Out of Step Boomer

Being an aging, privileged, white male has its perks. You get called "sir" a lot for one thing. Cashiers at the grocery store look at your disheveled, frumpy outfit with pity. And other old guys are ready and willing to confide in you their views of the world. Having made it, they think things are great and want to talk about good restaurants, pretty places to visit, the balm of being above the fray of making a living. Only problem is you're not part of that club. For one thing, you're not as rich, but that's not the main thing. You were a teacher for your career. They were architects, lawyers, real estate moguls, and trust funders. They are a comfortable, self-satisfied lot. I say this because too much comfort is like a drug, and it requires that you rationalize having so much with others of a like mind. You, however, see things differently, don't share the story that comfort in retirement is the highest good. You see all too well a world on fire, and, more importantly, you feel it, can't sleep for it, want to throw yourself on the gears of the machine in rebellion and defiance. It is time to devote your mind and heart to creative resistance, the imagination of something new, a more humane cultural, social, political, and, yes, economic narrative that includes and raises up the marginalized and outcast; you will burn with a light choosing generosity over fear. You will find your tribe and work together with them to lift each other up. You will give until it hurts and then give some more. Then, if necessary, you will be the first to clamber over the barricade, to take one for freedom, struggle, and equity. Sleep will come easier then and you can rest knowing you heard the call.

January In the Desert

Ice crystals on agave, air so clear it sparkles, grass, green moist grass, under the gnarled mesquite, vermilion flycatchers on the railing of the bike path, blue panels of mountains on the horizon, light coming in low through the windows, citrus colors lighting the clouds and sky, vapor rising off a hot cup of coffee held in a gloved hand, numb toes and red cheeks as the bike rolls through a town still sleeping. You get up early, well before the sun, and wander along the wash in the darkness. You think of friends who are gone and friends who are sick and about to leave, and you think of the courage all of the desert creatures have when they get up and enter the food chain in search of life-giving water and sustenance. This is the rarest of ephemeral beauty and you have learned to see it for what it is. All of this, the gem of winter in the desert, a passing moment so rich it breaks your cold and tired heart. You take one step and another as you hone the razor edge of peace right here and right now and let all else fall away.

Breaking the Wrong Rules

This is a test. This is not, however, ONLY a test. The impeachment is testing the waters of accountability, the limits of presidential power, the resilience of the framers' design of checks and balances. It serves to see just how much people will accept in a leader's bad behavior, how much of a blind eye they will turn as power is transferred to the executive branch. Impeachment was crafted as the firewall preventing tyrants from tipping a democracy into an authoritarian regime, an autocracy. Trump and his billionaire backers want that kind of unchecked power, and impeachment is all that stands in their way from imposing it. Trump posed as a political outsider, someone who would "drain the swamp" of political stagnation. He promised working class voters he would break the rules that favored the rich and powerful. But surprise, surprise: he's one of them, and now is breaking the rules, but not the ones favoring the elites. He's power drunk, and already talks like a dictator saying he won't leave even if removed. He's not a rule breaker for justice or equality, not a hero reforming that "gull-dang big gummint," not a rebel working for the have-not white workers abandoned in the Rust Belt. He's a democratic institution crusher. The rules he wants to break are the ones standing between those of us who work for a living and the corporate powers that want to drain the last drops of profit from a system in crisis. He's turning up the volume so no one can hear the real reasons he's breaking the rules. He is not Robin Hood or a beleaguered defender of democracy. He is a corrupt despot, an agent of a ruling elite that can never have enough wealth or power. 

Day One

It's official. I'm back in the classroom after being on leave for a year and a half. Much has changed. Books are now links in the course website; assignments come in as cyber text rather than paper; students take photos of the white board rather than take notes. But I still wear my Costco jeans and Hawaiian shirts with Chacos and socks. The first class was a bit of a shock. I couldn't remember my lesson plan and the computer wouldn't project the image from the document cam. For a crazy few seconds I was lost in front of the class wondering if would be able to figure out how to proceed. I decided to come clean and to tell the class I didn't know how to connect the computer to the projector. When I asked, I was directed to a black box mounted on the wall that had the switch for the document cam. Aha! I was able to get rolling into the lesson and the semester. I do still have something to offer, I think, about writing. If I can remember to trust that, I might just make it through the semester. Now to get ready for Day Two, still a beginner, in need of help from others.

Dry Season

There have been times
When I was drowning
In words

I worked to keep
My head above them
Treading
Up to my mouth
Gasping
Choking on
The likes of
"Pulchritude" and
"Mucilaginous"

I have worn words
Like a chain mail tunic
For armor
Sharpened them
For
Protection

They have been
A big part
Of me
Maybe all
Of me

But now words
Are scarce

I make my way
Across a long
And lonesome
Bleakness

Letters
Dry as leaves
Blow past
On the hot wind

I try to puzzle
Them together
With needle and thread
To little
Success

They no longer
Visit me
In my dreams
No longer leap
To the tip
Of my tongue
Wait in line
With hand raised
Mouthing
My turn
Me! Me!

This dry season
May continue

Or the rains
Might come

I don't know

But I carve out
A space for words
In case they
Pass by this way

A warm
Quiet
Open
Space

Rendering Unto Caesar

So I'm back in the Old Pueblo. Some things have changed, like the new bridges on the River Path, and some things carry on, like the people at the Racquet Club doing the same workout, having the same conversations, and watching the same ball games they have for years. I am here after being away for a while and see the place with fresh eyes, a witness to urban life in the Southwest. That life is a scramble for stuff, status, and image. People are crazy. I have been lucky enough to step outside of that, to ruminate on what really matters, to render undo Dios what is hers. I feel like a lost pilgrim returned to Babylon. I am here because I want to make another deposit of time in the money machine, to strengthen my springboard into the next phase of life, purchase a pen to write the next chapter. I tell myself I need build momentum to retire, to get off the treadmill, to launch into old age, to transform into whatever it is I might become in late life. For now, though, Caesar sits with his palm open, waiting for my payment unto him, the dues I pay for three hots and flop. My soul's work will have to wait a bit.