Here it is, mid-October. The days are perfect. Color is emerging from the trees. The mountains call. I stretch, yawn, and sigh at the near perfection and at the pleasures of my existence. I read friend Sam Hamill's translations of bisexual sage-poet Basho.
Despite all the pleasantness, despite the "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness," the national election confounds us all. The debates put in doubt who will be our next leader, and what a difference there is between them. Like Obama, I just smile at the irrational, untruthful, near meaningless onslaught of Mitt, the Chameleon
Romney's raison-d'etre is to turn the White
House into a Mormon tabernacle.
No wonder Obama wanted to roll his eyes
"You call this a debate?"
And so VP Biden was left to defend
the truth against a brass, brash boy: