Chair and table (a poem)

Chair the board, table the argument.
Breath is held against my head, a wrenching scent
Consumes and fouls that trigger finger, this gun
Compunction wrestle fleet foot shoots me out from under
That rock where I was hiding, time abiding me
As tender as a paper tree whose leaves were cut by children.

Dropping now all around us, wiped away like tears
In tissue dragging bunching up in wads of mud, a wrapping
For this fine reunion, Donald plays his vices, wounded
In his soul, there is no judgement here of course, my God
Let's go the vole and peach pit everyone unlike us.
Death becomes a wall of ficus, potted in horse.

My presence goes unnoticed at the bar, inside the courthouse
Where again yet somehow shorter than a mile
A sentence is defiled and prison greets that young man.
Burdened with too much aggression, torn asunder he and
Sessions burning to go home, forget they ever walked upon
This land is yours, no it's mine now, ain't that grand.

(B)

A bilious cloud

It seems that the time has come for a revisit to this dear country of mine, so painstakingly built upon the backs of slave labor, bloody wars for power grabbing, intolerance for those who look, behave or think differently than one looks, behaves or thinks.

My handiwork is everywhere, has been for centuries, and continues to keep the upper hand despite so many good people trying to create a social order whereby equality, compassion, kindness and I shudder to say it, but perhaps even love! are the dominating forces ruling the land.

These are special days indeed, having ensured that a leader has been elected whose repugnance with simple decency is voluntarily spewed across the land in a bilious cloud, day after day after day. I'm laughing so hard at times that my sides hurt.

It may be one of my greatest success stories, which is why I'm considering taking human form again and walking amongst you all, being a quiet participant in a crowd of louts shouting down someone who has been persecuted, watching from across the street as another young black person is gunned down and turning on the news to see how sensationalism overwhelms any sensible reporting.

So you'll be hearing from me often. No promise, of course, I would only break it if I made one, as that is what they are for, right? Right.

Yours,

B

Heal, heel!

The command tense of the verb "to heal" in Spanish is spelled "cure" (pronounced kyur-ay), and I, by Devil, do hereby command my heel to heal! Of course, I also commanded myself to jump over a wall on the Harbor Steps late Friday night after a bite and a drink in Pioneer Square - which resulted in a bruised bone of some sort in my right heel. Some of the most reckless incidents in my life have happened when hanging around with My Older Brother. Even as we become more aged, mellow and gentle this potential for crazy behaviour continues to tug at me like puppet strings - ah, but who is the Master Puppeteer?

The good news of course is that I am alive to tell the tale and have not hit the windshield of life going 70 miles per hour. My brother and I played some great tunes together, registering some long-held recognition of tenderness between us with our wives; musing on current affairs and politics (we stand politely on opposite sides of most of these issues). We were joined on the Friday night outing by our 3rd sibling and his wife - and all differences and similarities aside, what becomes some moment when held in fragile time will stand on its own, at least in my eyes. There is certainly an inclination to pick apart the past, fear the future and completely miss out on the present. On an energetic level, at least, we set those habits to rest and simply explored the sidewalk of evening. It is hard to do this - why?

Now on to what may seem an unrelated subject; the Weather Underground and why the youth of America today are so mild-mannered. Certainly the war in Iraq, the stealing of the presidential election in 2000, the insanity of the Bushites, combined with a growing online media that can effectively shout down the Fox crazies would lend itself to a roiling, dynamic, marching and screaming campus scene across our fair nation. One would think. But no. As the words of a song I wrote back in 1985 recall;

"Look away, look away, don't look, look away.

Keep carving out your life each day.

Look away, look away, don't look, look away.

Polish it perfect, your gold and silver.

Look away, look away, don't look, look away.

Line the pockets of your Masters.

Play it blind and deaf and dumb.

Drive to work and suck your thumb." (from "Look Away")

The wife brought home the documentary film of the Weather Underground this week and we got into watching last night, and then into a discussion about the value of violence as a means of protest. When I was about 18 my tastes started drifting toward bombing the power grid and towers surrounding and transporting electricity to and from nuclear reactors. It was a short-lived fantasy for me. Interestingly it corresponded very closely with when the Weather Underground were most active - but I was unaware and not plugged into the fabric of what real revolutionary protest looked like. Less than a year later I broke off a friendship with 2 guys who had replayed their story of destroying some large construction equipment to "show those creeps who not to f**k with". It just stopped making sense to me.

Do I hate what Uncle Sam does with a large percentage of my tax dollars? Hell yes! Do I keep paying my taxes every year? Again - yes. And keep paying into my Medicare and Social Security accounts which, if they have their way, the Republican Right will 'privatize' to the liking of their big business constituents and rip away from the middle and lower classes. No retirement, no health care because they are "run by the government" or some other lame-ass sound bite excuse for pushing the wealth into a smaller and smaller corner of our world.

The front line truly is the media. Fox News and associated network is the mind-numbing institution that puts us all to sleep and feeds us pablum to accept this continually diminishing return on our investment into the nation (thanks to Right Wing Values). What do you suppose would happen if there was an uprising of the folks being pushed down, beaten down and stepped on by these institutions of large insurance companies, large financial companies, large energy companies - similar to what happened in the late 1960's and early 1970's? The under-thumb class in this country is enormous and growing. Drug them, drop them out of school, keep them from crossing the borders all you want, but eventually something very large could break very loudly. Which side will you be on?

Yours,

B

Taking the heat.

It's a quarter to four and I can't sleep because of the heat. My mind keeps circling through songs, work strategies, family dynamics, plans for the future, ruminations on rebuilding the Jaguar engine and various remnants of procrastination. My program for the night is a sleepy version of Hitchcock's "Rear Window" meets Graham Nash's "Songs for Beginners" looping incandescent somnambulist ropes around my bulging waist, reminding me that exercise as a daily practice will help settle the dust of self-analysis - like mist from a hose at dawn.

I am trying to be good you know. My history, habits, and influences weigh in against me at times and attempt to dislodge these wheels of good fortune from the track they are on. My daughter reminded me this evening to pray for my enemies - that, in my case, begins with me. Because enmity truly is a point of view, an illusion in many cases, a choice I make rather than something that is imposed upon me. I have a weakness for it and paradoxically have come to understand through the grace of You-Know-Who that it is one of those things in my life that I can change.

It reminds of a line from a song: "Don't want to wake up in bed with the Christian Right". There is this prevalence we have as a culture to square off the round edges, line up across the field from each other with sword and shield, take a cue from the generals and run full speed toward collision with nothing else in mind but how wrong the other side is. It delights an old Devil like me to see how taking personal responsibility is still rather unpopular, perhaps becoming less so as the world crowds up, heats up, tenses up. It's been almost two years since this nation took an unprecedented step toward what has been referred to as Hope - and currently every possible way of mocking, tearing down and reversing that decision is being thrown into the mix by politicians, big media companies, sociopaths marching as representatives of the Common Man, flat-earthers, birthers and bigots.

No wonder I can't sleep. There is so much work to do!

Yours,
B

Practice, practice!

From the apartment above the predictable Friday evening piano lesson is heard. Some of the old familiar childhood songs, as my mother (who do you suppose my mother is?) began teaching me piano at age 7 and for 2 years was my teacher. Then I was shuffled off to some other matron, gifted perhaps in technique but unable to deal with my selfish, persnickety and sullen outbursts. Those days were numbered to less than a year and from then on I had to teach myself to play.

What do "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" and "When the Saints Come Marching In" have in common? They annoy the Hell out of someone who has not had the experience of falling deeply in love with a repetitive tinkling of fingers on ivory and the trance state one can achieve through this process. I of course do not fall into that category. I am a Master of trance, spiritual transport, ecstasy through absorption in sensual touch, sound, intrigue and delight in entirely captivating activities unrelated to what keep the wheels of life greased.

Give me an instrument to play, a floor to spin and twirl upon! Lend me your attention and I'll press myself to the brink of heart attack to impress and delight you; perhaps even seduce you. I have ripened to the age where I understand that discipline is inevitable if one commits themselves to the river of creative flow. Practice then I shall upon your devilish keys of ivory, ebony, ringing and pounding against the tightly wound brass and steel strings. All of that tension; all of that promise and fragile, breaking, bleeding hope to find a moment where the muse delivers her wide open appreciation and bends the rules of life to enable some glimpse into immortality.

You at this point may be thinking that immortality is not really a matter of doubt for one who refers to themselves as The Devil. Well think again. Thomas Merton, Pema Chodron, Aldous Huxley, Jesus Christ etc etc etc. We all have our time of teaching and our time of reflection and our time of passing. Practice!

Yours,
B

Metal Pedal

Experience teaches us that in spite of our best efforts to come around to "the good red road" there is almost always a mistake to be made lying in wait around the next corner.

Case in point; driving the old Jaguar across Montana in 100 degree heat with wife and son, camping gear, music loud, really loud, taking the hills at 90+ mph when all of the sudden the oil pressure drops to zero and we are stranded - cooking and derailed. Major engine damage is likely, this was an expensive lapse.

A much as I want to hate myself and drive the stake of failure deep into the heart of the vacation experience, somehow we manage to dust off our boots and make lemonade, gallons of it, continuing on our way as if these kinds of interruptions are part of what makes us human.

You see I am a human being after all; the books may speak of some kind of fall from heaven, some manner of angel imitating man, but the reality is cleaner, deeper, fundamentally more difficult to dodge; like a good flood in a Wyoming gully.

Human beings all are we, that little part of me in all of you; that suffering, broken, hopeful part of you that is in me. I am more than a weather vane on the temperament plateau with thin scars of removable wings singing at my shoulder blades. I am no less than forever and no bigger than your smallest hope.

Yours,
B

Waking up the dead

For the past two weeks I have been reading the book "Gonzo; The Life of Hunter S. Thompson" and its beginning to stick to the roof of my mouth. His way of living and choices about how to treat family, friends and associates provide evidence to me that values, morals, laws, scriptures, promises, and the truth are all quixotic misnomers given to broad interpretation by any single human - and that consequences are an illusion.

Dealing as I do in misnomer and illusion, especially when it comes to personal responsibility, this story about an angry, violent, drug addict anti-hero has really put me into a snappy mood (snappy-happy that is!) Dancing on fire am I, turning cartwheels over the burning sands of time, and of course renewing my due date from the library in order to sleep a few more nights between the covers of this tome.

Here is what I know: taking that 30-pound chip from your shoulder out into the streets and beating your fellow man over the head with it can be fun and financially rewarding. Been there, done that, got the tat. However, along with all of the good times come those moments of reflection on what meaning is drawn from life's experiences, what has depth, what rings true, where our foundations are.

The tinderboxes of politics and pop culture are two of my favorite to play in, and Mr. Thompson was a master of arts (OK, a Doctor of Philosophy) in both realms. There was literally nothing he would not do, or no drug he would not take, or dose you with, as a selfish act - and he never said he was sorry. Gotta love a guy like that! Teach your children well, people.

OK, back to the book. I'm only half-way through and just know that the ending is going to be a real mind-blower!

Yours,
B