Never before have we had such detritus
shower down
from the spewing mouth of
the floating, carrot-topped clown.
He opens his mouth
and America heads south
because of the sparks, fire
and molten ash erupting
like Vesuvius.

The pretend head of the free world,
who loves caging innocent children
and separating them from their
parents, is now handing out death
sentences to innocent, legal,
juvenile residents of the United
States who are here for treat-
ment of dire medical conditions
without which they will die by
kicking them out of the country
posthaste — a diabolical plan
undoubtedly hatched by the occu-
pant’s devilish pet, a bird — the
Bald Miller, a rare, six-foot, flight-
less Aves with a zero-chambered
heart and a sadistic bird brain.
Why couldn’t the occupant have
a pet dog like the Clintons’ sweet
Chocolate Labrador Retriever
“Buddy” or the Obamas’ beautiful
Portuguese Water Dog “Bo”? Un-
fortunately, if this occupant had
a dog, it would be a rabid pit bull.
They say pet dogs reflect their
adopter’s personality.

After a frightening encounter with anger
slipping into hate, the man opened his
email to be greeted by love in the form

of meditations — the first written by
a friend acknowledging that right now
we are a nation in fear and stating that

“perfect love perfectly casts out fear” —
“perfect” being closer to “complete”
than the highest quality of achievement

as in a perfect grade or perfect score —
a reflection of our competitive society.
The second meditation spoke of God as

love — love as a verb, therefore, God as a
verb — love in action — complete love
loving completely and enabling humans

to love at all however imperfectly. The
third meditation concluded, “…fear keeps
us prisoners, even when the prison has no

walls! I see better every day how radical
Jesus’ message of love really is.” Then
there was the e-mail from a friend telling

of a diagnosis of cancer and asking for
prayer. The man, feeling the fear in the
note, sent a message back to those in

fear, “You are in our hearts,” for the
heart is the place of courage, where
Love resides and abides — all these

in the morning mail, sent graciously
as a gift by Love to the man who had
experienced deep, deep fear.

He sat at his desk in the late afternoon
considering the yearly physical he had
earlier in the day. Everything was pretty
much okay. No need for additional meds;
just one more blood test. His primary is
new, his former primary having retired.
He misses his former primary; that physician
took time to chat — just took time. He knew
the former primary cared, cared about him
as a person. The new primary is all business,
brief, to the point. He likes that, too. He said
to the new primary, “I’d like to have ten more
years. That would be about average for my
family. Would you help me with that?” “I’ll do
my best.” As he left the office after the visit,
he thought to himself, The new guy will keep
his word. He will do his best. That’s really nice
and feels really good.

Nero fiddled while Rome burned.
Two world leaders piddle on each other
while the Amazon rainforest burns.
It has been centuries from one to the other.

Hasn’t anything been learned?

Pompeii died in the eruption of the Vesuvius volcano
And now the earth is dying from our abuse.
Can we and our leaders get our act together or no?
Defending one’s wife’s honor is nice but not an excuse.

One did the right thing, but should now leave it alone.
The other one’s demand for an apology
(before taking money to help end the fire)
warrants being turned  into stone.

Hasn’t anything been learned?

He encountered the devil
and is taking a break
from tilting at windmills.

With violence on the rise
he must trim his sails, go
then sit on the side.

He will seek a time of solitude
and refrain from voicing an opinion
and be considered rude

providing motive and cause
to a stressed-out angry multitude.

Oh, he can join a peaceful rally
for a more than worthy cause,

but if it turns violent, he will not dally
and certainly will not pause,

but he will remember
to trim the sails
and sail off into September.

At a bar in Atlanta in the ’70s
two guys, friends, in town for a
conference, sat sipping martinis.
For some reason, the subject of
homosexuality came up. Maybe
just because it was coming out of
the closet. One of the guys, stuck
in the old prejudicial, “The parts
don’t fit” mentality, said, “Gays
just don’t seem very happy.” The
female bartender overhearing the
remark said, “They are happy, but
they are sad because of prejudice.”
The other guy who usually had a
smile for everyone and every-
thing didn’t say anything. Yes,
years later, the quiet guy at
the bar, died while still in the
proverbial closet and the other
guy who considered himself a
good friend kicked himself for
his own ignorance, insensitivity
and prejudice which made his
friend so very sad that night at
the bar in Atlanta.

The man learned how to drive back in the
day before there was driver’s training. His
dad started him off in vacant parking lots
and then, when his dad thought he was

ready for the road, took him on back
roads and side streets. His dad told him
that a car out of control is a killing
machine and that we are here to save

life not take it. He would have added
a little philosophy of self-interest
by quoting an ad “The life you save
may be your own,” if it had been around

then. His dad also told him, “Ever
and always — drive defensively.” The
third thing his dad told him was, “The
purpose of driving was simply to go

from point A to point B and but it’s not
racing in the Brickyard.” The fourth thing
was, “Keep one car length distance for
every ten miles per hour of speed be-

tween you and the car in front.” That
training has served the man well. When
the man is out on the road and sees
the crazy driving and the recent

phenomenon of “road rage,” he thinks
about how his dad might not ever have
been considered “The King of the Road,”
(He wasn’t into country-western.) but

could have been the King of Driver’s Ed.
Oh, and the King of Life Lessons. Oh,
and the inspiration for The Bee Gee’s,
“Stayin’ Alive.” Well, maybe not the

last one. His dad was more into the
French Impressionist composers.

Their voices were the same
but their faces and their
heads (some bald, some
with toupees, some with
dyed hair) were much
older for the PBS fund-
raiser and he loved hearing
their hits from many years
ago and he wondered what
all those singers had been
doing through the years to
make ends meet or as Soupy
Sales used to say, “If you
can’t make ends meet, try
vegetables.” And he thought
that Vegetable Soupy was
way ahead of the day in
recommending micronutrients.
And he hadn’t thought of
Soupy Sales since about
the time those singers
were making hits and had
full heads of natural hair.

He knocked on
the door at 8
p.m. It was
still light
out. He didn’t
think it was
too late. He
had tried
earlier
and no
one
was
home.

No one came to
the door. He
called their
names. The
man came
to the
door
half-
dressed

— a man trans-
formed into a
fiend, a snarl-
ing, slobber-
ing thing
he didn’t
recognize.

The man made threatening
statements, slammed
the door and he
heard the man,
through
the open
window,
say to
his wife
in an
almost
giddy,
hyena
voice,

“How was that?” He shouted back,
“How was that? How was that?
What is that?”

The fiend came back to
the door and snarled,
“What did you say?”
He said that
this didn’t
make any
sense.

The man snarled, “You’re
the friend of a
man I don’t
like and I
just
tolerated
you,

so go back across the creek
and DON’T COME BACK!”

He was then afraid
that the man might
become physically
violent. He went
back across the
creek.

He had been told but
he didn’t know for him-
self that the man
was emotionally
sick and he
didn’t know,
until that
moment,

how sick the man really
was. This went beyond
avoiding a fool in
his folly — way
beyond.

He wouldn’t knock
on that door again.

What was it Bush
got wrong about
“Fool me once,”?

He wouldn’t be
getting this
one

—–    wrong.