“In Tibetan there’s an interesting word: ye tang che. The ye part means ‘totally, completely,’ and the rest of it means ‘exhausted.’ Altogether, ye tang che means ‘totally tired out.’” — Devendra Banhart in an interview with Krista Tippett, On Being

As he read the interview he slowly said the
words ye…tang…che. As he said them he
experienced something like the total…complete…
exhaustion he experienced over and over and
over again: All you who enter into the hell of
the death of a loved one abandon hope… until
he slowly…slowly…ever…so…slowly began to
recall what hope felt like. Then he read the
words, “I’m gonna breathe in all the suffering,
the anger, the pain, the confusion, and I’m
gonna breathe out healing and peace and
wisdom and love and strength. And that helps
me, and it feels like I’m doing something, as
opposed to just taking in all this horror and
sorrow and sorrow,” and so he took a deep
breath and breathed out healing and peace
and wisdom and love and strength into his
coronavirus mask.

Joy In The Morning said,
referencing the Occupant,
“A damaged human being
playing havoc with our lives.”
Many would vote to have
those sentiments as an
epitaph under the Occu-
pant’s portrait as he hangs
in the White House. Oops,
as his portrait hangs there.
Just a slip of the tongue
unfortunately bringing up
images of the clan, white
supremacists and race
based lynchings or may-
be such imagery is ap-
propriate — a lynching
legacy.

The child once pricked her finger
on a thorn.
She looked forlorn
at the blood
and the tears became a flood.
Her mother wiped the blood
from the child’s finger
but the tears did linger.
Who will wipe her tears
through the years
as the child watches fire and flood?

In order to save their sanity
they didn’t watch the news.
It wasn’t discussed; it just
was. After watching several
episodes in a row of a crime
series and finding out how
the cops caught the really
bad guy, the man turned to
his wife and said, “Isn’t it
wonderful to have a day with-
out having to think about all
that’s going on?” Then she
said, “I guess that’s what’s
worrying me— what’s been
going on while we’ve been
trying to save our sanity
and NCIS is saving the world.”

Will it be just another simple French summer
Or will the economy all go away for any number
Of months or years
Confirming all our fears?
Right now
For a while, no one knows how
The economy or anything else will go.

A hundred and five
In Phoenix. Aquifers dry.
Big Lake spills over.

A couple of days without a poem.
I’m writer-less given the utter in-
sanity of life in America right now.
Let’s meditate, let’s breathe deeply,
let’s pray —- constantly. OMG! I
just saw the U.S. Attorney General
William Barr say, “The ones who
get to write history are the winners.”
Did the guy who is supposed to be
all about JUSTICE just say “winners”?
Did I already write OMG! That’s a
nice meditation mantra — OMG,
OMG, OMG…OOOMMMGGG….
The Dalai Lama just e-mailed that
we should drop the G and just go
with the sound not the words —
not Oh My God! Rather Oooommmm.
“Ooookeeedoookeee. Oh my god,
I just saw Adam Shiff, maybe
the smartest member of the
House of Representatives,
say what I just posted. Might
I be so audacious as to mention
that great minds think…and the
meditation would be GMTA —
GREAT MINDS THINK ALIKE, “GGRR-
AATT,” said Tony The Tiger.

His big sister said to run for everything in high school
And so he did and he won some but lost the big one.

It was the same way in college. His fraternity put him
Up for president of the senior class and he became the

Vice President. All those moments were a godsend. He
Never ran for another thing the rest of his life and he

Never had to say, “A vote for me is a vote for you,” and
Be compromised and be tempted and have his integrity

Tested over and over again. Instead, he got to write about
The politicians and all the ways they sell their souls and

Still, his sister wonders why he didn’t get to be the
President of the student council in high school. On her

Significantly advanced senior citizen birthday (It isn’t
Nice to tell a woman’s age.) she let him know-how

Disappointed she was that he didn’t call her when he
Had sent her numerous e-mails and a detailed e-birth-

Day card and he remembered how many times he dis-
Appointed his mother and now his sister and he wishes

She had been a politician so he could write about her
Moral compromises and how she was drummed out of office,

The office he never would have won if he had run to
Which his mother would have said, “Get a job,”

And he has a topic for his therapist, not only mommy
Dearest but sister dearest and mommy dearest and he

Wants to scream, “No expectations/no disappointments.”

He’s watching a 90s romantic
comedy and he’s not even
following the plotline; he’s
just listening to the music
and he tears up thinking
about Henry Mancini and
all the romantic music of
what now seems like such
a romantic era and then it
ends with Louie Armstrong
singing, “I’m in the mood
for love,” and he melts;
he just melts.

The family left the city to
visit family in the country
and he, a fourth-grader, would
go to the one-room schoolhouse
with his relatives. He would
sit and watch the first graders,
second graders, third graders
and so forth around the one room
of an ark in the middle of the
field. One teacher, many students.
He wondered at how smart she
must be to teach it all. Then the
family would leave and he would
go back home to his big, brick
schoolhouse squeezed between
many streets — an ark with many
rooms and many teachers. Years
and years later, he wondered at
the wonderful idea of public
education for all — country kids
and city kids alike all safe in
the arms of the ark of learning.
But look out! The political
storms of straight wind, tornado,
hurricane, blizzard, cyclone,
gale, monsoon, snowstorm, squall,
tempest, twister, whirlwind,
windstorm are beating against
the clapboard and old, worn,
brick sides of what we once
thought was the unsinkable ark
of learning for all.

*“Education is our only political safety.
Outside of this ark, all is deluge.” —
The father of American public education,
Horace Mann. — from The Writer’s Almanac,
May 4, 2020