It’s Mother’s Day and a thousand children
have been separated/torn from the arms
and hands and hearts of their mothers
at the border of hell. Why not just
push little hands through the vagina
into the womb and tear those babies out?
Then, at least, the babies wouldn’t know.
Where are those babies? Where are those
mothers? They cannot be seen but only
heard in the shrieks of horror, in the
whimpers of abandonment, while hyenas
cackle and the devouring dragon roars.
Why not just spit them up, dragon? Why not
throw them back, dragon? Let their
broken bodies and broken spirits reach
for each other in the searing sands;
let them embrace for one last time
before the fires of the desert incinerate
them, never to be forgotten but to rise
up in the inferno of righteous rage —
a Phoenix — and scorch us all with
guilt and shame in the burning memory
of these mothers and children on this
Mother’s Day, this ever-so-sweet,
Hallmark day.

Because of an e-mail exchange with an acquaintance, I’m now thinking about my late dad, a man with a compassionate heart, a small business owner and moderate Republican, who endorsed the things my acquaintance mentioned were conservative values — balanced budgets, small government, no foreign entanglements.

I think my dad, erroneously, thought all the caring could be done through individuals and on a voluntary basis through non-profits like the church.

Being a “bum” alum having ridden the rails during The Great Depression, he faithfully went to the downtown Chicago missions to preach the gospel to his fellow “bums,” as they stereotypically were called, who had to endure the worship service to get a meal, the goal being that they would walk the sawdust trail and accept Jesus as their personal Lord and Savior — a uniquely, individualistic brand of Christianity more akin to the American ethic of rugged individualism than the covenant gospel. I recall, as a kid, sitting on a folding chair listening to the fellows snore through the mandatory chapel attendance.

Even there for all the good intentions (which I sometimes questioned having met the leaders of the missions and their gruff treatment of those who came for a meal) there were conditions imposed on the needy. Why couldn’t they just offer the meal and bless the boys? As inadequate as that may have been, at least there wouldn’t have been that additional piling on of humiliation.

The problem with striving for those conservative values is that corrupt motives invariably get in the way, which, ever and always, advance the greed of some to the detriment of others, meaning those in society most vulnerable and least able to defend themselves. Small government, code for small domestic programs and a big military budget, inevitably means the safety net is always in danger of being shredded.

Greed leads to fear which leads to BIG defense systems which leads to scapegoating the vulnerable (the poor, the minorities, victims of racism, nativism, jingoism, xenophobia) and labeling them as unworthy welfare moochers when the real welfare moochers are the corporations jostling in line for government handouts in the way of tax breaks /incentives/giveaways which ultimately will bleed the federal and state coffers in lost revenue and benefit the stockholders who then will set outrageous salaries and hand out equally outrageous bonuses and while nothing ever trickles down except contempt for those labelled as unworthy drags on society. This all gets vaunted as the necessary and uniquely American free-enterprise system, something of which every American should be proud and which will solve all economic problems as opposed to vile and corrupt socialism.

John Calvin who helped advance the cause of capitalism emerging from feudalism lived voluntarily a near poverty level life and urged others to do the same so that no one would be left out of the benefits of the system and assisting the vulnerable to  climb up and out so they, too, might participate freely.

I think old Johannes Calvinus was a bit naive for all of his theological and practical and organizational acumen. Unjustly stuck on the fly paper of misinterpretation of depravity, he was, in reality, a bit of a softy who assumed, on occasion, people would voluntarily do the right thing. To his credit, he also believed the government should act justly on behalf of all citizens especially the vulnerable members.

Oh, and back to my dad? He became, in part, a victim of the very system he advocated. The system finally got the small government Republican. The believer in “pulling yourself by your own boot straps” had a heart attack when he was 55 and because he could no longer work in his sole proprietary business as he previously had, income dwindled, there was no safety net for him or his business, insurance policies were cashed in, he sank into deep depression, saw no other way out and took his own life at 56. I was seventeen.

The rain came down cold;
this cold is now very old;
warm blanket — enfold.

He spent his first winter in eight years
in the cold, upper Midwest where he
was born and lived except for a few
months each of those eight years in

Phoenix, the city one writer termed
the place that shouldn’t exist because
it is plunked smack dab in the middle
of the dry, dry desert but does exist

because the whites who settled there
got lucky the Hohokams who preceded
them were smart enough to dig ditches
from the Salt and Snake Rivers so the

village which became a town and then
a huge city could have water because
Phoenix is low and there is gravity.
And it has worked so far….Anyway,

there are many, many folk who were
born and lived in those hot, desert
climes who now live up north by the
Big Lake and he wonders how they can

stand the cold and then he remembers
that they probably at one time or
another lived in Siberia and humans
are pretty good at adaptation, if not

quite as good as cockroaches, rats
and crocodiles, that is until the
water runs out or goes bad. Is that
what happened? You would have to

ask a desert canal builder, if you can
find one. Hohokam means “all used up”
or “those who are gone.” Those who
drink the water from the Big Lake

are getting warning notices. What
will we be called and will anyone
be around to call us something or
will we all be “those who are gone”?

“A dog doesn’t wag its tale for free,” to him said she,
“so what is it you want from me?”
He replied, “So, let me see — a hug, a kiss,
a vow of eternal love
or perhaps all three
and whatever other gift you might be
inclined to give generously?”
“Now, let me see. I will give you all three
if first of all you give me three.”
Excitedly, he said, “Anything for thee,
my dear, just name the three.”
“Sweeping the floor of dog hair,
cleaning the bathrooms and planting
Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds round the old, oak tree.”
“Don’t you want a yellow ribbon round that old, oak tree?”
“Why would I want a yellow ribbon to see?”
“So when I leave, tail tucked between my knees,
you’ll often think of me.
Bye, bye, ma chérie.”

“Know Thyself’ is as old
as the Oracle Delph.
“Embrace Yourself” is on
the self-help book shelf.
“You got more nerve
than an abscessed tooth,”
is actually further proof
that others know you better
than you know yourself.
Such an epithet was
tossed the man’s way
and the man said, “That epithet
will be my epitaph
when people visit me
in the cemetery,”
proving that there is time
for you to come to
“Know Thyself” and “Embrace Yourself”
just before you are placed
on the columbarium shelf.

I hear all the bad news of the day
the things the Republicans say are A-okay —
like imposing stiff tariffs
which will bring higher prices
as if anyone cares if
there are any tariffs
and stopping the deal with Iran
so we can get into another war — again and again and again.
I try to ignore all this, first thing in the morning
by reading meditations, my spiritual calling,
and then some poems, some I understand
and others I read before embarking on things planned
like doing last night’s dishes, making coffee,
jogging and then thinking America is on a
flight kamikaze.
It’s all quite disturbing
with an unknown ending,
so I’ll just read a mystery
and try to get a good night’s sleep
and hope for another morning
and wait for my meditations
appearing on my computer the next morning,
assuming there will be a next morning.

The man’s dad had been a three-pack-a-day
Chesterfield smoker who had a heart attack

when he was 55 and died when he was 56.
One day, after the man had gotten home

from high school when he was a teen, he
encountered his dad sitting in the living

room looking out the big, bay window, in-
haling deeply and obviously appreciatively

on but another of his unfiltered, chain-of-
love sticks. It was after one of those long,

deliriously deep draws, that he exhaled
seemingly forever and then said, “Don’t

ever take up smoking, my dear son. It is
a low-down, filthy habit.”

The pond was cleaned,
the pump lifted out,
put in place
along with the skimmer.
A UV light was installed
and plugged in — all in
a pretty darn good
attempt to create the
appearance of a natural
pond and waterfall
for just a few dollars a
month; the gorgeous fish in the
pond — dressed gloriously
in glittering gold,
outrageous orange,
brilliant brown and black
— even one goldfish disguised
coyly as a koi,
all innocently unaware to
be grateful for
their existence, swim
freely, in an artificial
place just right
for their size,
unaware also that they
look infinitely
better than the attendees
of the Met Gala
who also undoubtedly are
unaware, but not innocently,
to be grateful
for their existence
in another fishbowl.

In celebration of the bi-
centennial of the birth of
Karl Marx, the man would pen

a note to the board of the
beach association stating
that the rules and regulations

for beach use are petty and
bourgeois and reflect a board
made up of the petite bour-

geoisie and the oppressor
rich and therefore, the pro-
letariat in the beach assoc-

iation should rise up in Marxist
revolt, but his wife reminded
the man that he is middle-class

and retired on a fixed income
so he is the very definition
of the petite bourgeoisie. With

that the man decided to go to
the beach alone as a true believer
and drink a PBR to Marx and

to Cinco de Mayo when the
Mexican army defeated the in-
vading French in 1862, an event

hardly celebrated at all in
Mexico but a wildly popular day
in America for reasons almost

completely unknown to most
Americans and it is now a fact
that it is the day the most

beer is consumed in celebration
of an event about which almost
nothing is known and hardly

anyone cares except the petite
bourgioisie has an excuse
to drink lots of beer without

the due appreciation of Mexico’s
victory, and so the man hoisted
his bottle to the rise of the

proletariat and the victory of
the Mexican army when behind
the man a voice was heard

to say with the scariness of
the Gestapo, “No glass bottles
are allowed on the beach.”