White men are afraid of —
Blacks, browns, yellows, reds, women.
They are running scared
And doing everything they can
To stop the future in its tracks
But the engine is roaring and
The salvation train is about to
Be on its way, leaving the station,
So, white men, get on board
Or be left standing at the station
Missing the wind, water, solar-powered transportation
While you were expecting the
Antebellum, coal-powered, steam engine
Train to take you to Sallman’s salvation.

Predictions are that a storm is coming.
It has started with rain
and there will be increasing wind
and rain turning to lightening,
thunderstorms, hail and ice.
It won’t be nice —
this storm that’s coming.

We live in a region without hurricanes coming,
but now with the storm
tornadoes will take aim
whipping up chards of ice.
It won’t be nice —
this storm that’s coming.

Get inside to avoid what’s coming;
bar the doors;
lock the shutters;
head for the basement.
Watch out for razor-sharp, flying ice.
It won’t be nice —
this storm that’s coming.

Storms grow out of westerly winds coming
but this storm comes from eastern regions.
From Washington D.C. come fiery blasts —
across the states —
they are traveling fast
along the way, turning to deadly discs of ice.
It won’t be nice —
this storm that’s coming.

We have two of organs so many —
With one of the two I can get by,
but can’t without any,
so, with just one eye
I can still see the sky,
one ear to hear,
and with one kidney I can get by,

but there is only one liver
and the thought of a fatty liver
makes me shiver and,
like the liver, quiver.

So I have to watch my intake of booze
and so many fatty foods
or that one liver I may lose.

I don’t want to be the guy
a new used liver to buy
but neither do I want to die.
So how am I to get my high?
Hurray! Legal marijuana I now can buy.

But I can’t smoke;
my asthma will make me choke
and that’s no joke.

So, I have to learn to bake;
then sky-high brownies I can make.
And as I think all about life,
doesn’t it all just take the cake?
Making do and getting by
still add up to a life so rife.

A fellow poet asked, “How are
your paraprosdokians doing?”
I wondered how he knew I had
just visited my urologist.

My wife, looking down at my typing
on the computer, said, “You have
a very large font there.” I said,
“Thank you, dear. Chalk it up to
healthy paraprosdokians.”

So I said to the two male clerks in their mid-
twenties, who had never heard of Henny
Youngman, as I was buying a bottle of vitamins
for guys over fifty, pointing to my wife who was
standing next to me, “Take my wife, please.”
The guys roared; my wife didn’t. Having a captive
audience I knew I was on a roll so I tossed out
three more of Henny’s one-liners which any up-
standing female would label misogynistic. She
did. My wife said, “Call me Miss Ogynistic with
an emphasis on Miss.” The guys continued to
laugh as I hurried after my wife, the love of
my life, “Honey, I was just joking.” “Call me
miss,” she hissed.

The men have gone bonkers,
The men in power have lost their minds,
The men who run state legislatures are insane.
They are passing anti-abortion legislation,
Not because they care about zygotes, embryos and fetuses,
And not because they care about women who they
Are willing to send to jail and providers for life
or die in a hard birth
Or in a back alley butcher shop,
And not because they love Jesus with all their hearts,
Because they don’t, at least not the Jesus of the Gospels,
And, actually, they are not bonkers or insane.
They are simply what they are and are acting in
Complete accordance with who they are —
Neanderthals in suits afraid that females
Will have power over their sperm,
Will be the living embodiments of the woman
Of their worst nightmares — Lorena Bobbitt.
Well, boys, it’s time to stop grunting and thumping
Your chests because you have already emasculated yourselves.
You could be called lots of things, but I will simply
Settle for “cry baby boys,” about whom your mothers may
Have made the wrong choice.

She rode the bumper of his car for
a few miles of the two-lane road —
discourteous, rude — she placed

his car so close in front of her in jeop-
ardy. Maybe, in anger, hit the brakes.
There was nowhere to pull aside,

just abide and take a deep breath
while the driver drove on. She parked
right next to him in the parking lot of

the grocery store. She got out, seem-
ingly oblivious to the identity of the car
next to her instead of directly in front of

her. How could she not recognize it? He
watched her walk to the store. He wanted
to confront her, tell her what a rude driver

she was but there was something vulnerable
about her, a waifish woman in somewhat
shabby clothes. She was unkempt. She

moved fast like she drove. He watched
her move rapidly through the aisles
grabbing this and that. His anger soft-

ened to something akin to pity. What was
going on with her? Why the hurry? Why the
lack of awareness of her surroundings and

the danger that unawareness posed? He
watched her drive away and he found
himself, of all things, wishing her well,

hoping she resolved what was going on,
and that she would be more aware,
thoughtful and present. Then, in his

mind, he shouted, “Slow down, lady!”

With all the craziness in politics,
he just wants to forget it
and go camping
but he needs cooperative weather.
Can three good days of weather
be strung together
or will he be tethered
to crazy politics
and uncooperative
Upper-Midwest weather
forever?

He told a newcomer to the area
that if she wanted to know what
the typical Tulip Time visitor was
like, it was someone who was
really disappointed when the
Lawrence Welk Orchestra stop-
ped appearing and that was
just a couple of years ago while
Lawrence himself left this earth
twenty-seven years ago five
days from now and one week
after the 2019 Tulip Time Fest-
ival, one of the largest festivals
in America, ended.

The market is down,
                        way
                           down,
 
but on the more cynical side,

      it is just

      momentary,

because this provides a
  great opportunity,

(perhaps initiated by)

for the ten to buy like crazy

     momentarily…

allowing the masses to breathe
   a little better,
  in their naivety,

until the 
      next time 
         the market

                    plunges
    for the benefit of

(and, perhaps, by the manipulation of)

the very few at the expense of the
                                   M

                                     A

                                       N

                                         Y.