Day of the Dead Poem for Bobby Kennedy

bobby
which bobby that bobby sitting there

next to christopher pretty boy

edge of old sagging bed

glorious threadbare star quilt

one room plank wood shack

cracked windowpanes

that bobby

pine ridge indian reservation

white world on hold

that bobby

speaking softly

pretty boy mother father mangled killed

buried at wounded knee

just three days prior

that bobby

time drifting by some say hours

speaking softly

that bobby

bewildered reporters

stranded outside with junky cars

wild horses and barking dogs

no pay phone booth

all those enthusiastic supporters

patiently waiting impatiently

in rapid city

fidgety blue-eyed campaign aids fidgeting

not allowed inside

that bobby

sitting there speaking softly

with christopher pretty boy

that bobby who once said

perhaps we cannot prevent

this world from being a world

in which children suffer

but we can reduce the number

of suffering children

that bobby

whistle stop tour across the prairie bobby

huge crowds lining rural highways

in indiana bobby

waves of students rushing knocking

over chairs grabbing ripping shirt sleeves

stealing his cufflinks in the old field house

at kansas state university bobby

screaming crowds in los angeles

mexicans on castro street holding out

plates of tortillas

bobby

scar faced black children greenville mississippi

laying on filthy mattresses

tummies bloated

merced california migrant labor camps

families huddling ten to a room fighting off night terrors rats

bobby

that bobby who in scottsbluff nebraska once said

where one of us prospers all prosper

where one of us falters all falter

that bobby laying there on the pantry floor

at the Ambassador Hotel clutching

busboy juan romero’s rosary beads

asking if everyone else was alright

dreadful june morning

my alarm clock radio woke me up

the senator is dead

i was 20 he was 43

two million people standing at attention

as bobby’s funeral train sadly clanked by

salty old veterans in eisenhower jackets

boy scouts sailors firemen saluting

little leaguers holding caps on their hearts

nuns and factory workers

sweet old black women hysterical

arms raised to the sky

brawny white men clutching tiny flags

in ham-hock hands

white policemen holding up black babies

poor white trash wiping away tears

whole families crying sobbing heaving

wide eyed school children holding signs

goodbye bobby

so-long bobby god bless bobby

simply bobby

that bobby

who once said

let us tame the savageness of man

that bobby  

who would not have bombed cambodia

no kent state no jackson state no watergate

bobby that bobby

who would rather be sitting on a worn blanket

with a heartbroken orphan

in a shack on the pine ridge

bobby that bobby

the bobby i loved

--David Bunnell,

Day of the Dead, 2013

How to Improve Your Short-Term Memory without Playing Computer Games

IF YOU WANT TO PLAY COMPUTER GAMES to shore up your memory and cognitive skills, go ahead. There are plenty of scientific studies to demonstrate the effectiveness of programs from Luminosity, Posit Science and other brain exercise companies.

But if you are like me, the idea seems retrograde. When personal computers first came out in the mid-1970's, I played lunar lander on an Altair and was a fan of Microsoft's Flight Simulator which was once the most popular computer game for the IBM PC.

But that was then.

Today my work life revolves around computers. I spend hours every day writing articles, sending out tweets and positing on Facebook and LinkedIn.  I regularly use a dozen or more iPhone apps and I read books on my Kindle. The very idea of finding another reason to stare at a screen (big or small) is an anathema.

If you share this sentiment, you may be interested in the simple exercise I've devised to shore up my short-term memory which leverages off a daily ritual that I have been doing for at least 50 years.

It has been amazingly effective for me. I can remember names, facts, numbers, and visual images better than I could 20 years ago and while I can't back up my claims with double-blind studies, it won't take much of your time to try it out.

All you need is a daily newspaper.

Every morning I read The New York Times, usually but not always at a coffee shop. I read the entire front page first without turning to the pages where articles are continued.

Today's edition, for example, had six front-page stories and a striking photograph of Pope Francis waking though a large joyous crowd of presumably Catholic worshipers.

The lead story was about Iran seeking a nuclear accord to end sanctions that have pretty much wrecked their economy. There was a news analysis piece by David Sanger, one of my favorite reporters, noting how things in the Middle East have shifted dramatically in the past couple week with both Iran and Syria wanting to negotiate deals with the United States.

The other articles included one about the many signs of distress exhibited by the shooter who killed a bunch of people in a Washington, D.C. navy yard, a report that the Mars rover has failed to find signs of life on the planet, the surprising news that the textile mills in South Carolina are operating again, and finally, the shock waves created by the Pope who said the church had grown "obsessed" with abortion, gay marriage, and contraception (no duh).

While reading the front page I made a mental note to myself to remember the name of Iran's new president, Hassan Rouhani, and also the name of the Mars rover, Curiosity.

Moving on, I turned the pages one after another, picking up the continued stories and reading the other stories all the way through to the final opt-ed page.

I usually read every article in the front section but only articles that interest me in the other sections.Reading The New York Times takes about 30-40 minutes (I'm not a fast reader). And of course it takes longer on Sunday.

The memory exercise comes during the 10-15 minutes it takes me to walk home. I simply try to remember as much as possible about what I've read, including names and numbers.

Usually I can I recall what articles were on the front-page and where they were positioned. Today, I remembered the photo of the pope, the name of the Iranian president. I chuckled thinking about David Sanger's observation "three chess players President Obama deeply distrusts" are pulling the strings in the Middle East:  Vladimir Putin, Bashar al-Assad and Hassan Rouhani.

I try to remember every article I've read. I remembered how many barrels of oil are being stolen daily by thieves in Nigeria--100,000, and the annual cost is $3.8 billion. I remembered the phrase "Nigeria's larcenous ingenuity" was used in describing how the thieves tap into oil pipelines and even process the oil in makeshift refineries.

I remembered the somewhat weird article about John McCain's essay trashing Putin which was published in the old communist newspaper, Pravda.

I could picture the photograph of Syrian rebels teaching women wearing hijabs how to fire machine guns. By time I got home I've remembered about 25 specific articles, facts, names, photos, etc.

Some days I go back to this exercise later in the day or before going to bed just to see how much stuff I can still remember.

This may or may not work for you, it definitely works for  me and it doesn't cost anything, doesn't really takes much time, and I would read the paper anyway.

How Old Are You When You Turn 60?

ALL I REALLY WANTED TO DO was read The New York Times and enjoy my “simple Mexican breakfast” of rice, beans, eggs, salsa and tortillas when I stopped in this morning at one of my favorite Berkeley lunch counters.

But the African-American man with salt-and-pepper beard, droopy but penetrating eyes sitting next to me just had to talk to someone, so I politely obliged him.

“Had your coffee, young man?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “first thing, have to have it when I get up or I can’t function.”

“I used to be like that,” he said.

“But after one cup,” I continued, “I am usually good for the whole day. Maybe I’ll have another cup in the afternoon, but not always.”

He laughed. “I only drink coffee every other morning, but I drink brandy every night. Brandy keeps you looking young. But you got to drink it every night.”

Somewhat incredulous, I prodded him, “how’s that?”

“Look at me,” he replied holding up 6 fingers, “this is how old I will soon be. Can you believe that, young man?”

“Well you only have 40 years to go,” I answered.

I thought about telling him that I’m 67 but decided not to. Didn’t want to ruin his day or his perceptions. I turned back to my newspaper, and he soon found someone else to talk to.

Seems strange to think of 60 as old. I think of 60 as young. 70 is middle age. At 80 you are older but still not old. 90 and above is old.

Death, when it comes, should only happen after age 100.

day the towers come tumbling down

day the towers

came tumbling down

betty ong picks up the airfone

cockpit not answering

someone’s been stabbed

we’re getting hijacked

while george bush reads aloud

girl got a pet goat

she likes to go running

with her pet goat

sujo john bounds down 81 flights of stairs

the south tower collapses

he’s buried alive

but somehow survives

in the lobby lauren manning

catches on fire

when the elevator explodes

she runs shrieking outside

random brave man rips off his jacket

smothers her flames

we never learn his name

and yes 25 skin grafts minus-four-fingers later

lauren’s just fine

staircase blown asunder

fire captain jonas gropes in the dark

surfing down chunks of steel discovers daylight

turns around goes right back in
denise rabinowitz escorts her frail 75-year-old dad

takes the last elevator from the 90th floor

they walk home uneventfully

nicole simpson

decides not to get on the elevator

with her assistants at morgan stanley

floor 73

she lives on they all gone

10 guilty years later she dreams safely again

lucky ronny francesco he’s one-of-only-four

above the 91st floor

who tells tales to his grandkids

hazel gamal

seeks to escape billowing toxic grey asbestos clouds

the cacoffiny of howling sirens

unholy den of discombobulation

he ducks into a battery tunnel toll booth  

somehow hears his wedding ring drop

somehow finds it

in ankle high dust and guess what

still married

from nearby studio window

willy dubois witnesses all

second plane lumbers into second tower

fireball fills up sky

mammoth flames pour out gaping hole

then silence

air fills with papers

buy/sell orders personnel reports memos

to the boards of directors

and sadly yes

70 who work on floor 106

windows on the world

a restaurant whose name

the new york times claims

was not lightly chosen

plus 100 who show up that wretchedly sad

tuesday morning

for breakfast

all die but chef michael lomanaco

he’s at the farmers’ market buying vegetables

i do fondly recall his lobes of foie gras in sauternes

burnished ducks and butter-braised lobsters

the abundantly long list of napa chardonnays

thinking as i look down at toy taxis

i really should come here

more often

i could be one of those despairing patrons

hanging out the windows waving linen tablecloths

at passing helicopters

streets tightly packed below

people not knowing what to do

some look up

police dispatcher says ominously

bodies dropping like flies from the upper floors

and so they are

i suspect leaping beats searing pain

anonymous man

calmly embraces gravity’s ecclesiastic suction

drops head first

arms side-by-side

left leg bent at the knee

ever so casually

like a 150-miles-an-hour arrow

his final thrill

captured on film for the world to see

--David Bunnell

For Those Who Marched with Martin Luther King on August 28, 1963

his daddy never hear the splash

willie james howard 15

sure can sing

he has a sweet round face

good-natured too

for a black boy sweeping floors

at the live oak florida dime store 1944

during the war we can agree was fought for justice and liberty

oh willie know alright

he know the rules

but cyndy goff she 15 too

she smile at him

silky blond hair eyes sparkling blue

willie know the rules

he know

he shouldn't write that note

i love your name

i love your voice

for a sweetheart you are my choice

and for this tiny bit of poetry

willie paid a terrible inflated price

cyndy goff she show willie's note to her daddy phil

her daddy phil show it to two more good ole boys

we forget their names

it doesn't matter now

they come for willie

they drag him off his front porch his momma lula

please oh god what my willie done

she clings to him

til they stick that pistol in her face

yes they come for willie

they fling him in the backseat of phil's old chevrolet

drive over to the bond howell lumber company

where willie's daddy work

james howard you'd better come with us

that boy of yourn in a heap of trouble

so james howard comes out

he tries talking to willie

son he say

but one of the ole boys shout shut up nigger

or we put a bullet in that boy's head

so james howard gets in

and they all drive down the old red clay road

that winds through mossy old oak trees

way down to the suwanne river

far far away

wha de old folks stay

and phil ask willie

did you or did you not write that note boy answer me boy

yes sir willie say

with rope they bind willie's hands behind his back

they bind his legs they force his daddy to haul willie out the car

they force his daddy to stand willie up on an embankment 

near the waters edge

phil ask willie

you know the penalty for what you done boy answer me boy

yes sir willie say

right then james howard know he'll find no mercy today in these white men

good southern christian white men

they do kindly oblige him bid his son adieu

willie i can't do nothin for you now

i'm just glad i belong to a church and can pray for you

then phil raise his gun

bullet or river boy bullet or river

bawling terrified willie stagger back

he stumble he fall

his daddy scream and scream

his daddy never hear the splash

good southern christian white men

they drive james howard back to the lumber yard

so he can finish his shift

before he come home to lula

all he say to lula

willie not coming home

--David Bunnell