Why I Learned To Swim at 13

Tiny pigtails slipped quietly
Out of sight, keenly overlooked
Amongst clinks, drinks, poolside cocktails.
Late afternoon piercing the chlorinated cover
She drifted along its silver shaft
Unafraid of the bubbles, wondrous bubbles,
Baby bubbles, eyes wide, still and blue
Faint laughter poking through
Beyond the bubbles, nose bubbles, mouth bubbles
Until a boy’s appearance roiled the stillness
His arms freckled, familiar, brotherly
And she, unknowingly breathless, plucked to safety.
As they shattered the surface in sibling embrace
She cried for her mother.

Illustration is David Hockney's. He's really great!
Check out his web site here

GOOGLE SANTORUM

Aching penises

Look to the lord for relief

While scapegoating Eve.

Jacked up on self-loathing and enraptured by

religious adventurism, Rick Santorum and his

ilk i.e. Michelle Bachman, Rick Perry, Newt Gingrich,

Ron Paul, a virtual Madame Tussaut's cast of waxy,

empty-headed loons, are a shameful reminder

that our country has not only stumbled but is

grotesquely out of joint. I wrote this haiku the

last time Santorum rode his wave of bible-thumping

intolerance back in 2006 when he attempted to

hang on to his senate seat in Pennsylvania while

caught in a vortex of controversy including his

place of residence, Virginia, and the billing of

Pennsylvania for his children's online schooling,

to name just a couple. Hmmm, the lord wasn't able

to shield him from his own righteous corruption.

Gladly, he lost. However, our collective memory

seems to last a nano-second and Rick is back making

a run for the Republican nomination for President.

If I were a religious type of the christian flavor this

might be one of those, "Father, forgive them for they

know not what they do," sort of moments. However,

thankfully I'm not. There is no excuse for such patent

stupidity on the part of a large segment of blind

believers and a knuckle-head like Rick Santorum.

Oh, by the way, google the word, Santorum, for a

good laugh.

HUNT PERCHANCE TO KILL

The collective pulse

Of a violent species

Grows ever dimmer.

A Grizzly recently received a reprieve from being hunted down by "officials" for bad behavior due to the benign nature of the Grizzlie's attack. Apparently it was determined the Grizzly was startled and meant no real harm to the Idaho hunter holding a high-powered rifle designed to blow apart all desired species for pleasure purposes. I believe this is referred to as an "avid sportsman". The Grizzly landed a couple of blows that resulted in a broken arm and some abrasions for the hunter and then either lost interest, wasn't hungry or understood the possible repercussions of the "kill" and melted back into the forest. The man was airlifted out, licking his wounds.

"It's very clear from the incident that the bear was surprised and ran away. It did not intend to kill or consume the men", said an official from the Fish and Wildlife Agency. Had the Grizzly gone all the way and destroyed the man who held the rifle that could, in turn, destroy the Grizzly, something commonly referred to as the "law of survival," there would have been an APB out for that particular Grizzly determined to have held the intent to kill in its grisly heart.

Call me crazy but if some sick-ass hunter pointed a gun at me for his jollies with intent to bead me in with his high-powered, technically advanced rifle and blow me to kingdom come, I would come at him with intent to bite off his nasty-ass head. That hunter was given a reprieve by the Grizzly and should put that rifle away and join the Endangered Species Coalition and honor the animal that spared him his life.

9/11

Phoenix emerges

From the Fall of innocence

Innocents fallen.

9/11 casualties:

3,000 innocents die trapped in twin towers

6,026 American troops dead in pursuit of...

Scores more brain damaged/amputees

150,000 innocents die trapped in Iraq/Afghanistan

Those poor, dear souls who went innocently to

work on Tuesday, September 11, 2001 were

presented with a horror beyond imagination and

had to choose whether to jump or face a more

gruesome death. Their deaths have been greatly

dishonored by our country's "shock and awe"

response which has killed other innocents many

times over and has tarnished our image and

reputation in our world community. The 9/11

dead deserved better; a commitment to a more

peaceful existence would have been a fitting and

lasting memorial. We could have reassessed our

practices of resource exploitation and corporate

adventurism, all in the name of democracy

building, and stayed out of the pipelines of other

sovereign nations.

A memorial at Ground Zero is appropriate as a

tribute to our twin tower casualties but a far

greater memorial would be a lasting embrace of

truth and decency.

Here is a poem I read out of the New Yorker, just

a few weeks following the tragedy. I thought it

beautifully rendered:

I Saw You Walking

I saw you walking through Newark Penn Station
in your shoes of white ash. At the corner
of my nervous glance your dazed passage
first forced me away, tracing the crescent
berth you’d give a drunk, a lurcher, nuzzling
all comers with ill will and his stench, but
not this one, not today: one shirt arm’s sheared
clean from the shoulder, the whole bare limb
wet with muscle and shining dimly pink,
the other full-sheathed in cotton, Brooks Bros.
type, the cuff yet buttoned at the wrist, a
parody of careful dress, preparedness—
so you had not rolled up your sleeves yet this
morning when your suit jacket (here are
the pants, dark gray, with subtle stripe, as worn
by men like you on ordinary days)
and briefcase (you’ve none, reverse commuter
come from the pit with nothing to carry
but your life) were torn from you, as your life
was not. Your face itself seemed to be walking,
leading your body north, though the age
of the face, blank and ashen, passing forth
and away from me, was unclear, the sandy
crown of hair powdered white like your feet, but
underneath not yet gray—forty-seven?
forty-eight? the age of someone’s father—
and I trembled for your luck, for your broad,
dusted back, half shirted, walking away;
I should have dropped to my knees to thank God
you were alive, o my God, in whom I don’t believe.

—Deborah Garrison

From the issue of Ocotber 22, 2001.

Tazzie's Teachings on True Nature

Treading through the park,
Cloaked in anonymity,
I speak to my dog.

I've had relationships with dogs through the

years. As a kid, we always had some sort of

hound that I would attach myself to. I recall

the dachshund, Schultzy (appropriately German)

who I saddled, decked out in my cow girl

regalia, and was deservedly bitten. Then there

was Colonel, a big golden something or other

that I danced with, Rochester the black lab,

inappropriately named after Jack Benny's

sidekick, Daphne the Lakeland Terrier who

spent much time under various pieces of

furniture. My last childhood dog was

Clementine, the giant Airedale that I would

run around the San Clemente High School

track with and whose untimely death

shattered my teenage heart. My first and

only dog that was really mine was and remains

Tazzie, the Australian Shepherd. I picked her

from a litter of four because she was checking

herself out in a mirror, cocking her head back

and forth. I guess she knew she was a beauty.

I brought her home to be a sibling to what

looked to be an "only child" household. I got

more than I bargained for, she became my

dear friend. Taz was a blue merle, which meant

she was black and white in dog classification

lingo. She had 1.5 brown eyes and .5 blue eye,

Her glance was both penetrating and half vacant.

She was beautiful and graceful, ran like

fury and could stop on a dime and change

directions with more skill and precision

than any NFL linebacker. Ever protective

of Phoebe and the house she stationed herself

at our front window in our absence acting as our

surveillance sentry. She barked when necessary

but not for her jollies, she loved us fully without

making demands, she gave kisses quickly

and with great precision but didn't require much in

return. She enjoyed her own space but liked us

nearby, where she could watch over us. She owned

a streak of wariness, which prevented her from

becoming the model "coffeehouse" dog, my initial

expectation. She was not a friend to a stranger

and required a certain warming up and assessment

period. But, if you passed the test she was your

devoted companion. Taz was the perfect

canine companion and was with us for 15

years until her half vacant and penetrating

eyes gave me a look that said, "It's time. Let

me go." It was two weeks before Phoebe

went off to college and I still marvel at the

exquisite timing. We, her small family, took

her to a most amazing veterinarian and

stroked her as she lay on the clean white

examination room floor, her head partially

in my lap and her paws held tightly by Phoebe

and Keith. She was relaxed and surrounded by

love. I didn't sob until she was gone,

which happened in a matter of seconds. I am

sobbing today writing this because I miss my

friend who was always there for me and gave

back so much more than she received. She

taught me that we all have a "true nature"

that lives within us and that should be

celebrated and allowed to shine brightly.

SIR PAUL

Blackbird singer sings--

Long and winding yesterdays

Here, there, everywhere.

In the summer of 1964 West Coast kids,

especially teenage girls, were eagerly

awaiting the arrival of The Fab Four for a

one night stand at the Hollywood Bowl. I

was 13 at the time and a devotee of California's

own Beach Boys, led by my secret love, singer-

songwriter Brian Wilson. But, on the sly, I was

smitten by the likes of Paul McCartney. Who

could be cuter, what with all that shaggy hair

shaking as he sang through his smile about

wanting to hold my hand. I never got to hold his

hand nor was I allowed to attend the Beatles

concert. Something about them made my

parents uneasy; maybe that radical shaggy hair.

They were deemed a bad influence and ours

would be a relationship of vinyl to turntable.

That is until July 15, 2011 when I boarded the

subway somewhere in Greenwich Village

to Brooklyn's Yankee Stadium to

attend McCartney's "On The Run" tour. There,

under a full yellow moon rising over a packed

stadium of three generations of Beatles' lovers,

Sir Paul carried the night. This 69-year old icon,

gracious and humble and still adorable, gave his

adoring fans three solid hours of solid gold. It was

a perfect night.

How The Edsel Got Its Name

Relaunch the e-launch

With the poet at the helm--

E not for Edsel.

Silver-tongued American bard, Marianne

Moore, was asked by Ford's Manager of

Marketing Research to submit "inspirational

names" for the E-car, to be rolled out in

grand fashion by Ford on E-Day, September 4, 1957.

"Who better to understand the nature of words

than a poet," said the Ford man. Moore's naming

submissions, which included:Resilient Bullet,

Ford Silver Sword, Mongoose Civique, Varsity

Stroke, Pastelogram and, my personal favorite,

Andante con moto, were passed over in favor

of the now-infamous "Edsel",named after Henry's,

as in Ford, son. The Edsel hype let out by dribs

and drabs, including a top-rated T.V. special, The

Edsel Show, never really delivered its promise of

bringing a new and different intermediate line of

cars to the American public. Instead it was mocked

for its conventional sameness and turned out to be

a dismal marketing failure for Ford Motor Co.

Despite problems with its physical appearance,

including a grille that was likened to images of

vaginas, horsecollars and toilet seats, many of

the Edsel's forward thinking design features:

transmission lock on ignition, self-adjusting brake,

gear selection by steering wheel buttons are now

standard features in sports cars. But, in the '50's

the American public were having none of this.

I can't help but think if the big shots at Ford

had gone with Marianne Moore's, Andante con moto,

they would have pulled off a celebration of hipdom

rather than giving history its cliche synonymous

with failure. So, pay good heed, you marketing

moguls, to your silver-tongued bards.