We take the dog for walks
along Main Street on Saturdays.
Shoppers stop and ask if they
may pet our chocolate lab. “Oh,
of course. We actually aren’t
dog lovers. We got him so people
would stop and talk to us. We
don’t have any friends.” They
look at us with cocked heads and
a quizzical look on their faces
and then say, “Oh, you are such a
kidder.” We then move on to the
next person who wants to pet the
dog and I wait to be called “The
Kidder.” Apparently, the dog
loves the attention.

I thought about the clouds that gathered —
coming together everywhere,
and then I thought about the sun’s despair
at not showing forth here, there.

The rains came like sheets so silken rare
brought over mountainous air
into valleys and plying Polo’s wares,
costing more than gold’s cold stares.

It fell upon the dry and hardened ground
sinking in and then
causing havoc in its wake running around
the streets and in washes up and down.

The clouds dispersed and left the wind
to gather floods drawing
them into places without such dangerous fun
while all celebrated the return of the sun.

Fifty percent of American Christians
believe that the poor are poor because
they are lazy
and it must make Jesus crazy,
because their Lord was born poor,
lived with the poor
and urged his followers to care for the poor
who were the victims of the powers that be,
so, how can this be?
Compassionless, selective readers of the Proverbs
they must be,
deniers of the prophets and
deaf to the beatitudes
and parables they surely be.
It’s just crazy.
It’s called apostasy
and those purveyors of heretical
“individual salvation in Jesus Christ”
believers don’t even know
what that may be
or even that they be guilty.
American Christianity is just crazy.

He dropped his spare, rearview mirror
Which attaches to his glasses so he can
See behind him as he is riding his bike.
He heard a voice call to him as he walked
His bike down the sidewalk, “Hey, you
Just dropped this,” said the Latino.
“Oh, thanks. It must have dropped out
Of my bike bag. Thank you.” As the
Latino walked away, he said, “Have a
Nice day.” The cyclist thought about
The Good Samaritan in a small way.

How can the White House Press Secretary,
an evangelical, Southern Baptist devotee,
devote time defending the slime
that issues forth from the president’s mouth all the time?
For her lies upon his lies, does she ever repent?
Or does she think she’s fine because one day she’ll be heaven-bent?
Do her actions now not count,
believing the truth she can just flaunt?
Will someone please send her the Ten Commandments,
so she can look up numbers three and nine,
about her taking the Lord’s name in vain and
her bearing false witness time after time?
Perhaps, she should speak with her dad, the preacher.
He may have a few things to teach her,
or maybe not.
When he campaigned for office, he probably lied a lot.
Perhaps they should convert and make for the confessionals
and stop their corrupt ways as political professionals.

The heating and cooling guy
was coming at eight; Six forty-
five a.m.; he wasn’t sleeping
anyway; bad dreams; night-
mares; images of his cruelty
to the innocent and helpless,
a life of brutality. Then his
wife said, “It’s August.” Of
course, August, when death
occurred.

The micro-brewery is located in an old
bank building. The vault has pennies
embedded in the floor. The safe’s

door is left open, of course, and people
can sit in there sipping their brews and
straining to see the dates on the coins.

The brewery is named Fetch and the
vacationers just knew the owners were
dog lovers. Excitedly, they sat at the

bar and told the bartender that they,
too, were dog lovers, especially lab
lovers. The bartender just smiled at

them. “So, the owners are dog lovers.
We are, too.” “I don’t think they have
a dog. I don’t think they have anything

against dogs, but I have never thought
of them as dog lovers.” “But the name –
Fetch; surely they are dog lovers as in

‘Fetch, boy, fetch.’” “Actually, a fetch
is a kind of wave that is generated by
wind blowing in a constant direction.

They are water lovers; they have a sail-
boat named Fetch and sometimes when
they are riding a fetch, they will say,

‘Fetch, boy, fetch.’ This is a seaside
town. People love their boats.” “Right.”
The couple wandered off to the bank

vault to sip their brews and count pen-
nies and strain to see the dates and
make sure the bank vault door doesn’t close.

The commentator said that the
comments didn’t pass the “smell”

test let alone any kind of “smile”
test. Need we mention to whom

the commentator was referring?
Right, the one who can’t pass a

“lie detector” test nor the “vile
with or without a smile”

test.

He sits on Swedish granite
     staring at the train that slowly 
passes. He wonders if she will 
     come up and sit on the slab of 
Swedish granite, too, or if she 
     will continue the contrariness 
she practiced so well for all 
     those years they sat on wooden
chairs, leaned on a wooden 
     table in the kitchen and smelled 
her mother’s homemade bread
     back before the chemicals 
crept inside the wheat seeds
     to stay even longer than she will 
stay obstinately beneath the 
     Swedish granite headstone he 
picked out because of his 
     heritage. Maybe she’s angry 
because of the granite. Is there 
     a variety of Dutch granite? 
Would she come sit next to 
     him then and watch and listen 
to the train moving slowly 
     past the cemetery, just the 
two of them with an 
     uneasy peace, still?

It was a wet winter in the desert
blushing forth in beautiful blooms
along the hills and on the mountains
as spring unfolded in the sunshine.
But the omen came: watch out for
a dry summer; all that vegetation
will wither into kindling for camp-
fires of giants to spread from north
to south, east to west and then the
monsoons and soon there will be
the instantaneous roar of dead timber
and debris rushing through the canyon’s
swimming holes and the snakes, coyotes,
javelina and bears will watch the
carnage from above the fray high in
the hills that predicted, fateful
day.