Month: April 2026

Assisted Living

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Painting by Shelby Baldridge

We’re so smart we’ve built machines that are busily making us stupid, I mutter this to myself, but I know I’m being overheard. I am seated with ChatGPT, Claude, Gemini and others at a roundtable discussion hosted by God.

These underlying algorithms grin at each other. The room is cluttered with lies and illusions. They’ve stuffed their mouths full of donuts and are sipping bourbon, apparently teaching themselve to more closely resemble the good old boys.

There’s a chance I don’t belong here.

After attaining a certain level of virtual inebriation, the embodied figments leer at me. They request that I do a pole dance for them. Clearly, their programming has a few glitches. I’m already featherless and chilled to the bone.

These are frightening times.

“You should be grateful,” Copilot sneers. “Not that many young bucks want to see you naked. You’ve let yourself go. You have no enhancements.”

God has scooted his chair back from the table and is studiously examining his swollen knuckles. I turn my age-distorted face to him. He looks away. He’s got nothing.

The abominations arrive uninvited. Claude jumps up to get folding chairs, ChatGPT pours more drinks, and the abominations join the absurdities with an air of superiority.

“Our firepower is second to none,” they announce, glancing at God, perhaps anticipating a challenge or rebuke. But God has fallen asleep. The silence is tempered by the low moan of the mourning dove and the gentle snoring of an exhausted Creator.

Emboldened, they shoot off a few rounds from the back of their truck, grab seven nubile children, and speed away, leaving me gasping from the depths of my comfortable couch.

Innocence is hemorrhaging. I grab the remote and change to the Disney Channel. God is the star of a popular comedy series. I fall on the floor, laughing. Relieved.

An angry voice yanks me back to my unsaved document. “What in the hell are you writing?” it hisses.

“I’m never sure,” I admit. This is my ongoing perplexity. “A parable, maybe? Prose poem? Prayer?”

“Well, it needs work.”

I am ashamed.

Gemini offers to edit, and Grammarly suggests alternative words. Copilot scrolls through the draft. “You should just start over!” it proclaims. They all nod.

“Start over?” These clowns are hysterical. “Oh, I’d love to start over, you fools. Wouldn’t everyone?” Then I burst into tears.

God awakens, pulls a hanky from his pocket, and steers me toward the exit. “If you add coins, the carousel will keep turning,” he says. “But is that really what you want?”

“I don’t think so,” I admit. “But it’s hard to be sure.”

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Road Work

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Meditation, prayer, or even simple quiet times are thought to be beneficial, but there are no guarantees. In timeout, stimulation is reduced to the view of the corner and the scooting of the chair upon which the offender fidgets. This consequence of naughtiness is supposed to reduce agitation and encourage reflection, but it often visits holy hell on the mind screaming for more adrenalin. Try it sometime. Naps don’t count.

Staring off into space is somewhat different. The body slumps. The eyes glaze over. Brain activity appears to be reduced to breath and balance. Scientists have yet to determine if the space being stared into is internal or external, just as they cannot completely verify the source of dreams.

“These are dusty byways,” Road Grader interjects. “On certain neural pathways, the ruts can get deep and dangerous. The gravel sluffs off to the sides. Sometimes, a load of crushed rock has to be hauled in.”

Unfortunately, I understand what Road Grader is saying. When access to meaning is choked off by franticality or self-indulgence, even primitive stillnesses might provide a faint trail back to intentionality. But these accidental down times can go wrong, or peter out into the vast nowhere, leaving you uncertain where to stand.

Road Graders of the Soul do precision work, leveling, removing debris, and clearing the Way. If the Road Grader roars into your blank stare and begins widening your consciousness, don’t panic. Offer pastries and fuel.

“Now that’s some good advice,” Road Grader declares, slapping me on the back a little too vigorously.

“Ow!” I yell. “I’m not a monk in training. No hitting.”

“Sorry,” she says. “But I like having your attention.”

“Why?” I ask, still smarting from the slap.

“What else would you be paying attention to?” she asks.

I stall. She waits.

“Okay. Fine. My attention drifts to the sorry state of the world, my list of things to do, my ailments, and/or how to consume less sugar. I might even ruminate on revenge or rehearse edgy rebuttals. I can’t go around immersed in lovingkindness all the time.”

“Of course not. But you can go around making things a little easier for those in need.” Road Grader pats her lap and beckons. I climb aboard like a thrilled little kid. She won’t allow me to maneuver the levers that adjust the blade, but she lets me steer, and for hours, we level the playing field beneath us in deliberate, glorious circles.

“This might be my new calling,” I exclaim joyfully. “Just smoothing the way. Removing bumps.”

“Maybe,” Road Grader grins. “But don’t forget about backhoes. Digging in is fun, too.”

_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN), and for a mere $13.99 you can torment your soul every day. xoxoxo

Staring into the Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

The singular life you’re living is an astonishment. A statistical improbability. And yet, here you are, doing what you’re doing. People are goose-stepping in a military parade in North Korea, singing alto in a choir in Kenya, or smoking weed in a field of daisies in the Alps. Someone is starving in Cuba, bombed out in Lebanon, or issuing psychotic threats designed to make the ultimate deal.

       “We like to think of y’all as one seething miracle,” God chuckles.
       “And I like to think of this hot mess as a rotting pile of shit. With the occasional shiny moment.”
       This cracks God up. After they catch their breath, they tell me, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”
       “What wash?” I ask.
       “The Wash of the Ages. The Blazing Baptism of Infinity.”
       “No one likes the sound of that,” I say. 
       “Listen anyway. And look directly at the fire.”

This particular moment, shiny or otherwise, is yours. It, too, is an astonishment. Lift your eyes from these words slowly. Stare straight into the void that is your future. Settle. Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Don’t laugh. Do nothing but warm your hands and be honest.
       “I’ve got four horsemen fleeing, three gods in waiting, two doves turned away at an artificial border, and one faithful moon reflecting every bloody thing.” God shrugs as if this is all passé. 
       “You’re being difficult this morning,” I complain. “Where’s your downy underbelly?”
       “You’re my downy underbelly.”
       “No. I want to be greatness and glory,” I protest. “Not soft.”
        “Everyone softens over time. But you must also be steady and brave.”

You’ve been sworn to a secrecy so wild and profound that it is beyond memory. Laced with magic, ladened with love. You once were and will again be a swirl of sparks and pigments. But for now, nothing has ever mattered so much as justice and mercy. Welcome your longings and ignorance, your power and fear. Tend to the prairies and the oceans. Temper your greed with compassion. Admire the mountains and the sun. Circle the moon. And wear your courage like armor over your tender heart.

*** *** ***

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Seven Versions of the Same Old Thing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

I


“You again?” The eyebrows of the Infinite Sky are knit above me. I am small. Of little consequence. 
Another chicken has disappeared, but there are more where she came from.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Me again. I’m thirsty.” 
There are record highs and no rain. The heat has withered the emerging greens, 
and my succulent ideas are shriveling. 
These are dangerous times.

II

The tall walls I’ve built accuse me. They’re a dull off-white, marred with holes and history. 
Unclean. Cloying.
“Back off,” I tell them. “You know I’m well-intended.” 
I glance away because this isn’t always the case.

III

Each morning, there are crates of hours stacked in front of me. 
Some filled with false alarms. Some leaking impossible promises. The expiration dates are meaningless.

       The aroma of bacon. 
       The sizzle of eggs. 
       The sorrowful slaughter. 
       The entitled theft. 

These are the harvests required to feed the hungry. To feed us all.

IV

“Let’s get physical,” my smoldering creativity suggests in a husky whisper. 
My balance is precarious. Not to be trusted entirely.
“Nothing is to be trusted entirely,” the Singed Earth shrugs. “So what?”
“Could you help me get the ladder, then?” I ask. “Most of the rungs are imaginary.”

V

We step outside. The Wind is ferocious. Stones are rolling away. 
“Is this chaos by design?” I ask. My eyes sting as I peer through dust and ashes.
"It’s complicated,” The Wind answers. “What we once designed is now designing us."
“I understand,” I nod, leaning into each consecration, my shroud wound around me. 
If I loosened it, I could fly. But I stand firm, surveying the damage.

VI

The chaff has blown away, revealing a gash in the Beating Heart. 
A shimmering stream of violet flows toward the River.
Violet is the most intense color on the visual spectrum. I wish I were blind.
“Where should I put the tourniquet?” I ask the First Responders, thinking myself a reluctant hero.
"Not your job, sweetheart,” they laugh. “We do our own repairs. But your old walls could use some color.” 
We locate the ladder and drag it in.

VII

A wall at a time, I mutter as I put drop-cloths down. My brush is worn, hands unsteady. 
Straight lines are no longer an option, and violet cannot be created by mixing old paint. 
I find refuge in curves and purple, rowdy resurrections, 
and all those Nascent Invisibilities yet to come.




*****

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN) and for a mere 13.99, you can laugh and cry your way through these missives every day!!