Number One

In 2012, the world population was greater than 7 billion; therefore, the upper 10% was greater than 700 million and perhaps 45% or 315 million older than 15 years. There will be a wide range of intelligence and abilities in that upper 10%, mostly older population. I believe I am in that upper 10% which means that anything I can do or think or dream could potentially be equaled by a lot of other people–maybe 315,000,000–approaching the population of the United States. I understand that multiple factors are involved in thinking original thoughts, creating new products, solving everyday problems or just surviving in difficult conditions. The sheer numbers however should makes us not so quick to think we are so special. The take-away, be humble.

 

Number Two (2015)

Since September 11, 2001, about 400,000 gun-related deaths have occurred in the United States. Fourteen years times twelve months per year equal 168 months. 400,000 divided by 168 is about 2381 gun-related deaths per month during this post-9/11 time.

If a fully loaded 747 can carry 400 people, then 2381 people would fill 6 fully loaded 747s and this would have to happen every month for the entire 14 years for a total of 1008 fully loaded 747s to account for that many deaths.

Even one would be unacceptable under normal circumstances, but 1008? We need a more sensible approach to gun safety.

 

Do we need to defend ourselves from terrorists? Of course, but since 9/11, about 100 of our citizens have been killed by terrorist activities or one (1) for every four thousand (4000) of our citizens killed by gun violence.

 

Guns don’t kill people, people kill people

Nonsense, of course guns kill people because they are so much more lethal and/or impersonal than knives, axes, hammers, strangling, drowning, etc. Good people on both sides of the issue need to continue to talk and work toward a solution.

 

 

So Take a Trip to the Dead Zone

Where common sense takes a holiday,brains are anything but brainy,

logic is a forbidden concept and

fear a commodity to trade large.

Enter this fairy land at any gun show or

NRA official gathering where

semi-automatics, mega clips, open or concealed

carry is religion but any kind of regulation fascism.

We should all stand-by the Second Amendment–

owning flint-fired muskets as members of a well regulated

militia is fine by me.

 

 

Number Three

Some hedge fund managers make a billion dollars in one year–that is 1,000,000,000 dollars in one year. Pretty incredible to contemplate when many hard working people make 10-20 thousand dollars per year per job, often working several to make ends meet. Maybe the hedge fund manager is a super outlier, but there are certainly many in the upper 0.1 percent of income who make 1 million, 10 million, even 100 million dollars in a year. To compare these huge incomes with those of ordinary people, consider the following ratios of a 10,000 dollar per year income:

1 million/year equals 100 ten thousand dollar incomes

10 million/year equals 1000 ten thousand dollar incomes

100 million/year equals 10,000 ten thousand dollar incomes

1 billion/year equals 100,000 ten thousand dollar incomes

Do you think there is something wrong with this–like income inequality? Can one individual really be worth the same as 100,000 others?

 

Number Four

Why is it that General David Petraeus can commit the serious crime of leaking highly classified documents to his mistress and get a plea deal with a sentence of two years probation and a stiff fine but no loss of rank or retirement benefits and no jail time; whereas, someone caught dealing marijuana has jail time in their future. If you can’t pay court costs for a minor infraction in Ferguson, MO, it’s jail time and/or you lose your driver’s license. Being poor, perhaps the most major inequality.

 

King-Size

King-size beds are the root of our problems demanding

bigger rooms in bigger homes costing more, consuming more

and polluting more. Bedding, accessories, accoutrements, all

add to the tab.

We have developed an infatuation with king-size

beds making them a mega slumber symbol. Checking into

a hotel, the choice is often two queens or one king.

Not sure if women are booking, but for men it is the king,

not some queen, even if there are two of them.

Given that Americans are some of world’s stoutest people and

growing, the king may become a necessity not a choice. Maybe

we should call them fat-size beds, but that would raise a

rumpus.

Why do we like king-size beds? Is it for comfort, having our

own space (creating an eating nook), romance—there are two

things to be done in bed and only one is sleep?

As to comfort, some king-size beds have a crease or seam in

the middle (if you can’t afford the giant mattress) which is

uncomfortable leading to issues with the second reason to be

in bed, romance.

If the middle of the mattress is uncomfortable and there are

acres of space on either side, do some king-size beds actually

inhibit romance? Who does the traveling; is there a schedule;

who decides?

divorce rate; I submit it is king-size beds. If you spend one

third of your life in a different zip code (opposite side of a

king-size bed) from your mate when you should be getting

cozy, it can’t be the right recipe for romance. It takes

effort and scooching over to get to the other side or out

of bed, especially for older guys, if you know what I mean.

For all those social scientists and other experts examining our

sexual habits, the answer is right between the sheets,

especially if there is a mattress crease. So get rid of

separation-inducing sleeping arrangements and put couples

back in touch with a good old double bed or maybe a queen for

the well-adjusted. Touching can be thrilling and

stimulating; let’s promote it by saying, the king is dead, long

live the queen or make mine a double.

 

 

MALAYSIA AIRLINES FLIGHT 17

 

Like a video game,

target appears,

launcher rolls,

rocket armed,

computer calculates

then the whoosh and

roar as the missile

climbs and chases at one mile per second–

covering 33,000 feet altitude and

miles downrange in less than ten seconds,

exploding

with thousands of shrapnel fragments

as it approaches the plane.

 

They never had a chance,

could not know

death was chasing,

explosive decompression,

no oxygen, extreme cold

not  everyone dead instantaneously–

sheer terror and screams

unheard in the clear sky

then filled with skin, shards, shoes,

bodies and parts

falling into wheat fields, onto roads

on top of houses.

 

Initial jubilation at the launcher

gives way to shrugs and

 we fucked up but then so what—

they would kill us if they had the chance.

 

 

A GOOD DOCTOR LOST

 

trying to help,

serious about patients

and outcomes

three kids, another coming

a loving wife

so much respect but mental illness

doesn’t recognize

the real or existential

BANG, BANG, BANG

so much sadness

 

January 21, 2015  PBBH

 

 

A FINGER OF SUN

 

can interrupt shadows of

darken mood infiltrating

the soul with self-pity

 

 

ASHES

 

spreading ashes

an act of respect and reverence

for family and friends

a shrine for the wind

to remember with joy

 

 

A WICKED SMELLING FART

 

reeks and wreaks the atmosphere

altering facial expressions

making hands wave with

evil suspicious

looks all around

 

identifying the farter

is hard unless the blush,

downcast eyes or

 not mine

expression gives them away

 

W.C. said never trust a fart

(never refuse a drink/never ignore an erection)–

he understood fartology and was very wise

 

 

POEMS TO REMEMBER GLORIA

 

 

BORED AND STROKED

 

read everything,

always had a comment,

opinionated,

controlled with a wit that

skewered and torqued,

she could step on the power–

VROOM!

clearly the boss,

never a bore,

until the stroke

 

BLOCKED

 

Gloria is lost

to  a stroke robbing her of

wit and riposte enough to

parry friend or foe

 

her children say the

crank and criticism honed

over the years was consumed

in a tiny clot

 

across the street neighbors

like us are resigned to our

sharpster now as a lost oldster

 

Fall should be her friend

 

 

GLORIA TRYING

 

Words garbled or twisted,

constantly searching, wanting to amend

the endless frustration

She knows it, hates it; trapped

like a grey morning fog,

her eyes reflect the dense

cover without response

to the wind’s query

or the sun’s warmth

Short circuits hide

what can no longer be said

 

 

GLORIA REDUX

 

she is stable,

not good–

even with a perm

drawn, wan, weak, needy

humor–no joy

not ready to be better–

ready to be done

 

 

GLORIA PAST

 

We all get our chance at it–

she was ready, anxious,

resigned to die

had had enough, too old, can’t breathe,

close family close,

supportive in words and deeds

attending to every need–

I’m frightened,

it was near the end, she called for

Will (long dead) to help her

with eyes closed and anxiety

muted by drugs,

the slip into oblivion was

quiet but the relief a blessing

Amen

 

 

DARK ENERGY

 

time can soften

sad memories but

does not heal

we feel things as we are now

not as we wish they were

most are limited in

understanding  fate or randomness

despite faith or rationale

making the major issues of our

life and death

largely a mystery

 

 

One Year Later

 

We miss her–

she had her own independent force field

attracting and repelling at will

pretenders to her kingdom

she ruled with tough love and a dismissive

air of finality. She liked it or not

clearly letting you know.

She was lonely–her husband died a few years

before we became neighbors.

More children (maybe more grandchildren)

would have tempered a longing not often

voiced but deeply felt.

The stroke changed everything

into an inevitable decline robbing her of

acid, wit, dominance, independence.

The end was quiet, anti-climatic, certainly

not like it use to be, but we like to remember,

the use to be– Gloria  knocking your

socks off and loving every minute doing it.

 

 

 

A REFLECTION

 

Good neighbors are a blessing and Gloria was a great neighbor.

She knew the town, had her finger on its pulse and was tough

enough to tell you just what she thought about everything and

everyone. As newcomers, we had a lot to learn.

Gloria was smart, well read and could joust and parry with anyone.

That crank and criticism was honed over many years and I loved to

give it right back to her, so we got along just fine. She called me

trouble; I usually said, hi beautiful.

Gloria liked my cooking unless I served eggplant or almost any other

vegetable unless there was lots of gravy. There was never any

hesitation when she didn’t like something; I heard it right now.

The gravy for us was being across the street neighbors and getting

to know and love her. Our grand kids felt the same, especially when

swimming in her pool.

We miss you Gloria.

 

 

 

 

 

Wow, I Had to Ask

 

Tafisha, a Guyana-Canadian living in DC

blew me away when I first saw her sitting

outside the University Club.

How did you do your do, I asked?

Say what?

I felt silly. I’m friendly but reserved but in

total awe of how she had gathered her

 hair as art into that mile-high creation of twists, turns,

a chicane a Corvette would love.

She smiled, then laughed as did her table mate.

It’s very long, she said.

How long, I said?

Down to my waist, she said.

I wanted to touch it–careful man,

get a sense of the heft and weave,

feel the speedway in my fingers–

my manners and sensibility are better

by a strand.

So, I asked for more.

How do you make it happen, I said?

She said, I separate strands into different

size groups, wrap them, pile them and pin

it all in swirls.

Incredible!

It was all together, tight, beautiful like an ice cream

swirl gone wild, almost intimidating, but not a Medusa.

She said, I can’t have my hair down all the time, it is

too much to handle which made me think it would take a

good fight to best that sea of hair–call for samurai to

fight the hair tsunami.

Although in wonder, I wasn’t speechless,

Tafisha’s hair was plain awesome.

Pocket Billiards (Pool)

 

I ustacould play pool,

but I can’t anymore.

 

With glasses for reading and distance–

neither  work for

pool table distances,

I have to chuck them both and go naked,

it isn’t pretty.

 

Combined with old age

stiffness and real degenerative

arthritis in my right hip which

keeps me from getting into proper position

to shoot and guess what–

I can’t shoot straight!

 

It’s distressing since my Willie Hoppe two piece cue

bought 60 years ago for five dollars from

Ed’s pool hall has made so many

memorable shots–and both won and lost

money–a lot.

It is still straight and aside from a missing piece

of inlay, in perfect condition.

 

So I have the cue;

it has the name, the memory, and

I have the desire, but

damn it,

I can’t get the ball in the pocket.

 

I ustacould shoot some stick,

but not anymore.

 

Silkworm 2014