Okay, we now have hell on earth
because of the worst hurricane
in recorded history and the soft
porn, faux-news channel hosts
a perky blond interviewing a
perky blond in Florida both
offering Botox, pouty-lipped
sympathy for the truly des-
perate inhabitants of the Keys
and mainland and guys watching
aren’t thinking about the devast-
ation and human misery; they’re
thinking about how much they
would love, in their working class
dreams, to get the celebrity blonds
in bed or at least on their knees
and the executives smile knowing
that for them, that’s just part of
the deal and, oh yeah, it’s really
good for ratings.

She walked along the narrow strip of sand
separating water from a large wall of dune
looking for a potential object d’art or two,
which she hoped to discover soon.
Bending down, she picked up a small piece
of driftwood — a new sculpture to construe.
He watched her eyes as they began to sparkle
and her lips began to form
words in silence and he knew
soon there would be, in the offing,
a sculpture so beautiful, artful, so true.

Just a few minutes before
a lonely man stood on the shore
a beautiful woman appeared on the deck,
He wondered if she would come back.

As the sun continued to set,
she appeared as if out of nowhere.
Was she an apparition on the deck?
No, she looked and smiled; she really was there.

A beautiful woman stood on the deck
looking at the sunset in early September.
What was she feeling on that deck
while observing a dying ember?

Did the fading summer leave her with a hunger
maybe hoping for a wonderfully warm Indian Summer?

One can only hope the
thoughts were filled with wonder
for the beautiful woman who stood on the deck
looking at the sunset in early September.

Ten years ago, on the seventh fairway,
In a game between two old friends,

One said, “I have always felt like an
Outsider.” “And you have always loved

It,” the other one said. And so the one
Has and over time has come to know that

It isn’t outside there; it’s just on the inside
edge from the outside. Someone else

wrote that that’s the place of the prophets.
The one smiled and thought, that’s nice;

I can live there.

*idea from a meditation by Father Richard Rohr

I asked the receptionist if she grew up
in the area. “No, Saint Louis. I left
because of the traffic.” I asked the
woman who guided me back to the

physician’s office if she grew up
in the area. “No, Detroit, actually Novi.
I left because of the traffic.” And my
wife and I? We’re thinking about leaving

Phoenix, our winter home, in part because
of the traffic, and the traffic is even
getting bad around here. What about the
traffic? Too much, too fast, too rude,

too dangerous? The desire for a slower
paced life in a smaller city? The in-
vulnerability and anonymity a seat sur-
rounded by aluminum, plastic and steel

gives so one can get aggressive and let
out all one’s frustrations, anger and
anxiety on the guy next to you, or the
woman ahead of you with the simple press-

ing of a pedal to give one the feeling
of power in a land of powerlessness?
Road rage? All of the above? All of the
above.

Gloss over substance, because you
don’t know the substantive, by
sounding professorial, knowledge-

able, assured — intellectual.
Unfortunately for you, Mister
Strangelove, there are plenty of

people around who know their
history and are setting the record
straight. Oh, you of artificial,

stentorian voice when trying to
make something silly sound plaus-
ible, beware plainspoken President

Lincoln, “You can’t fool all the
people all of the time,” so be happy
with the 38% approval rating your

equally silly former boss gets
and you probably get, because
eventually the interviews will

stop and your crackpot ideas will
fade like your TV makeup fades
revealing all those obscene

blotches of a dissipated life,
and, as always, a little boy
beneath the cake makeup cries,

“Please love me.”

My grandmother’s jowls are now
mine. She was a good woman.
She bore my grandfather six
children, my mother being one
of them. She was a Van Ess from
Zuid Holland, a tall, handsome
people with big, fair-headed,
manes of white hair as I remember
as vs. my grandfather’s Groningen,
short, dark-haired, bald-headed
people. He was a boisterous person;
she was a quiet person. I got more
of my grandfather’s traits except
those little jowls I now see in
the mirror, which remind me
of a sweet, quiet woman who
came from tall, dignified Dutch
people. I wish I’d gotten the
big, fair-headed mane instead
of the jowls.

After a wonderful, leisurely,
ten-mile bike ride, they stopped
at a local micro-brew, chit-
chatted for awhile and drove

home with bikes on the back.
They stood on the balcony look-
ing at the pond and waterfall
and soaking in the sun as it

began to set over the Big Lake.
They sat and watched a travel
show on Brazil and then switch-
ed channels to see what was

happening in Florida as Irma
stormed through. So far, not
as bad as was predicted but
the storm surge is yet to be.

They thought about Arizona,
which is drying up and Florida,
which is drowning and global
warming, which, in time, will

dry up the West and submerge
the coasts, all while they wait
for the Sunday evening Master-
piece Theater productions, and

they give thanks for the middle,
Aristotle’s Golden Mean, even
if their toes get cold and numb
in the winter.

Buddy, why did you have to leave
so soon? I thought we had a pre-
nuptial where you promised to stick
around for three more years until I
was old enough not to get another
dog but now it’s three years too
soon and I have no idea what to
do. Give me a clue. We like the
freedom of not having to get up
so early in the morning to take
you out to do your business and
then feed you, but we miss you so
— the looks of utter, uncondition-
al love, your silken, brown eyes
making us sigh, your wagging tail
telling us how much we could never
fail you, you, you, our beautiful,
loving chocolate lab. If we make
a mistake and stop by the local
humane society as we have three
times before, promise me you won’t
be there to stare into our eyes
with your loving, longing, un-
conditional, beautiful, brown eyes.
Promise, Buddy Baloo? Promise,
beautiful boy? Promise?