I Find it Fair


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Life is sweet, no matter
what a pessimist may say,
over the rocks, poor me over
a drink of scotch on the back
of a bad bender on a perceived
bad day.

God will overcome, if we cannot,
and if “God” is a four letter
word to you—

re-count, there’s three, and
look the word up in your
nearest dictionary.

God bless us to smile and take
it in; when we get hurt to turn
the other cheek, but hope
we don’t get hit again—

this thing is lighting me up!

Life can be everything we ever
dreamed of, perfect!

Wet in sun makes the flower
grow, apples know, avocado
in Spring needing sunshine to

this cycle repeated, the over and
over game of batting eyelashes,

sporting moves, jumping fences
to land in park benches, drawing
hearts in the sky, so we can be
the coolest guy!

“Tell me more, tell me more,
did you get very far?”

Not until I stopped dying, stopped
drinking flammable liquid long
enough to—yeah—look it up
on Google—

It’s flammable!

So why…

put it inside?  Me?


It’s fair, this life, between the
pipes, one two three, Jam-
Master Jay Run DMC.

Hope to live, flip death with
a smile that lasts forever in the
eyes of the young ones who
long past you survive.

They take a peace of us,
a song we sung, so sing it loud
for the band’s begun, God is
what God does, and so far so
good we reap what we sow,

the atheists know, it’s a wordfest
doing our best, Kelly Preston
helped me write this—

Johnny Travolta disco danced
a smile on my chest, a cross
that’s blessed, a total to the
equation that means two plus
two does not always equal four;

it depends what you’re adding,
Love the final ingredient to any
good cooking.

Don’t forget to thank the wind
for blowing your leaves around, Dad—
reminds us we’re moving and that
Seasons happen, the pain changes
to rain changes to the colored
‘bow, snow to skis to Riddick Bowe.

Life is a fair fiddle, it plays
the notes you command it to play,
unless the storm comes in,
pretends to ruin your day.

The Zen master says “We’ll see,”
so listen, wait, allow the Earth
to move past your current pain,
without it no joy at overcoming,

no rainbows, no flowers, no trees,
no peace without war, nothing.

Which is… everything.

Borges turns again, we’re free.


The Mass of Things


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The sky with earth, clouds keeping
it tight, swirling day and night.

I did none of this, but responded
when made with breath and…



The mass of things that made us;
the sign of times that create us—

Songs sung in gratitude for the chance
to dance, wide open or by the fire
of a closing stance,

no breaks for the wild world, only
thanks for the mighty swirl,

those things—all of them—I did not
do to deserve life.

It was given, a simple gift; we walk
by the river or lake, must seek a good
life to make it great,

True brilliance not from me but
grabbed after pausing, lending
children a hand, starting a new band,

whatever I with God on a daily
schedule think to make.

It doesn’t always go my way, but
smiles happen when I anyways

Gratitude is the key to health, and
when we speak health we receive
it, ask Mary Baker Eddy or better
yet the positive prolific poet
named Ella Wheeler Wilcox!

Hers are gems for the man or
woman trying to find their child

The way to heaven not for men
and women but girls and boys.

You’re eighty years old?  Where are
your toys?

Smile and play, now!  Thank what you
thank, and pray thanks for now!

We did not do this!

We did not put this mass of things
together, but the wise among us
know how to thank for it;

So thank Something for it, make
a great day happen—forget the rest!

Sing a song that’s within from heaven
to your chest!

Give your life to a higher Power,
I call it God, you call it what you will;

to disagree with trifles is a bore,
and to smile and have fun is best.

History Knows


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We’re obsessed with now.

We’re so sure of our reports, that
this or that thing caused this, and
it all happened this week.

The shiny balls bounce, “Trump
is tweeting again,” but history knows
why he is.

What is a Trump “president of the
United States?”

First, the States are not united,
all of them pulled together and
over the years have bullied
minorities, starting with the
American Indian, then of course
the African slave, then the
freed slaves, to name a few.

“United States of America” declares
itself so, historically, as a bastion of
hope and freedom for white males.

European people.

Next, we fought some wars, replaced
the sixth commandment with the
second amendment, made killing

We killed and killed some more, got
good at it, and prided ourselves in
winning wars, winning territory, often
overlooking original sins against black,
brown and other people—

the “country” had an official line,
ones drawn by…

White males.


So we fought World War I, jumped
into Europe, played hero and “won.”

Instead of being humble in victory,
and mourning all the dead on all
sides, we raised our hands and did the
flapper dance for the next decade—

most of it all over the German people,
who we made pay for starting that dang

We could have graciously helped them
to their feet and forgiven them, but
we drove the stake in hard—

enough to create Hitler and a backlash
good enough to start another war,
and the Jewish holocaust.

The United Nations formed after
World War II, and unlike the Kellogg-
Briand Pact of the 1920’s, this world
peace gig seemed like it could really
work until the American government
ratified its CIA, who along with other
nations kept waging covert wars
behind peace talks.

Shaking hands with the right, stealing
and killing with the left, hiding
documents and lying in the name
of “National Security.”

“Everybody’s doing it” was surely
put forth as they gathered on the
White House lawn in cloaks and
dagger outfits, a ruse of not-so-
funny don’ts and do’s in front
of Truman, Eisenhower then
Kennedy until they killed him
in 1963.

CIA kept its rule of the USA until…

the present day, but the leash is
very long, you might not notice them
unless you loved the Kennedy hope
of the ‘60’s, miss it, and miss truth.

JFK wasn’t perfect, but by ’63 had
grown into a man of peace, amends,
just a little naive on the power of
covert ops and the growing target
on his back.

“They wouldn’t do it, would they?”

They did it.

Cowards from behind a bush, covered
it up just as in Latin America they would.

A pattern attack, this time in our
own land, Julius Caesar by Brutus,

JFK by CIA, Howard Hunt and all those
ticked off Cubans killed or captured
or wounded when Kennedy balked
at helping take the Pigs’ Bay.

But did all that make Donald Trump?

Not yet.


Look at Cold War, from Kennedy’s murder
to Vietnam, the CIA’s baby, the path
clear with LBJ, then Nixon to execute
this impossible but profitable fight.

(At least our families are eating?)  Wide
that path to destruction, and boom!

The “American army” blowing a darn
good path through Southeast Asia!!


But we “won” the Cold War!!!


The wall came down in 1989…


A good day.  A great day?!?!

Make American Great Again?  Reagan
says, “Yes, We Can!?”

Or was that Obama?  Definitely this:
Clinton and the Americans rubbed the
victory in Russia’s nose, and like in
1930’s Germany, we had created
another villain.

This one, named Putin, rose and rose,
and rose some more and again, until
he rose to a place that he could
get his sweet revenge.

Put Trump in the White House; put down
Hillary Clinton and the U.S. dance
with Global Authority, democracy and
another frickin’ flapper dance across
a fallen enemy!


History knows, even if the news does
not, why the news is crazy, sad or
weird today.

It’s none of those things, but is a perfect
growth of history’s seed.

We planted everything that is reaped
on TV today.

Mothers and babies separated at the border,
the UN reprimanding the USA!

Puerto Rico shunned and neglected
by a racist regime in the USA!

Putin smiles, a short-lived win,
revenge is sweet, the games may

Politics and history lost in the eyes
of a child, God’s will charging on—
the aware forging a narrow path,
Wyatt Earps, Bob Muellers, Truth
and Comey with your morning coffee—

John Adams against the Hamilton
frenzy, Lao Tzu and Jesus himself
offering truth against all this hoopla
walking around the White House
dangling pardons and tax scams.

God is good, Trump is not, but seek
history before you judge him or
the present moment too harshly,
for history’s to blame and they are not.

Just a Tree


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You look up from a rut, or a
pattern, and you notice the
beauty of a tree.

It feels good, the neck stretched
like branches, the blue of sky
broken by leaves, you douse
it all with your hose,

the sparkle of the tree!

We aren’t the only ones here.

Humans are one of many
living things that give the LORD
cheer.  The atheist closes the book,
let’s try to gather—don’t go!

Call great feelings and inspiration
any other name you choose.

What makes you smile?

Ahh, that’s it!  That’s what I
get when I pray to a higher power,
when I let go perceived control,
and know I am not in charge
nor able to secure results.

I can try and try; then I can
live or die—all a choice in the
garden that is life!

I “choose life,” to recall a Scottish
film with a guy named Ren,
who was hooked on death to
avoid the day to day of what
others did.

I choose poems!

I choose art, then go out and
admire God’s.  Yes, God’s—
the name I call the “Whatever
it is, I didn’t make it but it’s kinda’

Call it Jehovah!  Call it Nothing!

Call your best feelings your best
feelings, let go of the hate that
broods for long enough to consider
the tree that leans into the
sun, never judges, accepts and
hopes for the best.

Lifting the Shroud


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We grow up unaware—

Especially those of one silver
spoon-fed table or another, it’s
not about the money or ease only,
but about the hidden pool of
vomit under the Christmas tree.

Alcohol is a good hider.  Wealth,
too, anything like “false gods” and
false hopes that lock us in or
addict us to something untrue.

We curse a lot, those especially
from the east who came west
to steal native land.

They did not curse, the natives,
the first peoples living simply
with God on the ground, Nature
their supplier, one day at a time,
a task or two to do.

Nothing ever changes, but if you
try hard enough, you can leave
the human race.

It starts slow, by setting sail from
a homeland without first checking
motives with a decision-helper like
prayer, meditation or even the
advise of respected elders or
medicine men without the dangerous

Peace was there, but adventure lacked
and the disease of more, of wanting
to be famous and rich—

pervaded until in armor we showed
up to take a land by force.

Cursing we brought with us, disease.

Ingratitude for the land—nothing was
good enough until we could bring
gold out of it for money, it seemed.


None of these thoughts occurred to
us, who went to private schools,
played in private sports clubs,
sought junior championships in
sports, and cursed our way to
apparent blessings like college
(false god) and other ways to live
apart from God, nature, and the
healing ground.


We laid cement down, crushed
the glorious rocks to pebbles to
pave our walk.

We burned Earth, traveled fast
past most of our senses’ need
to express or feel, so that unaided
by alcohol or drugs we could enjoy
life on its terms—

just as it is.

We were clueless.

Holding trophies and prizes up
against our ancestors’ lies, the
lies told to native people, slaves
we kept to build our lives.

And we kept going, because to
go back now seemed like an
impossible work, unless…

Unless you found Alcoholics Anonymous
or some other program that okayed
and even encouraged a look back
to make amends for wrongs done.

We look back enough, see and admit the
faults, that glorious destination
called Peace of Mind awaits a quick
jaunt back to fix, apologize, maybe
even return to the homeland to
stop cursing, start blessing
ourselves and this one life given
to make a crooked childhood straight,

the path to Heaven’s gate.

I Like Life


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Just as it is.

It needs not our sour rot,
the grape is better than the
wine—a reason they call war
trophies spoils,

the disease of more plundering
the till that is perfect as is,
Lao Tzu’s quiet, uncarved block.

I like Life!

Sunshines and rays against the
mist making ready rainbows of
our worst rains and pains…

I like life!

Just as it was; God, Higher Power
the mantra hated by an atheist,
his or her right but look not to
altered states—

Put up a fight!!

Do not say good bye until true
fatigue sets in, the eyes close
in a smile—

Good night!

I like life, citizens of Rome, nothing’s
wrong until we think too much,
adult games forgetting that philosophy
that to get to heaven (peace of mind)
one must be like a child.

I like life—

Calm in the middle of strife.

The worse thing that can happen
often out of our control, ask
the powers above for Wisdom,
be like King Solomon and grow
very old!

Not 100 years like today, but
hearken back to the Old Jews’

“He was 946 years old, and was
gathered to his people.”

I like life!

Sunny, rainy, put up a fight!  Sing
song, God, good, no?

Rain.  Sunshine.

Bow.  Rainbow?  Fine—the end?

no.  Beginning?


The Power of Lo—Sex


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That’s the word certain nerds
use to calm down, back up, and
think, they do it with tone, sometimes

represented in writing with italics.

Thank God for spit, it keeps coming,
the male sex instinct is X, the women’s
is Y, why we’re off sometimes because
X is cross and Y is open and vice versa,

then one day the bomb explodes!

You cannot control Sex.

I imagine the eunuch tries, but
sperms game to swim swim a wild

God, or Life, or Nature—or whatever
power you observe as King—made the
thing go and go and go without relenting!

Sex is like the universe itself, kind of
unknown, stark one moment, pounding
the next, black holes explored the
crevasse of stink, the stank thing you
thought by holding back, comes back like
an avalanche a day later, or in the

middle of the night, holding tight, you

cannot stop the flood, the bursting
of the dyke.


Few!  Few are those who can manage
the power, the pulse, the growth,
the manufacturing of eggs and life
forever spinning like the planets
around far off suns, mirroring ours
in a game of loss and won.

Truth is as truth does, and so at
break of day—play!

Then we head with conviction, we
hope to a setting arc, words and
images, sounds and sweat abound

until it stops.

If we were true to our five senses
we get a sixth, peace of mind
finding us at the end of long, well-
lived, singing rhyme.

Doesn’t mean we can make our
bodies stop, they keep going and
going, the energizer god of sex
not a bunny per se, but then again

they boink a lot, or so they always

Will it Know?


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Will the stars know I was here?

I think my first memory made one
blink in a far off sky, alone we never
are—not even in the moment some
cloud with dye.

I trounced and danced naked at
my third birthday around a sun
wondering at the earth’s movement,

Mother and child, father and toxic
liquid, a fire-dance!

God is in the heavens, is in your
dictionary (puff the dust), Google.com.

There it is, Atheist. The un-
avoidable fact: God is Concept, and
therefore exists.

Boom, the city went boom, as the
Native sings zoom, as the helicopter
kills another deer—boom!

Fireworks and man celebrating man,
drunk off wine, because “God said
it was okay.”

So God is Jesus?  No.  Yes.

Words, the funniest things ever invented
I guess, sounds the truest form of
comfort, as eyes closed we entered
this world, screaming if alive,

blue babies like me silent and dying.

They say doctors saved me that day,
but I like to think an angel was there,
too.  Angels are acceptable entities
to atheists, who are “good people,”
so I guess “We’ll see.”

What strange Trumpisms have gotten
into our daily speak, wow, to meet
a foreign dictator—this is easy!!

I talk of God a lot, because without
the concept, I’d be dead—one way or
another, either the mere spiritual kind,
physically alive but unhappy.

Or the actual kind, physically under
ground, a spirit never soaring.

Will the Earth know I was here?

I like to think it notices when I plant
the apple tree—that was me!

I like to think it waves at me when the
wind blows us round our axis,
1000 mph.

Stats can whirl you away, if
not on firm footing, they say light
traveling at 186,000 miles per

A light year the distance light will
travel in a year, what are we doing here?

We are part of the stars, the earth a
rock of sun star, naming things taking
us away from the truth

until we lie awake on the last day
our bodies carrying a spirit,
some ideas, a couple cave drawings
and a great hope for loved ones
left behind to climb and explore
other rocks, stars, and connections
until they swirl to where you are

stars, dreams and Wow! It’s never
and always over at the same time,
“God,” Higher Power the rose as sweet
by many others, three-years old was
I, when naked I danced around
Mom, who danced around Dad, who
with me and you dance around suns
and time, proving there is at one time
God, None, Sun, Son, and time supplying
every excuse and reason to up and
do you best!

“To make an effort” why one is born,
to paraphrase Dombey & Son’s Mrs.
Chick, could be a great flick—the
writing of it another star to shoot!

Poof, the light of one is for all,
the space between things is nothing
and everything, our maximum human
effort the scream that is Heaven!

A far better goal, still, than John
Stuart Mill’s poor illusion, this false
god called “Education,” “College”
the very Roman god of horse manure—

a very fine fertilizer, but far from
actually being the sunflower.


Stairs to our Higher Power?

Rocks and waterfalls the native
American artform—their appreciation
and conservation?

The poet’s punch, the artist with paint
or a wheel, the gymnast in the air—

all of us a speck of dust, sun-sized to
the atom, electrons spawn to millions
of light years of nothing, everything, misses,
makes, you, me

and the wordless smile before sleep.

Wilson Lake


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San Marino used to have a lake.

(The San Marino in Southern
California, not the tiny country
in Europe.)

San Marino used to have a lake
until the settlers came, made
a claim, had ideas and acted
before asking what the land could
actually take.

Soon a guy named Wilson “bought”
God’s land, called it his, used all
that water to farm aggressively—
crops not always indigenous or
natural, or free.

“The lake had dried up into a swampy
morass due to excessive water usage
by local settlers”

an article reads.  So, then,

They brought the dirt down and filled
in the lake.

I have no judgments to make,
nothing biting or sharp, just
the observation that mistakes
mostly happen at high pace,
on the way to claim a lake—

or even on the way to the bank.

When we fail to ask before
we take—

The mass of swirl that is “Karmic
Gate,” opens up to teach us,

sometimes a hard lesson that will
be remembered and never again

Every choice has a consequence,
every single one—

so maybe it’s not the first thought
that should win, but a third
thought fought for, prayed
for, asked for and won.

Concrete River


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We fail to see what the Indian saw;
goalposts moved, the feeling is raw.

God gave all peoples land, but fate
brought white Euros away from theirs,

Hope was in the “New World,” except
that for it’s old inhabitants, a grave

challenge emerged from the golden
ships on the Eastern horizon, the

Atlantic bringing bibles, armor, guns,
horses and a love for gold not seen

by the decorated native soldier, the
adorned native explorer—who roamed

a wild land with ease, the world a
welcome mat to sleep upon, gather

and hunt.  A river was sacred, a waterfall
the same; trees, even rocks worshipped

as gifts from the Great Spirit.  Instead
of human art, a reveling of God’s art

was the native way; instead of a written
history or spirituality, there was one

passed down with poignant, well-placed
words and teachings, songs and music,

Ones about the “L.A. River” before it
was called that I’m sure existed.

It would be full and running wild at
times, dry and trickling at others,

through trees, brush and local wildlife—
including bands of Indian tribes,
grateful for the flow.

Civilization is a double-edged mess.
I think I like it.  I hate it.  I’m sad
about it, but sure like the plumbing!


What of the river?

Concreted over now, we took away
its beauty.

A crime by any view, there is no
possible way to support killing
it and doing God’s will, we stopped

the wild flow, the thrill.

We placed our destructive flag on
its top, moved wildlife off their spot,

Came with horses, buggies, then
cars and our own urinated rain,

the plumbing’s good, but we are

God’s Earth is full of things still
pristine, and those like the L.A.

That dies every day civilization soars,
roars and choppers rot.

I dream of a day when time