He flips through the

glossy pages of

emaciated boy-toys who,

the day before the shoot,

probably hung

around corners, but for

the shoot are

wearing gazillion dollar

pants, underpants,

shorts, shirts, suits, boots,

big, big boots, and

dress-like

things that hang off

skinny, bony shoulders

seemingly,

seductively alluring

elderly men who fondle

the slick, slippery pages

on a Sunday morning;

clunky, fat-soled

leather shoes in a circle

on the page ranging in price

from $495 to $1495 either

clockwise or counter clock-

wise; a big, strong,

beautiful, blond, woman

athlete

staring straight

out from the page

almost defiantly at

those same old men;

a story of black

market trade in

dead, taxidermied, all

gussied up, heading for

extinction, rare animal

species

who will find a home

on floors,

pedestals and

walls of dark paneled

rooms almost never

entered for fear

of discovery, except

once in a while,

by men who feel

sexual arousal in

the anticipation of

just turning the

door knob;

and then, right,

smack-dab

in the middle of all

the garishness and

tawdriness, which

cost a tree or

two their lives,

a lovely, little poem of

a family picnic on

a sunny, summer

afternoon.

It’s everywhere

today

not just yesterday,

local, tribal deities

proliferate

justifying

local, tribal wars

of hate.

St. Paul got the

big picture in

verse after verse

pointing to

an all connected

universe,

not just light

from above

but transcendent

and immanent

selfless love,

so though

wars and rumors

persist,

take heart,

keep faith,

do not evil resist,

follow Jesus, the

Buddha, Lao

Tzu,

other

messengers,

and poets

too,

care not

to survive

but in the love of

the Cosmic Christ

abide.

Sometimes he is so excited

to put pen to paper

and drop a thought on a line

before it’s just a vapor

and forget a thought so fine;

to the computer he does rush

before his brain is total mush

and types a relatively

coherent rhyme.

“Time after time

I tell myself that I’m

so lucky to be loving

you,” he hums and

sings loving the rhyme

and thinks

he’s a man,

out of time,

belonging to a

time

of sweet, romantic

jazz, lyrics one

can understand

and tears of mercy and

forgiveness and the

sweet, sweet love of

a wonderful

woman.

St. Paul took aim at Pax

Romana tickling Caesar

in the soft spot

below the breast-plate and

belt and just above the

mail protecting his member

and said to the Roman church,

Gird up your loins with

truth, (not Caesar’s, baby –

the un-truth of terror, but

the truth of self-sacrificial

love, the power of the

Cosmos)…take the breast-

plate of righteousness

(not just right livin’, baby,

but justice livin’,

not just about you

not misbehavin’

but about

you collectively livin’

justly with others)…put

on the shoes of peace (not

Caesar’s pox of no-peace

on people,

but the peace that passes

the

warring world’s under-

standing,

the kind the world doesn’t

get or want,

apparently,

the peace between me and

thee — the peace that

refuses to fight and turns

the other

cheek and says, “Go ahead;

hit me with your open fist,

sir, not the back of your hand

and show the world that

I’m your equal,”

and gives the coat,

and puts clothes on the naked,

visits the prisoners, feeds the

hungry, tends to the sick

and sings, “I ain’t gonna study

war no more.”)

…take the shield of faith

(that lets you lay down

your sword and shield of

steel down by the riverside

and open your heart

and arms, not that which

harms, in courage)…take

the helmet of salvation (not

Caesar’s salvation, which

subjects the subjects but

which lifts up life over

death

and destruction) and

pray, pray, pray not

slay, slay, slay.

And the Roman Church

shouted, “Jesus, the poverty

stricken, peace lovin’, itinerate

preacher, teacher,

healer is

our Lord and Savior,

not Caesar,”

who lay on

the ground still laughin’

from St. Paul’s ticklin’ stick

and he couldn’t get up

because of all

that heavy

armor.

Don’t yield,

don’t buckle,

don’t be goaded

by the sheep in wolves’

clothing, trying to

look and talk so

tough, the hawkish

chickens clucking all

around the senate floor

and on all the Sunday

morning news shows

leaving little white and

black sticky piles

behind.

Don’t inhale the

histoplasma

rising up

in the house. Out

fox the foxes who

want to invade

the hen-house

again, and again

and again and

again.

Don’t put your

cojones

on the chopping

block.

Don’t let the

foolish farmers

in the smelly

barn snip, clip and

singe you only

to have you

run back to

the litter and

get crushed

when the sow

rolls over on you.

Just

hang tough.

Don’t cross your

legs like limbs

on a bush.

Keep the peace.

Don’t be a pox

on the house

by seeking Pax

Romana, that

which shatters

life and limb

to pieces

and burns

down the

barn.

Curly surely

hates it

when words

are spelled

correctly

but are

the wrong

words

and he doe-

sent

sea it.

Sum-

times

he doesn’t

see it for

days. He’ll

read

a poem

he rote

from

a few

daze back

and sea

“break”

for “brake,”

for ex-

sample.

So what’s

he sup-

hosed

to make

of it?

He kneads

a leg up on

it.

Em-bare-

assed?

Shirley!

A reput-

ation at

steak?

He’ll

sea it in

another

day or

too.

Sooner or

later, it’ll bee

OK

or may-

bee

even grate!

The trout up-chucked four small pieces of pink

plastic before giving up the ghost in

the shallows of a stream

flowing through town. The dog romping through

the sand in pursuit of a Frisbee stepped

on a hypodermic needle,

was taken to the vet for blood poisoning ultimately

losing the paw but saving the leg. The

whale tried to flap its fins

but the fishing line entwining its body held the fins

flat as the whale sank to the bottom and

drowned. Plastic’s progenitor

spills into the now diseased lungs of dolphin in the Gulf

and sea turtles search for a home they can’t

see beneath the sludge. McGuire: “I

want to say one word to you. Just one word.”

Benjamin: “Yes, sir.” Mr. McGuire:

“Are you listening?”

Benjamin: “Yes, I am.” Mr. McGuire: “Plastics.”

Benjamin: “Exactly how do you mean?”

Mr. McGuire: “There’s a great

future in plastics. Think about it.

Will you think about it?”

How will he survive? How will he make it?

How does he go on — a head-on crash from

a car going in the wrong direction across a

divided interstate highway?  What small talk

were they making? Surely they were old

enough and married long enough not to be

arguing about inconsequential things, it

can only be hoped about those last mom-

ents. Were they going to a medical appoint-

ment in the big city or a big night on the town

from their little town? Did they have those

“Little Town Blues” and yearn for the bright

lights of Broadway to help melt them away

for a night? She died, and if there is anything

for which to give thanks, pain-free, apparently,

hopefully. He remains in serious condition but will

survive, the serious people in white coats say. Will

this vibrant, energized, fighter for justice, so young

for his eighty years ever thrive let alone survive in

so short a time left?  Kyrie Eleison.

On a Sunday Morning, from the pet friendly

motel parking lot, the two jogged with their

Chocolate Lab on the sidewalks along an

industrial park and massive auto auction

corral with silent mustangs, cougars, jaguars,

rams, impalas and strange animals like camrys,

corollas and beemers. It was quiet except for

the joggers’ breathing, foot (paw) steps and

shouts at the dog while tugging at his leash

when he stopped every tenth of a mile or so

to mark his territory and scrape his feet in

the grass to stir up his scent telling all ladies

near and far that he was there, even without

the family jewels. Lumbering eighteen

wheelers, emerged from nowhere,

trying to wake up and shake off the

dust of the weekend, shifted up and

down heading out for places like Newark

and Las Cruses. As brakes squealed, the dog

almost tripped the joggers as he stopped

and, in fear, scooted away from the roar.