Voices clamor down and out,
stupid sounds shout
over the airwaves.
It’s what the media craves
for bucks upon bucks
CBS says, “Oh, shucks.
It may not be good for
America, but our
profits are up and up.”
Yes, while the country
goes down and out
and maybe even belly up.

The world is too much with us
late and soon;
stop the world I want to get off
before noon
and be far from the madding crowd
before a blue moon
in time.

Listening to the news and all
the silliness and scariness of this
year’s politics, all these pop into
his mind.

He encounters a couple he knew
long ago and they tell him a certain
hymn was sung on Sunday and
what came to mind

was his late wife’s memorial
service during which the hymn,
her favorite, was sung. Uneasy
with masculine language of time,

he still tears up when thinking of
the wise and comforting words for
every day and time while humming
each line:

1. This is my Father’s world,
and to my listening ears
all nature sings, and round me rings
the music of the spheres.
This is my Father’s world:
I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
his hand the wonders wrought.

3. This is my Father’s world.
O let me ne’er forget
that though the wrong seems oft so strong,
God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world:
why should my heart be sad?
The Lord is King; let the heavens ring!
God reigns; let the earth be glad!

I just read that
Bach drank thirty-

six cups of coffee
a day and then I

understood why Bach’s
music moves so fast.

I heard in college
English that Balzac

drank himself to
death on coffee

but I can’t hear
how fast he wrote

the words. I wonder
if Balzac committed

slow suicide by
coffee, making his

brain move faster
and faster and

faster till it
was the little

engine that could-
n’t? Maybe it helped

Bach father lots
and lots of kids

really fast. Maybe
he was composing

his feisty fugues
fueled by the

caffeine at
conception.

Considering both
alternatives,

I think I’ll
pass on the

next cup of
coffee.

The man sat docile, slumped
in the soft, leather
recliner, feet

on the ottoman staring at
a laptop computer
perched pre-

cariously on his ample lap.
Then, seemingly out
of nowhere, he

shot out of the chair, holding
the computer in one
hand, waving it

violently like an awkward axe
and spewed forth
a barrage

of profanity aimed at the
man’s host who sat dumb-
founded and

shocked at the outburst of
his friend. Moments
later nothing,

a return to docility, passivity —
nothing but everything
and then again, in

a much greater sense — nothing.
The host plays it over
and over trying

to get it straight, right,
something after
asking,

“What?” and again, “What?”
The friend gives
nothing. The

friend’s wife offers a salvo
to hopefully save some-
thing, “Oh, he gets

this way.” The passive/aggressive
way? The host never saw
the demon coming.

He’ll be watching.

It wasn’t the Southwest
but it was the wild west
on the southwest side
of the city. On Memorial
Day we remember those
who made the ultimate
sacrifice on behalf of
the nation. Those who
died on the southwest
side on Memorial Day
died to honor the NRA.
They just should
have walked away.

she must be
a___________real_____ly
good .poet
her poetry has bro-
ken lines, periods
out of pl.ace,
sometimes significant space
between_________________________words
and sex, lots and
lots of talk .of sex
she’s pretty popular
and get.s good
re views
but makes a living
as a lawyer, which
makes sense be
cause lawyers
ob fu scate? too
cryptically, really
but don”t write about sex
much on the job
or if they do,
nobody understands it
and would have to hire another lawyer to ……..decifer
so lawyers make good poets…
……..seeming .ly and make a lotlotlotlot?
more .mon.ey

A beach cottage, a hike up and
down the dune to the Big Lake,
with dune grass, red and white
pines, a pond, a water fall and a
silent pump in the pond to keep
the water moving and the gold
fish flipping fins and every day,
including today, Memorial Day
and every other holiday, engines
running, gas fumes rising, alien
grass growing and being cut so
that suburbia can reign here
where we have our own brand
of invasive species — neighbors.

Our chocolate lab must
have had a rough
life in his former life —

not abused because he
is so gentle, but neglected
for sure — broken foot,

torn ACLs, elbow dysplasia
turned so arthritic two out
of three vets thought he

had cancer. He’s on
heavy-duty drugs for the
pain and yet he tells me

that he thinks he has
died and gone to heaven
just in the way he sits,

stares at me and, period-
ically, ever so slowly
and sweetly lowers his

eyelids. The vet says
it’s love; it isn’t be-
cause of the drug.

The preacher, dressed in red, white and blue
against his brown skin and bald pate,
shouts the way of salvation from his
balcony just down the street from

the man’s house. The house next door to his
house has cardboard covered windows
and the patches of grass front and back
haven’t seen a lawn mower in forever.

It’s three a.m. and a round of six shots
is heard on the street in front of the
man’s house. Next day someone said it was
the Preacher who, apparently, was

just out for target practice without any
particular target in sight in light of the
street light. The observer said the
Preacher stood his ground, this time

with a red, white and blue cowboy hat
on, spread his legs, bent his knees and
supported the gun with his other hand.
The man wonders, Who is the observer,

target practice without any particular
target in mind under the light post
that did shine. If others saw anything,
they ain’t sayin’.

The wind blows from the west.
It brings crisp, spring air.
I walk this day without a care.
Would you like to hike with me?

White caps slap the shore.
Dune grass undulates like wheat.
Sand squeaks beneath my feet.
Would you like to hike with me?