He had plans.
Looked at his hands.
One second’s span.
Gone man.

He read a meditation 
     about a person’s 
                   personal 
experience of  being -------- thrust 
into the abyss of grief. 

The words were beautiful and beautifully 
written about the most
horrendous experience imaginable.
 
He didn’t want to imagine.
 
He couldn’t believe the beautiful words
and then he found himself 
immersed in the beauty
of the mysterious mystery 
of life and 
                         death
in 

the midst and aftermath
of the --------------------------- horror.
  
(The person wasn’t saved from the horror.) 
 
She was surrounded with unimaginable 
love that would 

suffer with her, 
enter into her horror and 
hold her

as she (didn’t get over as the world 
advises because it can't stand to look at the pain)

"passed through" into 
the 
     eternal 
         presence 
              of 
                agape,

                      now.

He heard something that was salaciously juicy.
It was something that certainly could be.
While…there was no real support for its veracity,
it certainly was a real doozy.
So, he kept it under wraps till just the right opportunity.
He, with great moral pride in protecting his source’s identity,
passed along that which was salaciously juicy.
He said, “Immediately upon hearing the rumor,
her eyes looked down from looking at me.”
Then he knew he was filled with hypocrisy,
confirming his self-recrimination for telling that doozy.
Next time to follow his better angels, he vowed shamefacedly,
he would bury anything salaciously juicy
in a grave for the old, dry, dead and dusty
rather than ever again pass along anything unjustly.

Mommy and Daddy live in a house
that isn’t worth as much as a house
in another town. My school doesn’t
get as much money for me and my
fellow students as the schools in
that other town. I’m a citizen/
student of my town, which is in my
state, which is in my country but
I’m not equal to the citizen/students
of the other town in my state and
in my country. Why? Because Mommy
and Daddy’s house isn’t worth as
much as a house in that other town.
I guess, then, that I’m not worth
as much as the kids in that other
town, am I?

I like the word three 
and triptych and trilogy —
three, an odd number and yet, somehow 
complete but, seemingly an invitation for 
others to meet and greet. 

Writers write trilogies — a series — 
a beginning, a middle, an end, together a 
resolution in the making, a circle, 
round and round and round, whirring and whirling round. 

Visual artists make triptych — a series — 
a beginning, a middle, an end, together a 
resolution in the making, a circle, 
round and round and round, whirring and whirling round. 

Three dimensional art makes three — 
a beginning, a middle, an end, 
front, side and back, together a 
resolution in the making, 
a circle, round and round 
and round, whirring and whirling round.  

God as a trinity — a series — 
a beginning, a middle, an end, 
Father, Son, Spirit, 
Mother, Daughter, Sophia, 
Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer, 
together a resolution in the making, 
a circle, round and round and round, 
whirring and whirling round. 

Speeches come in parts three; 
sermons come in parts three; 
treaties come in parts three; 

We come in threes — 
a beginning, a middle, an end, 
together a resolution in the making, 
a circle, round and round and round, 
whirring and whirling round. 

And we meet and greet the three — 
entering the trilogy, the triptych, the Trinity, 
entering me and me in thee and we in Thee
round and round, whirring and whirling round 
go we — 

dancing the dervish dance of eternity.

But there are still those 
who say, "We four and no more," unfortunately.

He sits at the bedside of the dying.
The room fills with quiet.
It is as if everyone is meditating —
personal yet communal not private.

The peace that passes understanding
emanates through the room.
She waits patiently for the moment of handing
herself to that which is coming soon.

He gently kisses her forehead.
He feels her soft breath like a zephyr.
Loved ones rise and gather at the bed.
Then her breathing stops altogether.

They say goodbye and know,
at that exact moment,
into the fulfillment of love,
she lets go.

As the funeral director
offered the closing
remarks with hands
folded as in prayer
and a pleasant smile,
he looked to the back
with a nod. No sooner
had the guests stood
and began making their
way past the casket
to the reception line,
two, dark suited men
began folding the
chairs. By the time
the line was done
the room was
empty except for
the flowers, which
the funeral director
instructed the men
to carry outside.
The procedure
was quick, efficient.
It was as if the
funeral had never
happened.

For years now we have been
crawling up where the sun
don’t shine. Plutocracy posing
as Democracy, white anger at

what they see as encroach-
ment by vermin — not the
Deplorables but the Despicables
simply by skin and who they

love, and lackey, kiss-ups
just wanting to keep a cushy
job with a thousand perks not
available to the Leftbehinds

who are told over and over and
over that their grievances are
legit and that their savior is
coming wearing a carrot top

and having a really big bum
hole, which is there to climb
into for security kind of like
going back to the womb except

that it is putrid and slimy
and gaseous and it isn’t
anything adventurous and
glorious like Jules Verne’s

“Journey to the Center of the
Earth” but rather the bleak,
black hole previously known
as a (Shining) City on a Hill,

which, to be honest and in all
reality, didn’t shine brightly
especially for Native Americans
and heretics, but it made for

great publicity by prejudiced
Puritans and this myth really
has been going on for a long
time except this now isn’t a

myth and it may be a metaphor
but still…it stinks.

She cleaned houses of
the rich and discovered
that the facade doesn’t

match reality. She snoop-
ed and got the scoop:
the rich have problems

that money doesn’t solve,
perhaps creates and, for
sure, complicates. Simp-

lify, simplify, simplify
is not a slogan of the
rich. Complicate, comp-

licate, complicate, ap-
parently, is. The shadow
is hidden in opulence,

but the shadow knows.
A rich young lady said
to her parents, “We sure

look good to others, don’t
we? We sure have them
fooled.” It’s hard work

keeping up appearances,
keeping the secrets,
hiding the incriminating

evidence. But it all
looks real good, so good
most everyone wants it

and gets jealous and re-
sentful when they can’t
have it. Little do they

know. But the housekeeper
knows and sure doesn’t
want it, as she sings

“Simplify, simplify,
simplify” all the way
to her simple, little,

loving home where she
embraces the light
and the shadows.

Old, white guys with pot bellies
Wearing fatigues from an Army
Surplus store and carrying lethal

Weapons are on their way down
To the border with Mexico to
Protect the US of A from women

And children who pose a direct
Threat to the security of the US
Of A. They are accompanied by

Legitimate soldiers ordered by
The (p)-resident as an election
Stunt and now costing millions

Upon millions of dollars as the
Old, white guys and the soldiers
Stand around in the barren

Desert pricking their fingers on
The barbed wire to keep out
The dreaded desperate des-

Perados, meaning the poor,
Desperate walkers who are
Still about a thousand miles

From the US border and the
(P)-resident has forgotten all
About it and is on to some

Other diversionary tactic to
Protect him from the damn-
Ing investigation by the

Special Counsel who just,
As a “By the Book” kind of
Guy, is actually working to

Save the country.