When you and I were unborn

An image has been taken, carefully constructed–a smiling woman with her small child, a pink placard, and a message of support for the categorical destruction of babies remarkably similar to her own.

When I was younger the rhetoric surrounding the clinical extermination of humans before the age of birth was careful, reluctant, almost sheepish or apologetic. Famous among these voices was Hillary Clinton who said that the aim of promoting legal abortion was to make it, “…rare”

When I was younger “the unborn” were called babies by those on both sides of the argument.

When I was unborn, abortion was illegal.

Not now.

Now there is a veritable cacophony of irate institutions and voices–democratic presidential hopefuls, movie streaming services, (ironically) the Disney company, a long list of celebrities, and that smiling lady with her baby on the grass

All bent upon promoting and facilitating medical murder.

And with each carefully posed picture, each premeditated exclamation of outrage they push down the simple facts–we have laws in this country which promote and facilitate the brutal, violent, dehumanizing murder of millions of people.

People who would one day watch Disney movies

People who might subscribe to Netflix

People who would argue unequivocally for their own right to life

If they were allowed to live long enough to


where have all the flowers gone?

Our children all


The Coat Sez

It is a small label inside a second-hand London fog. Sez “waterproof” in a way that means tell the dam story. Which I tell in my head in one way or another

Every day

Protagonists too vivid to fictionalize and actual jackass antagonists who are surprisingly two dimensional for real people in a small

Awful story I don’t want to tell, but my lovely black raincoat says I must.

To my esteemed humanist friend,

I confess

I was angry at first 

At real atrocities ignored and

fictions so promiscuously embraced

But then I thought heck

So what if she mixes her metaphors? Or fails to tally the cost 

Of a world unmoored by love?


I have this one

Abiding, hypothetical


Haven’t you ever been afraid that this triune omnipotent

God of love 

Might be just like 

Dustin Hoffman in the penultimate 

scene of The Graduate?

Pounding on the outside

(yes, the outside)

of the church, calling your name as you

Marry the wrong guy?

And if you do-

(what if you do!?)

Who will be there

By your side on the bus to forever?

Our Lives As Fiction

I can no longer go

to the places art hangs out


without taking…

      … surreptitious snapshots

of all the oil-based-still-lives

water-colored sailboats 

and occasional knock-off Mondrians

by the hands of amateur strangers

Because you won’t let them see

These masterpieces:

The one of the Russian sub disaster with the crazy dark blue you invented 

floating downward

Only a house for a boat

Lit from the inside

Slow diagonal slide

Or that same impossible blue

Night this time, rising with an arc of lights

Rivaling the stars

Playing the Devil’s Advocate

It is important to walk a mile in a person’s shoes. In some cases, perhaps most, the last mile is the hardest.

So you do. Because if you think your personal bias plus a handful of hours is enough, you have not thought about the…

Debilitating disease (she died from)

Her reputation as a bulldog defense lawyer.

Attorney client privilege.

I don’t expect Sarah to cover this, but I do expect it of us–armchair detectives all–

What would you do if he had told you he had killed that “b….” in cold blood?

What would you do if you knew he had planned it? Shaped it. Drawn in his accomplice?

Smoked weed after it was done?

Would you have put him on the stand? Would you have pushed for a plea bargain? Produced an alibi witness to sow seeds of doubt in the minds of the jurors?

Perhaps. Perhaps if you were the lawyer he told his privileged truth to…you would have…

Would ya?

Perhaps, just perhaps both his attorney and his ex-girlfriend took the same dreadful truth to their graves, one shallow, one deep.

Who killed Hae Min Lee. Who?

Fiction, of course

Mark 6:10-13 (NIV)
Whenever you enter a house, stay there until you leave that town. [11] And if any place will not welcome you or listen to you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave, as a testimony against them.” [12] They went out and preached that people should repent. [13] They drove out many demons and anointed many sick people with oil and healed them.

Once there was a town. And in the town there were some kids. They were from another country. There was a family in the town who took the children to the beach, or to the park, the pool, or just to play at their house.

They loved the kids, but there were a lot of them. They filled the family’s van.

One night the family was stopped by a policeman. The police officer took a long time and decided to give a ticket for something fabricated.

The family fought the ticket, but the judge would not lift his head to make eye contact. He told them to talk to a fictitious character. A lawyer he dubbed, the municipal prosecutor.

The mama said, we have to go. I cannot take the children here or there if this is what happens when I am trying to follow the rules.

She misses the children. Worries about the paths they will traverse.

Wonders over how dust can cling to a body. Some testimony of love…

Losing Sleep

The Dragon and the Nanny Goat did not take long to realize that this baby was going to be a game-changer.

The Mama Dragon’s already blood-shot eyes had a weary quality about them as she woke frequently to feed her hungry little charge. He ate constantly! She got nothing done!. What would she do without Nanny?! Nanny came by each days and fed the little one while mama rested, concocting nourishing soups for Mama and either nursing him herself or feeding him through a clever milk-skin pouch.

Whenever Dragon bemoaned her loss of freedom and flight time, Nanny gently shook her head and tutted–oh, dearie, they are but babes for the blink of an eye. You must snuggle them good and feed them up, because before we know it this little fella will be a strapping man with a man’s voice and a man’s armor.

Or she would just coo over his dumpling cheeks, his beautiful round little knees and dimpled smile.

The Author Begins…

C’mon, said Cowboy, our favorite show, Truck Pull and Lobster Dance is on.
Honey barely heard him. She was transfixed by the illustrations in the odd little book. It was not immediately apparent who was writing the book or who was the intended audience, other than that both appeared to be parents or adoptive parents of some sort.

The prose swung between terse and floral. One page had a step by step guide to nursing and the next had a lullaby about a mother rocking her child during a storm.

Sometimes it did not seem like either the author or the reader was assumed to be human. There were, after all, ornate illustrations of a dragon in a floral apron with a fat little baby in her stubby forearms. His stubby forearms?

And sometimes the dragon was visited by a nanny goat.

All very strange….

Treasure in the snow

Cowboy and Honey Bunch trudged through the snow. They had a couple bags of groceries nestled in their arms. HB was still quite rotund with child and chafing for a delivery process that would be a bit more challenging than cable tv.

A bit of gold glinted in the driven snow. Cowboy pulled at the corner of a gilded manuscript. It said Nurturing Sunshine in ornate calligraphy on its cover.

Hey! This looks valuable, he said. I wonder if it got lost or stolen from the university library? Or maybe the Jesuits, mused Honey.

I bet it is valuable. They said together. Jinx! Shouted Honey. Cowboy squinted at her with annoyance until she laughingly said his name. Strange that the big rules of the universe were made to be broken, but jinx was sacrosanct.

Something about the book drew Honey. She knew they needed money, but she did not want to let this book go right away. It looked magical.

It’s so cold, she pouted. I want to go home. Let’s read it first, we can take it to E-Z Cash later.

Cowboy grudgingly agreed.

When they got home and began to unthaw Honey Bunch gingerly opened. The book. It’s lettering was ornate and there were a lot of cherub-y illustrations but the book seemed to be a book of lists interspersed with stories. The stories had intricate little illustrations. The lists seemed surprisingly bossy.