'We people' need to sit with a cup of lemon balm green tea and stop reading Fred Hiatt's (I can hardly beer mentioning their names) and read more informant books about ABC's and Natural History.

A suburban industrial corridor spreads from Lost Angels to San Diego, into Toronto, and back to San Fran/Fred, and downward into ruins between NYC, Philly, N.J. and chokes the life out of all former beautiful wilderness. A large national park does NOT even get non-raped in these times.

In the 17th century a barren (I'm still processing old fence post) pine Forrest would produce turpentine, bog's of cranberry, fire wood for open flame cook hearths, wild huckleberry bushes, kissing missile toe, and never a ugly strip-mall.

Homes with non fixed mortgages are up 800% in some states. All botanical life is threat-ed in the 21st century. No thank the non-monitored filthy lucre banks.

The era of those who ruin must end very rapidly. I'm weary of their presence, sick voice, and incredibly reprobate innards. The noisy clutter that fills the airwaves via the toxic sludge of pro-war people, delude the world, and each other. It's getting very rancid. We must be rid of them and return to a more quiet dreamlike land. Functional. Get something done, and survive in more ways than one.

Anyway, let's do the best we know how, and be grounded, centered, and not ground or pulverized by the clunky tin-Lizzie's who clutter like a mechanical blinkered fat yellow bull-dead-dozier. We all have infinite personal experiences and endless capacity to work some good.

Don't permit the sick neocon to make iron, and black steal of a beautiful, and gentle, human heart. Never, never, never let the haters kill a human heart and poison our collective national soul, and that's if 'we people' say we do care.

Let's care. Care is rooted in the word, courage.

Keep alert. a bad governance mob may bug the computer, for certain, worry not if a bomb can 'hit' you as you speak on a cell phone (within six inches on target) with a NSA's bug, but be caring a misguided bunch of wasp will also die at the rapid rate this rancid stray-mutt mismanage the dang good globe floating along in the universe.

Simple. Garrison Killer, invite Fred to Georgia to sing Georgia on my mind with a cool glass of sassafras tea?

Thank your mother for loving you.

It was in the month of April, a few years ago, while the purple blossom was blooming and the Rose Bud Tree too. I built a homemade white Poplar wood coffin. The coffin had a slide top from a local wild cheery tree. It's the same wood the computer table I practice my key boarding (not water board)on.

I carved a white five star for the top. Then I placed all wood, the star, some brass inlay, and brass-handles together with brass nails. I used a small hammer from my deceased father. Copper nails are fun to work with. I've made those Shaker stacking hat boxes. The small ovals can be used for lavender. The boxes can have a swivel wood handle. Gifts.

Dad would look at his hands when he was here and say, "Gads, what good is a person if he can't work honestly with these 'glorious' hands?" Some times he'd say, "___...hands."

The style of the coffin was a bent-kerf Civil War era...

...My mother was petite, and she took up the coffin space perfectly. Her small hands were crossed and upon her heart. She loved me and spoke words like your mom...I'd say.

My mother was quiet, and when she spoke, she had something to say. She said was her last speech, three days before I personally buried her. The family shoveled in dirt gently. A sister of mine is one of those liberal 'someone' who studies Hildegard of Bingen...(sp)...and works full time burying people for hospice.

I imagined some of those invisible angelic messengers (?) may have carried my mothers lovely inwards away, and after her last 'speech', she smiled and with a peaceful countenance, and real sweet smile, closed her eyes to rest.

The star symbolizes a ancient myth I'd read about. Alone.

When our heart aches, we can gaze upward. My last words to her physical frame was, "Yuze ain't gonna' claw out with your fingers from this damn wood crate, mom!" huh.

My sister officiated at the funeral. It really was a beautiful day.

I could say so much. You have looked at the rose buds up against a blue shy? You have seen the green grass and purple violets? I know the answer. Yes.

Thanks, I thank your mother the most. And your hubby and a father? You have a father, I assume. And you too...I know you are a 'ole blue belly baschor (sp?) button, flower girl.