The man had a disturbing dream.
He finally recognized that his
two adversaries, obstructionists

to his progress were his own
parents. His father obstructed
by turning away and not being

helpful at all; his mother by
constantly interfering in a most
negative and obnoxious way.

His father disappeared and his
mother just sat obstinately in
a chair while the man shook her

vigorously. A woman in the
neighborhood liked the man’s
bicycle and wanted the buy it.

The man said no. The dream
moved down the street. The
man was following a group of

people from the neighborhood
and he was looking for one
person in particular, a woman

of mysterious identity who slid
off the road and entered a nether-
world. In the man’s pursuit of

the woman, he met an old friend
who, in life, had become a hermit
of sorts before his death. In

the dream, the old friend had
everything he had in life —
a TV, computer, a website and

a blog. Then the man saw in a
dark, dank, shadowy corner, three
emaciated men. One had been

flayed and he was recovering
from a blood-letting into a pot.
The second man was being strung

upside down by he third man who
began the blood-letting into the
pot by flaying the bound man.

The man heard the bound man say
he enjoyed giving blood and then
the man heard the screams as he

left the underworld and awoke
without ever encountering the
mysterious woman. The man

decided it was better to get up
rather than remain in bed sweating
and tossing and turning. The man

recalled having cut his thumb on
a cheese knife and having just
seen a biography of Edgar Allen

Poe. Ah, the man thought, —
all the sins of omission and
commission and lasting effects.

Some say that to save the environment, we must live “simply,”
but by whose definition?
For some, “simply” sounds like “Darling, you look simply
marvelous in that new dress by so and so.”
For others, “simply” could be a rustic, 300 sq. ft. cabin
in the woods with no electricity or plumbing and an outhouse
the contents of which would be treated with lye.
Some say, crowding together in urban environments, sharing
spaces and going up rather than out is the way to save the
environment.
For others, “simply” would be another word for “modest,”
which, of course, has the same number of interpretations
and meanings as “simply.”
Some say hybrid cars in a transition to electric.
Some say electric cars dirty the environment by plugging
into the grid powered by coal.
Some say “solar.”
Some say “hydropower.”
Some say “wind.”
Some say ride a bike.
Some say take the bus.
Some say take the train.
Some say walk.
Some say “recycle.”
Some say it is way beyond individual efforts and that governments
and industry and corporations need to work together on solutions
before the tipping point of no return on global warming.
Some say there is no such thing as global warming.
Some say there is but it is caused by normal evolutionary processes.
Some say there is no such thing as evolution.
Some say, “Do what you want, because God will save us from disaster.”
Some say, “Do what you want because it is over.”
Some say under their breath, “I do what the lobbyists tell me.”
Some say, “What? Me worry?”
Some say, “I make things happen.”
Some say, “I watch things happen.”
Some say, “What happened?”

How did I know south, north, west and east
growing up on flat Chicago streets?
I knew the sunrise over the big lake was east;
now in Michigan, the sunset over the big lake is west;
when I am out in the West, so wild and woolly,
mountains give the directions best.
Unless I’m on the coast far west,
where the ocean offers the direction west best.
And so, I am never lost, because, you see,
I now know south, north, west and east.
I know I know my directions best.
However, for Christmas, my wife still wants a GPS.

*Gratitude to Gayle Brandeis and her poem
“Feeling East” for the idea.

Some say —
he’s a shark in the sea
stalking his prey,
biting and holding with his razor
sharp, inward pointing incisor.
Some say —
he’s a pit bull, who fights
to the end ever holding his prey.
Some say —
he’s just seeking justice
in his, by the book, way.
The inhabitants of the swamp
are out of sight
and in utter fright.
The (p)resident of the swamp,
is in the fight
for his political
(and public?) life.
Want to take odds on the counsel,
or do you think the (p)resident
will stay?
No, my bet is on the righteous,
relentless, special counsel, not
his pitiful prey.

So teach us to count our days
that we may gain a wise heart (Psalm 90:12).

There was a time I just wanted him to go away;
now I want him to stay but he just might have to go away.
The prospect of immanent death has a way
of waking up the conscience to what one,
in wisdom and courage, must say.

The leaves fluttered
and the colors of the leaves
teased
as they turned and swirled
in the breeze,
but then the jealous northern
winds whipped
and the temperature plunged
and stayed and stayed and stayed
in Michigan for days
and the air turned to a haze
and then the sleet flew
and snows grew
and fall fell in
futility
unlike the autumns of
Kentucky where
zephyr breezes
blew gently through
the trees
and the colors teased
for weeks and weeks
before the first freeze,
which, in its own way,
was not mean and
did not squeeze
the life out of the
trees.
Then winter arrived
and, in Kentucky, it
was wet and people
simply would abide
homebound
and all began
to shiver
with dampness from
the Ohio river.
But in Michigan,
the wind swirled
across the Big Lake
leaving snow upon snow
in its wake — a winter
wonderland it did make
for skiers, sleigh riders
and merry makers.
And so it is, the seasons
have their own reasons
and while one in one space
may offer natural grace,
the other will offer that
grace in another
time and place,
so travel from season
to season from place to place
but if not, make no haste;
be patient; the next season
offers its own grace.

The man’s Swedish immigrant
grandfather was a foreman in an
East Chicago, Indiana steel mill

in 1918 when the soldiers, infected
with the Spanish flu, started coming
back from Europe. The man’s grand-

father caught it and his blood boiled
like the liquid steel in the blast
furnaces of his plant. The man’s father

became an orphan at age thirteen
when the man’s Swedish immigrant
grandfather died from the pandemic.

That unfortunate family history
came to mind as the man’s own
blood boiled just thinking about

the political dysfunction boiling
over and spreading throughout
the country just like boiling

liquid steel pouring out of the
man’s Swedish immigrant grand-
father’s East Chicago, Indiana

steel mill blast furnaces. One,
a personal, family tragedy haunt-
ing the man through the years.

The other, a national tragedy
burning through the fragile fabric
of democracy.

What is scaring Americans 
     so badly right now -- today?
Are whites scared of blacks, 
     browns, yellows and reds?
Something is really exploiting 
     white fear? Could it be that white 
evangelicals believe scientific-
     ally unprovable things to be 
literal, gospel truth and therefore 
     believe anything that comes 
out of the mouth of the parallel 
     universe, fantasyland, “What me
worry” (p)resident is gospel 
     also?  And so it is. How a rational
human goes along with all 
     this is mind-boggling. Maybe 
the precipitating horror is the 
     influx of Middle-Eastern Muslims 
into Northern European society
     as today’s Invasion of the 
Body Snatchers,  --  more browns 
     about which to be afraid, 
afraid, afraid -- the zombie attack,
     seriously? Kill the Muslims to hurry 
along Jesus' parousia. Seriously? 
     Public education as Antichrist's playground. 
It used to be Italians, Irish, Swedes,
     Poles, the Dutch? (They weren’t 
considered much.) Jews, Jews, 
     yes, of course, always the Jews
apparently, sickeningly  so….so? 
     You want to make an issue out 
of it here right now, after which 
     the really scared twenty-something 
skin head, white supremacist 
     reached for something seen really, 
really right now today -- a gun 
     (I’m only kidding.) maybe not
or maybe….

Your good intention was to call out
(p)resident Trump. However, doing so

via your own  mea culpa is not
necessary. That is like writing that

Trump can only be called out for his
documented sexual assaults by admit-

ting to one’s own sexual assaults. We
don’t need to do what the Donald did

to understand how wrong it is and call
him out for it regardless of what one

did or did not do (hopefully did not do).
One doesn’t need to slog through odor-

ous, noxious, sewerage treatment pods
to make the point that one’s life isn’t

pure in order to call out the one who
routinely swims through the sewer.

The brave, bold, fearless
media reporters tell it
like it is by reporting that
maybe, perhaps, kind of,
sort of, not quite sure or
even not that really bad,
or certainly not so bad, or
kind of okay, or possibly
horrible or really just a
passing phase or maybe
there may be some blood,
but not too much even if it
amounts to hundreds or
thousands or tens of thou-
sands or millions of lives
lost or really just a few
accidental deaths or no
deaths at all, perhaps,
maybe, kind of, sort of
probably or probably
not.