in the year 5770

i was born an imperfect child.

i wonder how they told my mother?

when she first held me, did she see a beautiful baby?

or was she alarmed
instantly
by how much she knew
she failed
to be the sort of person
she would need to be

to navigate
my obvious
flaw

veronica taught me
to be
self-accounting

to make sure
my actions mattered

that what i did
or failed to do

could mean the difference
between winning the girl

and losing the fight

next month,
i will be reminded of
the woman
who bore the struggle
of bringing me

into the reality
of reminders

that on yom kippur

in the year 5770

i look upon all that is holy
and say:

forgive me

if i have torn
any
fibre

of our link.

i see that you are single

disconnected in a sense

from how much
i seek your forgiveness
each and everyday

because when i look @ myself
in the morning
in the mirror
i see it

imperfect me.

Cardmember Agreement

It’s in the fine print:
the meaning, our intent, your rights, responsibilities.

Black letters, white space backdrop.

Read it for yourself. Have your lawyer check into it.

Are you up for it?

Get this straight: We. Us. Our.

You. Your. Yours.

We hope you aren’t offended by our initiative — letting you know where you stand.

Pay on time or you’ll wind up an unhappy debtor. We promise.

Every November

Every November, I remember my father.

Most especially, I remember his kindness; that thing he kept in his heart.

My father appreciated simplicity.

He loved his children, his wife.

On summer nights, he liked an ice-cold beer with his dinner.

He liked his eggs scrambled.

He liked his friends to be true.

Every November, the air takes on a chill and I remember my father — In my mind’s eye, he and I are outside; air escapes from my father’s mouth, bent as he is, on a conversation.

Watching him speak

I think about his heart, his lungs.

Breathing in, my father’s chest rises and I think:

“How wonderful God, giver of life.”

It doesn’t last —— the breathing.

Eventually my father’s heart, his lungs gave out; cancer the cause.

We mourned when the angels took him home.

We cried tears of sorrow.

Every November, on the day my father died, I make a point of remembering my father’s life, not his grave.

I remember his commitment to loving well and earnestly.

Every November, I give pause to a man whose life helped form mine. . . . Whose hands held mine when walking was new to me.

So it is in my memory my father lives.

It is in my mind I see him clearly.

Strong.

Calm.

Smiling.

Every November.

Choose

In the United States, the 2 parties ( as pictured here, employing the fine folk art of http://thecartbeforethehorse.blogspot.com ) go head to head in the voting booth. Be you for the Democrats or the Republicans, what is crucial is this: GET OUT THE VOTE.

So Much For "New Yorkers Not Smiling"

In the year 5769

Wall street is weak.
It is a patient
in the finance ward.

Two men
both qualified
fight
to be
The Man.

White house ambition
should get us out of the house
Make a decision.

Pit bulls and I
have always gotten along.

Not this time.

You didn’t ask
but now you know

I wanted Hillary.

Sometimes
we get what we want.

Sometimes
what we want
isn’t possible.

Today,
I leave it in God’s hands
Every last desire.

Presidents,
come and go

Politics is a pendulum.

Recollecting OJustice

Unlike so many whose attention was riveted by courtroom events in LA
where Orenthal J. Simpson sat, for more than one year, accused of two brutal murders, I was not a faithful or vigilant purveyor of justice, California style via CNN, CBS or the LA Times. I simply didn't have enough time to have the kind of patience which that kind of media watch demanded. Nor am I inclined to follow O.J. Simpson's latest legal woes; though the media has once again made it as easy as a stroll down the street.

Some media analysts dubbed The People v. Orenthal J. Simpson, "The Trial of the Century." Others accused the media of once again, pandering to the lowest common denominator.

There were audible rumblings about how the option to watch Mr. Simpson's lawyers-in-shining-armor defeat the fire-breathing dragon prosecutor Clark while laying racism at the familiar door of the LAPD resulted not in the fairest trial possible for Mr. Simpson but in the most sincere and ruthless manipulation of the people's right to seek recompense for
the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald J. Goldman.

Money talks in America, sometimes rightfully, sometimes not. Sometimes it gets in the way of our ideals, to which every single one of us, like it or not, is wed.

I was hopeful Mr. Simpson's multi-million-dollar dream team would reveal evidence sufficient to expel my conclusion that one of my childhood football heroes was a killer.

I wanted the memories of O.J. to stay intact, like granite on the side of a mountain so I could point toward them and say "That's someone to be like."

I tip my hat to that other O.J.

The gentleman.

The athlete.

Despite the verdict, I am relieved, in an economic way, that Mr. Simpson's money removed the noose around his neck. What a shame it would have been if an innocent man, who spent millions to defend and assert his innocence, lost.

Mr. Simpson was able to tell the jury he "did not, would not and could not," commit the crimes for which two people still lay dead, unaccounted for.

When the children of Nicole Brown Simpson find themselves unprotected by the veil of youth and uncover the gruesome details of their mother's death as free agents in the domain of public information, I hope their father is able to assert he did everything he could to lay justice before their feet by routing out the true killer(s). What a fantastic offering that would be.

The O.J. Simpson trial put to rest one thing for sure--Racial hatred isn't expelled from the hearts and souls of those paid to "serve and protect" just because they flash a badge, tote a gun or wear an LAPD-issued uniform.

It so happens that Mark Fuhrman's zealousness, his passion for hate, brought home the truth about black folk. They do have something to fear, something to be concerned about, a reason to be suspicious of justice, American-style.

It is possible to reach very separate conclusions about the guilt or innocence of O.J. Simpson, the prosecution's success, the defense team's skill, without giving a moment's thought to the hue of the defendant. That's what justice should be about.

But if the jury traded the lives of two people for one whose life is thought to be too symbolic, too endowed with cultural import rendering him in effect, the symbolic vindication of all the wrongs white America has bequeathed black America, then justice is even more of a dream than Dr. King ever fathomed.


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