Edges of my Life.

  Almighty Father,  Who wilt hear the prayer of  them that Love Thee,  we pray Thee to be with those  who brave the heights of Thy Heaven and who carry  the battle to our enemies. Guard and protect them,  we pray Thee, as they fly their appointed rounds.  May they, as well as we, know Thy strength and power  and armed with Thy might may bring this war to  rapid end. We pray They that thy end of the war  may come soon, and that once more we may know peace  on earth. May the men who fly this night be kept  safe in Thy care, and may they be returned safely  to us. We shall go forward, trusting in Thee, knowing  that we are in Thy care now and forever. In the  name of Jesus Christ.  Amen. Lutheran Chaplain William Downey scribbled on the bottom of his prayer: "For the crew of the  Enola  Gay  prior to their take off on the atomic mission to Hiroshima. Signed on Tinian, 6 August 1945”. _______...

It was back before the turn of the century when I lived in that storefront on Vanderbilt Avenue. He just sits back in his beaten up old chair through all kinds of weather as the Park Slope crowd stream past.  The rasta man has his LP's and books displayed out on the sidewalk near Grand Army Plaza subway in Brooklyn. He's often there at the entrance.   I paid twenty-five dollars for a comfortable old wicker love seat once.  Streetwise. Street smart. Making a living. Waiting to make a sale. So he can eat. So he can survive. So he can live.  So when the rasta man saw me riding past on my bicycle, riding slow up the hill with my garden tools, he just walked out into the street and stopping me cold said: “You know me man. I'm no beggar man but I need some food, some rice and beans. Can you help Andrew? Police have shut me down.” There's a thin line between civil society and revolution and sometimes it's more civil to revolt. What is it that keeps us down, compressed lik...