My mother in law’s flat screen isn’t getting the cable signal so I went this weekend without football. Sunday is a whole day unto itself. Should have quit watching that gladiator sport years ago, but now it’s all complicated by the Trump urging us to boycott the NFL. That high school classmate I was talking about chimed in on FB to say she didn’t want to hear about injustice from any multi-millionaire who had the morals of a goat and she will be joining the boycott. But we elected a man with the morals of a goat president, I offered. Bill Clinton, she responded. Him too, I responded. Seems we like goats.

So now do I watch NFL football or not. Such a distracting problem.

In the meantime, I sent a few dollars to a Puerto Rico relief fund.  Used royalties from my book to pay for it. Poetry helps, he says.

I dreamed I was at a reunion last night. We are old in this dream.  Usually I’m thirty or so in my dreams, my best age. An old girl friend approaches me, then falls into my arms crying. She confesses she got carried away at the reunion and did something reckless and she is worried, she knows, her husband will find out. You didn’t do something reckless with me, I respond. Then I wake up before anything gets resolved.

I’m trying to figure if my old classmate who didn’t want to hear about injustice from a multi-millionaire is admitting the injustice and is complaining about the source of the protest or if she believes all injustice in this country ended with the Sand Creek episode, or maybe with Tulsa, though I doubt she knows either of the events. I don’t think I like her very much.

In the meantime I very much suspect the cloud of gloom that hangs over me, my writing, almost everything I do, since we elected Goat Boy is a contributing factor to my current health issues.  Oh God, I am a snowflake. Shit, I am a snowflake—melting on the back window of a heated car. Shit, shit, shit, shit… To top it off, I too have the morals of a goat, whatever the hell that means.

But I don’t wave the battle flag of the Army of Virginia and talk about respecting the Star Spangled Banner at the same time. There is a limit to my hypocrisy, though apparently no limit to my willingness to steal a line from Tombstone.

It’s Tuesday morning in Redlands, California. Tomorrow, Barbara and I will go to Hermosa Beach and spend the night. Maybe we will dance on the pier while singing “City of Stars.” Will walk along the beach with trousers rolled listening for mermaids.

Kiss me quick, the poet says.