The carnival is in town.
All the junk food trucks, too
— elephant ears, fat balls
Italian beef and sausage
from which to choose.
At the sausage I did gaze
and I was taken back in time
to my adolescent days
and a sausage sandwich
for a buck and a dime —
no onions please,
but don’t forget the peppers
and that delicious bun to squeeze.
And so, I caved
and bought the Italian
sausage sandwich I craved.
Lord, have mercy, how time flies.
The sandwich was five bucks
without fries.
They held the onion,
loaded it with peppers.
I watched the juice soak through the bun.
I turned and asked my wife
if she wanted one.
“No, dear,
you can have all the fun.”
I took a bite
and to my high school time
I had a flight.
“Hey, kid, that will be a buck and a dime.”
A little short on change,
I asked, “Hey, buddy, could you spare a dime?”
My buddy said, “Just this one time.”
So, I got the dime
and they cut the sandwich in two.
I said to my buddy,
“Half’s for you.”
He didn’t hesitate
in taking that sausage with peppers, too
and said,
“You can have a dime anytime.”
Just then it started to rain
and my wife tapped at my trench.
“Let’s go before you’ll
be looking for a root beer float
and we get drenched.”

Oligarchy, plutocracy and kleptocracy,
Ah, that’s the life for me —
rule by the few,
rule by the rich,
rule by those who steal,
what a wonderful life that would be.
Yes, I’m one of the sixty-million strong
who you all say got it wrong,
but an oligarch, plutocrat and kleptocrat
soon I will be.
The Donald promised me.
I am just one misfortune
from having my own fortune.
I’m gonna be one of them one percenters
with bags of money on each knee;
Just you wait and see.
Again I’ll vote for him
before a short stay in pauper’s prison.
Yes, I’m one of the sixty-million strong,
but, I’m beginning to wonder;
did we get something wrong?

The Attorney General, the high-
est law enforcement officer in
the country, not only didn’t
tell the truth

but responded to the question,
“How low can you go?” with
“What, me worry?”

“When we’ve been there ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’ve first begun.”

Oops, we’re not there.

No grace here.

Wrong song, wrong 10,000.
That’s 10,000 lies plus the
general’s one is the song sung.

Did he get that straight from
the crooked Oval office?
“That’s all, folks.”

Well, try to stand up against
an injured, decorated, war hero
Marine whose reputation is
at stake.

It’s Happy Hour. Integrity, anyone?

The truth, by the book, will come
out in spite of your “obstruction of
justice,” General.

Th, th, th, that ain’t all,
folks.

The poem was titled Miscegenation.
Webster called it the mixing of the
races. There is no mixing of the races —
just mixing of ETHNICITIES. When are
we going to stop this unscientific/emotional/
biased/bigoted/prejudiced approach to
unmindful segregation/ separation/making
distinctions based on nothing other than
skin tone? I have watched how black women
have come into their own, into their beautiful
skin tone. I have envied black men for how
beautiful they are in their shaved heads. Let’s
mix it all up. I love mocha. Let’s affirm all
ethnic colors while getting a little closer to
Jesus’ color, to the beautiful skin tone of
eternity.

Nowhere is now here.
Everywhere is ever-(y/w)-here.
Nowhere/everywhere.
You/we here — now.
Erehwon.

*Erehwon was a Midwest outdoor equipment shop I
used to visit in Chicago. Their motto was Erehwon
is Nowhere Spelled Backwards. I thought that was
pretty clever. I still have a poster from their store
of a mountain lion crossing an arch in what is probably
Arches National Park. The business is now called Uncle
Dan’s. A line from a Richard Rohr meditation triggered
my thinking and reminded me of the name Erehwon, which
easily could become a religious metaphor — another name
for God? The poem started out as a haiku and then got
a little wordier.

The rabbi got shot in the index fingers
in the terror attack. A brave woman step-
ped in-between the rabbi and the gun-
man and took a bullet for her spiritual
guide. She died. She is a hero. A friend
called her a true Eshet Chayil, a Woman
of Valor. The rabbi ran and gathered all the
little kids together in a safe place. He’s a
hero, too. According to his testimony, he
didn’t even realize his fingers had been
injured when he gathered the kids. Adrena-
line will do that. He felt bad that his little
granddaughter had to see him bleeding and
screaming. Strange, the things you think of
later. The rabbi must feel very lucky to be
alive. I wonder if he will suffer survivor’s
guilt. Also, losing fingers can’t be an easy
thing to deal with on down the line. I knew
a man who lost just one finger in a work
accident. That missing finger bothered him
for the rest of his life. He would rub the
place where the finger used to be. The rabbi
was shot in both index fingers. I guess he’s
feeling pretty fortunate. Still, losing fingers
can’t be very easy. I wonder when the
adrenaline wore off and the pain set in.
Such courage. I can’t even imagine. I can’t
even imagine losing one finger let alone two.
What will the rabbi think of when the wounds
to his hands have healed? Will he rub the
places where his fingers were and if so, what
other wounds will he ponder and massage?

Trump has done it.
Are you proud of yourself, Donald?
Trump has given permission.
Are you proud of yourself, Donnie?
Trump has embraced the ugly.
Are you proud of yourself, little Don-Don?
Trump has encouraged violence.
Are you proud of yourself, baby boy?
Trump has welcomed evil.
Can you hear me from the womb, unnamed one?
Trump has unleashed the Devil.
Can you hear me, gleam in your bigoted father’s eye?
Might it have been better for everyone, if you
hadn’t done the deed and sown the seed, Fred?
Can you hear me?

Winter’s will held fast
with snow upon the dune grass.
Spring’s sun will out last.

They laugh now, derisively,
sneeringly, among them-
selves and because every-
thing is seen, they are seen.
They don’t look happy,
just smug, out doing one
another with vitriol toward
those not welcome — masking
ignorant fear. KIP, Knowledge
is Power, not over others as
they would have it, but self.
One day, it is said, they in
the clique will see and their
tears of laughter will turn
in knowledge to tears of
sorrow and regret and then
they will see the warm, wel-
coming smile of eternity and
it will be the face of the
other.

When I was sixteen and came
home from school I usually
found my father sitting in the
living room smoking. Then
one day I walked into the
living room and he was on
the sofa. He wasn’t asleep.
He sat up and said, “I need
to have you drive me to the
hospital. I think I’m having
a heart attack.” He was.
He stayed in the hospital
for over a week. I remember
visiting him once during that
time. He lived another year
never fully recovering and
then one day he died — gone.
I feel bad to this day that I
didn’t visit him more often
when he was in the hospital.
He would have liked that.
If it had been reversed,
he would have visited
me often, but that is
what fathers do — that
and forgive their un-
thoughtful children.