place

apparently, far

enough north to

be, not quite, beyond

God’s grace

even though those

who live in that place

and worship in

that place

began to wonder

about God’s

grace

until the thermometer

eventually hit 70.

.

What if we released the

thousands upon thousands

of non-violent prisoners who

cost the U.S. taxpayer about

sixty-thousand per year per

person, gave them rehab if

needed at a fraction of the

cost and remedial classes at

a fraction of the cost and en-

rolled them in community coll-

eges at a fraction of the cost

with Roman Catholic nuns as

their sponsors? They might get

their wrists slapped with a ruler

by the old-timey ones in the

starched habits (and, to be honest,

some might still need that slap),

but they would get the big bear

“Where is your habit, sister?”

nun hug celebrating success for

the previously incarcerated non-

violent persons, and for those

very nuns (starch or no starch),

and Jesus, yes, always Jesus and

the tax payers who get a pretty

penny, prison rebate, too.

In the spring,

it used to be

delightful showers.

Now it’s thunderstorms,

lightening and torrential

rain for hours,

not to mention killer

tornadoes wiping out towns

and shutting down

the power.

In the summer,

it used to be

lazy days and warm

summer nights.

Now it’s scorching

desert heat

where even the Gila

monsters, scorpions and

rattlesnakes

beat a speedy retreat.

In the fall,

it used to be,

for many, the favorite

season of all

with Indian Summer

colors and a chill

in the air.

Now it’s hurricanes

that seem like daily fare

where everyone is

washed away and given

a horrendous scare.

In the winter,

it used to be

the wish for snow

by December twenty-five.

Now its enough to stay warm

and keep alive

in the subzero weather

and enough snow, making

it hard to survive.

In the spring, summer, fall

and winter,

it’s the way it used to be

before global warming

became a frightening,

earth changing, life

changing

reality.

The non-credit, summer school

class in typing between his junior

and senior years ended with

twenty-one words and seven

errors for a generous “D” from

the teacher who liked him and

which, thankfully, didn’t count

on his high school grade point

average, which suffered enough

in his senior year, not to mention

his SATs, after his father’s violent

suicide, he thought to himself as

he typed the poem flawlessly

fifty-two years later.

Carl Sandburg wondered about the

home life of a hangman.

What about the fresh-faced, Air Force

kids who monitor the nuclear

weapons in remote, cold, boring

places? Maybe they are too

young to think about what they

are doing or, more at it, what

they might be called on to do.

The hangman just had to think

about one or maybe two necks

a day.

The 1847 Dutch settlers

settled in a swamp

they didn’t know

was just so

till the spring when

there was a big melt

of snow.

So they chopped and

sawed and cut

all the trees

and drained the swamp

after the big freeze.

They dug a channel

and sent those logs

flying into the breeze.

They farmed the land

and brought prosperity

to that hardworking,

immigrant

community,

but over the years, the

fertilizer and run off

polluted the lake

name Black

and the citizens

a century

and a half later

didn’t know

if they would

get their

lake back

from farmland

spill and phosphorus

and wondered, “What will

happen to us?”

Well, some really smart

academic folk said,

“This is not a joke; if you

want to make your

lake pristine,

you have to create some

watersheds to

make that water clean.”

So, believe it or not, as if

by God’s grace,

the country club of the old,

blue-nosed

Dutch went belly up

and it was just the right

place.

That low, lying land

became a water shed

to hold back all

the pollutants of dread

and clean water started to

come back as it was

in the good, old days

before the Dutch displaced

the Ottawas.