After a peaceful, easy mornin’,
he headed to the convenience
store and three pickups flew in

and three mask-less men got
out and headed in. He sat in
the car waiting for the pickup

boys and their possibly deadly
droplets to depart. They did;
he went in and while checking

out, another mask-less man
came in. He rolled his eyes,
glad for his masked disguise

and headed home, his morn-
ing’s meditations having flown
to the wind. He knows in his

heart that the mask-less men
have the divinity of God in the
marrow of their bones (even if

they couldn’t care less) and they
are loved by God and brothers
of Jesus, but the man is content

to leave all that divine love to
God while he scurries to the
safety of home sweet home.

Autumn dune grass swings and sways
like golden waves of grain.
I watch while listening to Big Lake’s waves
roaring over the dune like thunderous rain.

Driving through the heartland
we once just took for granted —
then bored, but never again;
because we feel trapped and stranded.

Yet, there is much comfort here
while looking out the window
or wandering nature without fear.
Oh, my, look! Three fawns and mother doe.

Then Irish butter and cinnamon on raisin toast,
and the warm comfort of gourmet coffee roast —
good morning.

With an aged, pekid (He really is
old.), pale pallor, he pondered,

“There are two kinds of people —
the ones who increase your joy

and those who steal your joy.”
Yup, he thought, nobody should

have a parent who steals your joy.
And then he thought, in his pallid,

pale ways, She had her own darn
demons. It is said that children

spend the first ten years worship-
ing their parents and the rest of

their lives trying to forgive them.
Then with an aged gaze to the

sky, he smiled and said, “It’s okay,                                                                                      mom, I forgive you; please forgive me.

Well, now we have the biggest security
breach in memory, maybe history, and

the front-line defense is made up of sixth-
grade level bully boys who stood on the

playground during recess telling sex jokes
and singing sex ditties they didn’t under-

stand but guffawed over anyway so as
not to be seen as clueless by all the other

clueless kids on the playground. Russian
Roulette, anyone?

Of course, I take this good, old gospel song (with slave origins) metaphorically/allegorically but because I have known it from my youth, it strikes a tender chord in my heart.

Right now, I’m not feeling like this world is my home and I take comfort in a warm image of an eternal mystery, which actually is the mystery within which we lovingly live now.

https://duckduckgo.com/?t=ffhp&q=this+world+is+not+my+home&atb=v159-1&iax=videos&ia=videos&iai=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DiVAeAR3tBPQ.

Fleeting sunlight shines
Spirit’s everlasting love
On all of nature.

Under some misguided notion
of religion, just the bare bones
desire for immortality or stark

fear of death, we do everything
we can to save the body in time
and space even when the spirit

has departed, thus embalming
as a flesh preserver and sealing
as a guarantee to preserve the

flesh even further and, of course,
the favorite suit, shirt, tie, dress,
skirt, blouse thus relegating “ash-

es to ashes and dust to dust” to
the dust bin, but nothing lasts for-
ever, so when we stand at the

graves of loved ones and look
at the headstone we don’t think
of dilapidation in action and we

certainly don’t wish to think of
mom or dad as a scull in rags
six-feet down, so when we are

done with death denial and con-
sider faith, hope and love and
trust in the greatest of the three,

we can scatter ashes to the wind
confident that love has its myster-
iously loving plans.

300,000 and counting need not have died
if the solipsistic, narcissistic temporary
occupant had not lied.

His heart is mean;
his hands aren’t clean;
he just wants to be seen
and make money in amounts so obscene.

Electoral votes are being counted;
few are astounded
because the will of the people perseveres
and the end of the Occupant’s occupancy nears.

Those watching the counting hear cheers
despite the death threats and ignorant jeers
of those cultists and drinkers of Kool-Aid
whose presence, hopefully, will soon fade

from the scene
and will no longer be seen
along with their leader, the meanest
that has ever been.

Please, head back to the sewer
or under a rock
until there are fewer and fewer
and upon your house a perpetual pock.

The late writer Lester Bangs wrote, “The ultimate
sin of any performer is contempt for the audience.”

Apparently, 75 million Americans don’t care or just
don’t get that the Loser/Performer has committed

the ultimate sin of contempt and it’s against them.
Thank the Lord, the show has just about run its course

and is about to be canceled and one has to wonder,
“What show have the fans been watching for four

years?” Of course, it is a fact that the abused sidle
up to the abuser. “You love me don’t you, daddy?”

*The Bangs’ quote is from The Writer’s Almanac.

Maybe we American males were dependent for just a very short period of time, suckling
at our mother’s breasts, but then we stood up, got going and did everything necessary
on our own. Say what? Oh, it’s true for the true red, white and true blue patriot. We are
self-made men, in charge, doing our own thing. We stand tall, erect, straight arrows always hitting our target. We say jump and servile others say how hi. We point a finger and servile others head jiffy quick in that direction. We begin to open our mouths and servile others anticipate what we want and do our bidding. We’re self-made American males. We own stock. We buy stock when low and sell stock when high. We created the great, vulture capitalistic system to benefit ourselves. Oh, wait. what am I saying? I don’t have any of that. I have been held down by a vicious, socialistic system that wants to take what I have and give it to the servile others and they have and I won’t take it anymore. I’m looking for the self-made man who will give me everything I need to be the autonomous man, the rebel against all odds, the Ayn Rand baby who suckled at Ayn’s objectivist breast. Wait a minute. Did I just say give me everything I need to be the self-made man? How can I be self-made if I am dependent on the secular savior? And the savior? He just lost the election the socialists say. Whatever. I don’t need him. I have my John Wayne, Gene Autry, Lash Larue, Lone Ranger, Superman outfits and plenty of guns. Did you see that Hollywood is putting out a lot of what look like really great shoot-em-up westerns during this fake epidemic? I’m going to be heading out, jump in my 500 horsepower pickup truck (on which I still owe a ton of money) with the big American flags flying to save the day right after I suckle at my wife’s breasts. Honey, please, pretty please….

*idea from a Richard Rohr meditation