Veritas Lux Mea…

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Chapter XII     Chicken Scratches to the nth power… Begun Late-September 2008.

One would give you the news and strangepeade would, while Chesire Cat smile amuse, just give you facts to peruse, but which will you refuse. or abuse?

n. Edumacation 101

Not one Muslim to Allah five times a day prayin’,

Are executives in U.S. Media Networks full of disinformation astoundin’,

Or as executives in private & public Financial, who we: they’re enslavin’.

 

Not one Muslim, too,

In Clinton’s & Bush’s nine-eleven Mossad proxy war crew,

Or in Christian & Catholic Church’s full of decadence I wish untrue.

 

And for a people supposedly gassed and burned:

They segregate, torture and kill the Palestinian from their lands away turned.

Not one Muslim has, but it is the Israeli who into America has wormed…

 

Now Iran has allied with Russia and China with Caspian plans derail!

Now no more Greater Israel from the Euphrates to the Nile,

And with America in financial ruin, not one Muslim couldn’t smile…

n+1. GEOrgePOLITICS

 

And with America in financial ruin,

With mismanaged military adventures Mid-East & Central Asia stallin’,

And a corrupt, massive government blackhole into ever more tax dollars flowin’,

 

Whom are we now helpless to watch arise,

Into power & wealth’s projections surprise,

Across the world into vacuum no more America comprise?

 

Russia into Iran with stationed Sunburn’s?

Or into South America to return:

Morales & Chavez see Putin as friend and Uncle Sam as infectious germ…

 

For U-238 & hydrocarbons: China & Russia in Central Asia.

China rebuilding DRC for coltan metal’s electronic future wages,

And now China in space and talking about the Moon & Mars in stages…

 

And Europa: Left on the shore by a once mighty Zeus now resign…

Will it now unite behind a Franco-Germanic teconomic machine to shine?

American influenced it Balkanized, but, will it now climb to heights refine?

 

 

Tempus edax rerums.

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Chapter V     Which follows the Short Chapter of Urbis Brain Droppings which do smell fine… Chicken-Scratched June 2007 – Feburary 2008.

Secret & lovely Reader, as punishment for my elucidation excesses, I present to you replenishment’s profound writing refreshing stresses! Hither commeth, strangepeade, Glorious & Hidden Master with promise of further chicken scratches caresses…

34. Fear

From remote substations,
Merrily and full of stomach hungers wanting libations,
Did I descend upon the Amish countryside farmer’s creations.
With DCSI Field Service Engineers and PP&L reps,
To fill our bellies with fine German foods buffet.
Knowing not my intestines were to rebel
And squeeze out a soufflé!
Knowing not,
Flowing soup from an unwashed pot,
Filling belly to unwise size lot,
When all of a sudden,
My asshole squeezed shut from lighting bolt,
Sent from bubbling intestines revolt!
Sweat trickling down my temple remote,
Feeling Fear & Panic,
My inside-gaze of tremors horror of guts foul mechanic’s retort!
Under curious gaze of friends un-hiding,
Did I excuse myself confiding,
Tight butt cheek walking & praying,
Heading straight and true to crapper aligning!
With wide-eyed Fear,
Guts gas bubbling out my rear,
Did I run bolting like a steer!
Shouldering through people of gazes that sear,
Did I find toilet of manic & insane eyes who peer!
My sweating butt cheeks let out a machine gun tapper,
And crying out in relief & surprise,
Did shit sail out in embarrassing groaning reprise!
And smear poo everywhere to my un-cool.
Knife poised and sweating in the loo,
Cut off underwear so stained by my stool!
Shame, Fear & Horror
I came out un-same side rear unclad poorer,
To be presented by old man gazing in horror!

35. We’re Tragic

Sitting in the Chevy,
Just twenty-one and drunk, on Norfolk Navy Base,
I let out a sigh, my heart’s levy,
Full of quiet, watching the Moon’s judgment of my case.
Gunner’s Mate friend’s self-imposed silence, respectful, is so heavy.
“We’re Tragic,” I said.
“He died. Why didn’t my sister bury him?” I said in my head.
Rotting on a slab for thirty days the maggots fed,
And the coroner didn’t have an address, so sad.
My father’s Army post traumatic stress syndrome was bad,
But my sister couldn’t recognize tragedy,
Because in her head,
She only saw red revenge’s fad,
For beatings had,
And I understand,
Burned out compassion for what was once a boy,
Now a lost lad.
“What do we make here?” for no one clad in green had,
And so my father came back from mountains & jungles battles mad,
And died Agent Orange cancerous screaming for his mother alone,
And my sister should have known,
But it’s all tragic,
And in my pocket,
The plane tickets: heavy as a stone.
Fly to bury a soldier,
Without his gun’s empty echoing salute,
Next to his unvisited brother earth socket alone,
In lost military graves solemn non-grieving my sister would refute,
And I put the bottle to my lips,
Sad-eyed whisky’d on my recriminations tragic sips astute.

36. Thirty-Six

Today, I turned thirty-six,
And my dad died at fifty-six,
And Iron Maiden sang of Wasted Years,
I’m hoping to start Golden Years,
God, if I can only let go of my fears,
No more room for melodrama,
Thinking of a woman from Alabama,
Need something normal,
No more room for abnormal,
Today, I turned thirty-six,
And I can’t help but think of my dad dead at fifty-six.

37. Simulacrum for Maddy

Sitting in my chair looking outside,
What was it that I want to think I silent confide?
Breeze lifting boughs of trees,
Common everyday noises free,
Secret beauty of buzzing fly,
Creaking of aging house quiet cry,
Passing car,
Angle of morning rays of light of Sol from afar,
My mind to quiet places beauty drifts,
My heart relaxes, shifts,
Secret sun light in my chest filtering out,
Opening of jubilant soul’s flower petals not pout,
Simulacrum of empty, hanging passing moment’s readout…

38. Zombie

My father passed on nothing could.
And like upon door of stout wood,
My heart’s banging on splintering dead image I would.
Decrepit, moldy boxes in attic of mind before I stood,”Nothing here…”
Not a skill, not a thing, not a word for inner eye to peer?
Nothing to hear?
Is absence something and not a heart’s terrible tear?
Or was he a zombie I fear?
I dread inner theatre & song,
Captivated my father so wrong,
Far away in Dali’s Time so strong,
In some far away country dripping distances long,
Went up some dark river like Conrad,
What came back wasn’t whole and was bad.
And some day when I a father,
And pass on to son & daughter,
Love of words reading to make laughter,
Of hands mastery of tools that create, fix & matter,
Of banter with loveliness that which make young people’s heart’s canter,
Of science & philosophy’s ethical morality lighting our way lantern,
Of swimming in oceans deep to light with soul’s sunlight splatter,
But nothing to melancholy poison them a mad-hatter,
I solemnly would rather not to gather…

39. Allegory of Judgment

Chrissenger of I was thinking,
Saw my eyes of similar,
Images vile & stinking.
No plan,
No thinking,
Obscured by mere block dissonances bland neon bar winking.
Fowl language,
Drinking,
Presence of children in one-room apartment.
Thrust of sentiments honorable,
Counter of acts dishonorable.
Time to go from blows un-Christian deplorable.

40. Heat Sync

Her body entwined with mine,
On my side her breasts pressed into my chest,
Head buried somewhere near my shoulder supine,
In the dark I felt put to test,
For in her beating heart’s heat,
I felt her need only of tender caresses guest…
Our hushed words decoded: she needed a heat sink,
But I felt, too, like she, connections unphysical bliss
& our blossoming heat I hope will sync…

41. Species

What am I?
She said wide-eyed, “…we’re crazy…” in full,
That I’m crazy for holding her in my arms sly.
Am I Hamlet pondering my skull housing I?
To question my feelings & convictions in a mull?
No, I to not foreboding; my heart yearns to fly…
Like on the couch holding her close we to soar high.
Why the disconnect with thoughts like leaves the wind to cull?
Humans a different species like the seasons, are trees tall not to cry.

Chapter VI     The Sad Chapter of the Patchwork Man whom I did meet in the Big Haus. Chicken-Scratched in Berks County Prison March 2004.

The Patchwork Man

I will be your teacher and, behold, here is ugliness, and here lies tragedy, here sleeps the Patchwork Man.
I feel a sorrow for the others, but not for myself as I’m just an eccentric ruffian passing through, but a full and fulsome sorrow for all the small, forgotten little people who have no idea, no conception or inkling of the wider world about them. They are the rats of society and they are stuck on a vicious exercise wheel of petty crime and drugs while clothed in dark discord. I see them, these seemingly hapless men, these Blue Men harvesting an obscene fruit under an incandescent star in the endless groves of the ill tree of Shame.
And so the harvesters, too, are the eaters.
I fear it and so should you. I fear the reaching, corrupting root of its pestilence in my belly and the foul, withered, queerly quivering blossom in my spirit. For you see, to know the overly ripe flesh riddled with worms, the heroin-addict withdrawal vomit fumes wafting to your outraged nostrils and the heavy syrupy acidic juice oozing down your tortured throat to your screaming stomach is to know the fruit called Sorrow.
I have seen what the word pathetic looks like. I wish I hadn’t. I’ll share it with you.
It is now etched, branded and stamped with sweaty, Vulcan fury into my occipital lobe forever, for all eternity. The word pathetic looks like a diabetic, time-ravaged old man sitting nude in a chair in a half-lit, dirty shower stall under a lukewarm jet of water while lathering the stump of his amputated leg with palsied, arthritic hands. His gray, drooping testicles looked like they wanted to jump ship. I never asked the old senor what he had done to find himself in the retirement home of prison as I didn’t want to know, didn’t have the courage to look damnation in its watery, hopelessly alcoholic eye.
And Time is a murderer that stocks him in this Rogue’s Gallery.
Yet, it was with an aloof contemplation of that image in my mind that I arrived under the cold, gray and drizzling sky at the deserted, decrepit bus station of realization that this old man wasn’t a deserving repository, a worthy receptacle of my naïve pity and compassion, for I had seen him in union, in marriage, in a disturbing kaleidoscopic vision gyrating drunkenly in six different stages:
Ignoble, fatherless birth.
‘Danny’
‘4′
‘Queen’
Pathetic personified: diabetic incarceration.
The stink of an alcoholic death in a lost, filthy low-rent apartment in Reading, Pennsylvania.
I met a Puerto Rican and his name was ‘Danny.’ He was twenty years old. He and I talked for the short time it was possible before he returned to the filthy warrens of Reading. I found him to be intelligent and street-smart, though he did not detect these qualities within himself, nor the possibility, the rich bank account inherit, implicit with his youth as I did. He told me that he would sell Dope again and there was nothing I could say to dissuade him, for if the military and college had been so good for me, what was I doing here?
It is very difficult to give encouragement in prison.
‘Danny’ doesn’t realize it, can’t see beyond the arrogance of his youth that he is just another nameless shell about to be expended. Though it academic, it is something completely different to witness, to feel the inhumane forces shaping and controlling ‘Danny.’ He merely becomes sharper upon the whetstone of prison where he strengthens the bond to his society – The Gang. The System doesn’t do anything to prevent this by offering him alternatives and thus the idea of Crime and Punishment subsequently loses, as I see it, some degree of realism and relevancy.
I wonder if ‘Danny,’ and the many just like him, has any idea of native self beyond what is foisted upon him in the prison blues on the inside and the counter-culture programming and marketing on the outside.
If ‘Danny’ had a father, a real true blue father, this man would surely have heard with the ears of his heart the bells melancholy ringing for his son’s wayward soul and with an augury of the gut, known that his son desperately needed fathering with whatever means his immigrant hands would have grasped at – God, the belt or the military. Yet society is blind to the effects of the social disease of not enough fathers, not enough discipline and somehow doesn’t feel the misfiring of its womb while collecting the aborted abominations for the ever slavering industry, the ever hungry economic maw of prison. Society’s Puritan Eye of Sensibility is saved the offensive sight of the juvenile worms chewing away at its belly, but we all feel, at least I do, the pain when a man-child like Bradlee R. Fulk, a 17 year-old heroin-addicted robbery suspect, is shot multiple times by Wernersville, Pennsylvania police on the evening of February 19th, 2004. In the hush that surely descended afterward, I wonder if anyone thought how Society had failed him. He was just a kid.
‘4′ is a thirty-one year-old man. Short and wiry, he stares with the dark, pool-like Puerto Rican eyes out upon of American landscape of violence that utterly shocked me into silence. ‘4′ and I used to workout before he returned to Reading. We would do twenty-five sets of twenty push-ups and twenty sets of ten pull-ups. When the sweat would start to roll, some clothes would start to come off. I remember the first time we got down to just our shorts. I’ll never forget it. I now understood why he, at the best of times, had a bit of difficulty keeping up…
‘4′ has been shot five times – five different times. Five different times that missed major arteries and organs. Surely you now understand why I referred to him as, “4.”
He has a large, striking tattoo on his left shoulder with the blazing red caption, “Money is the root of all evil.” I suppose he would know more than anyone else.
He is lives in Reading and is the father for nine children.
‘Queen’ is in his early forties. He has a lot of gray in his stubble and a lot of time behind bars – around twenty of them here and there. The reason why I refer to him as ‘Queen,’ privately of course, is to honor his quick, slashing manner in which he dispatches his opponents. Chess can teach you many things I have discovered. Among them is humility. ‘Queen’ taught me to carefully consider my moves. He said that I’m impulsive. I’ve never heard that before. He also said that I’m a smart-ass.
‘Queen’ has had many years to hone his game to the sharpness of butcher knife and he plunged it deep into the heart of my stupidity, but I know, and I feel he does too, that ‘Queen’ doesn’t have a lot of moves left. He will never be free, even when he leaves the Big House. He will always be in check by an ever-vigilant queen. A queen checkmated me once so I guess I can relate.
I liked ‘Queen’ the most, even despite his cocaine trafficking convictions. He has lived a lot of life behind bars, but is no slouch. The men respected him.
Sadly, however, in my gruesome analysis, ‘Queen’ is just a stage. Like the others.
All of them whirling in a chaotic and jumbled vision. All of them some important part, some integral, tragic necessity in a composite man.
A patchwork man.
A Patchwork Man who will never experience or understand the beauty of the world, as I’ve been fortunate enough to come to know. Patchwork Man is essentially empty. Benign. Each point of his existence is the same – Birth, Life & Death. All equal in potential. All equal to nothingness.
It is like he doesn’t exist and if not for the brief ignition of the sparkler of his ignorance, Patchwork Man would not at all.
And when the sun sets on their tragic lives, the dust will soon fly before the winds of the cold night to scar our souls, for it is us, our society that gave birth to him.

Finite

Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem.

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Chapter VII     Which follows the Sad Chapter of the Patchwork Man whom I did once know… Chicken-Scratched mainly during a trutly terrible Winter in Pennsylvania in November & December of 2002 and fleshed-out throughout early 2003.

Fellow Traveler, I lay before you, further evidence and in your high confidence, do you not find it all of a florescent evanescence? Mind you, gravely so; satire is the wellspring of happiness & of high consciousness.
 

 

25. North Sea Grey

Cold and dripping, Sunburgh survival suit gripping,
Blast of hot rotor wash, I was taken over sea angry and grey,
Upon the Sea of the North, did I ride like the Valkyries!
Super Puma storm tossed & lunch lossed,
Of hydraulics-warmed steel and lit by red lights,
Did we find warmth and friendship going forth,
Amidst the death harboring froth of waves of the Blue North.
And we came forth,
Into storms of lighting and frightening.
Light, weak and cold.
Wind, fierce and bold.
Upon the Sea of the North, did I ride like the Valkyries!

26. The Blue Man

Moon hanging high,
I sleeping neigh,
Hey!
Somewhere in Utah,
On the way to see my Aunt Barbarah,
Was conductors gentle prodding felt.
“CPR?”
“Navy trained.”
“Come.”
Down darkened paths of Amtrak’s decks,
Was lead I, strangepeade,
Heed my speed, said the conductor
Oh, God, why me, a strangepeade?
Life’s steed departed,
Was found old man’s un-delight farted.
Blue of face, grizzled cheek I can’t recant,
Ass cheeks shitting on toilet pants,
Piss on stall, I recall.
No honor is death on a shit stall.
Weeping wife,
Heaping stench,
I was in a pinch!
Train stopped,
I was ready to pop.
In dark of Utah desert night,
I pulled the dead man from such a shitty sight,
‘Oh, what a freight!
Fat belly giggling,
Intestinal out gassing.
On decks of steel, I lade bare,
Ready to swear.
Man’s kiss of life to death’s care,
Give me back my fare!
Fat, dead, blue lips did I dare to kiss?
Saved!
Oh what reminisce my feeling paved!
No remiss,
ER Nurse, heroine of Amtrak’s Night,
The angle of this angel,
Was to first to kiss,
Death’s Un-sweet bliss.
Prodded aside,
I confide.
Woeful eyes of wife,
Did life of shit man woefully pass.
Lights,
From yonder far desert sight,
Dancing on Death’s Night,
4WD ambulance was too late!
Old man’s death,
On a shit stall,
In Amtrak’s Cargo,
Is no way to go.

27. The Edge

Mt. Whitney,
Dry docked and such a pity,
In Norfolk,
City of poor Navy Folk,
And so shitty.
On decks of grey non-skid steel,
In t-shirt and dungarees,
Muscled arms and chest heaving
Rushed forth Eyes of Non-Feeling.
Grinding away under sunny skies,
Day dreaming,
But the Chief would have none of it!
I wanted to fly away,
But would have to pay.
Whilst Eyes of Non-Feel danced,
About antennae and I dismayed with,
Shipyard workers stopped,
Sound soon came to a flop.
Under blue sky and sun so sweet,
Did we spy such a freak!
In suns radiance was knife revealed,
Slashes across stomach,
I was flummoxed!
Eyes of Non-Feel did reveal,
Path to dry docks surface,
But through me!
Rushing,
Forces reconnoitering,
The chase was on!
Fox running about,
Heated hounds chasing without stop.
Non-Feeling Eyes running,
I, in lead, following,
Through grey tunnels of Navy hallowing.
Slipping and tripping,
In P-Ways and ladder backs,
I was gripping red life’s pumping!
Collapsed, I relaxed,
My brothers and I choking into submission,
Mt. Whitney’s Sad Mad Man of Insanity’s Admission.

28. An Axeman of Other Days

Old man and dust,
Bold fan and rust.
Of an old Ford Truck,
Of a nameless horse that struck.
You of memories spans,
You of glimmering, big hands.
Hush,
Hush,
Hush.
Always ready with a Squirt,
We always had our quirks!
Always ready with a book,
My favorite lesson that I took.
Nick-Knacks profusion,
Lost forever in some pack’s confusion.
Big farm painting on the wall,
I’ll paint it before my fall.
Tall and gentle blue-eyed North man,
Call of an ancient, mighty Axe fan.
Sitting in a great leather chair,
I miss you and despair.
The only decent man,
Of recent family history I can.
Slanting setting sun rays,
Floating speckles of quiet dust I pray,
Hanging in the air and I’ll never stray.
Quiet,
Quiet,
Quiet.
All I have is memory,
Fall, that was ours, is over and history,
Call of future days I hear it now and it’s not of misery!

29. Heavy Metal Rage

I claim honesty?
I tell you, it was just plain animosity.
Gun’s trigger,
Bullet’s maddening outrigger.
Driving in heavy metal chariots,
I was striving for light, flowery, pirouettes,
But Ugly mean eyes,
Do I despise,
In imposing heavy metal chariots!
Ugly mean red flags,
Are an ugly mean bull’s stomped rags.
A heavy metal chariot?
A Heavy metal daze,
Of a heavy metal craze!
Ugly ‘lil mean eyes,
Watch out for lil’ scary spells I cast with my steering wheel’s decrees!
Subaru vs. Chevy?
Your levity is the levy!
Scary metal magic?
Scary body tragic!
Kiss of intrinsics?
Bliss of sweet, sweet physics!
Spell cast and out of control lashing,
Smashing and trashing,
Crashing and thrashing!
Screaming and reaming,
Steaming and fleeing!
Metal smashed,
Hearts pulsed in a flash!
Time slowed,
Bodies flowed.
Heavy metal chariot?
A heavy metal axe wielding temporarily insane Word’s Mage!
Heavy metal chariot?
A Heavy Metal Rage!

30. Brother’s Burden

One is lost,
Not known is the cost.
One is near,
Of She, I fear.
Sister.
Resistor.
Me?
Sometimes, I want to flee.
Sierra:
Future mascara?
Arden:
Future pardon?
Rheianna:
Stray I pray not Rheianna!
Time’s Lesson.
Crime’s Session.
Where, how and when?
Do I care?
Now and
Then!
Dope not Time’s repeat,
Hope for fine Scions replete!
Not chains.
Not claims.
Obscurity’s surreally murdering mother,
Is really, purely but a Brother’s Burden.

31. Horse Shit

Alpine Julian’s apples,
My hearts grappling sunny California gaieties dapples,
Heard a tremendous equine fart,
That knocked me for a start!
And whilst aback hairy brown animal’s strong back of a cart,
Placed inline of the great pulsating rump of opinioned beasts,
Did not know of this horse’s feast!
Riding hips along,
For furlongs of Douglas and Cedar miles of dips,
Did great ass lips of a horse of a beast,
Shit out a great fly’s feast!
Eyes entranced,
I could not look askance!
Trapped in view of a black, pipeline of Nature’s goo,
Strapped in line of Danger’s brown blue!
Iris of Isis,
Door of ill opening and extending flower of rose red one could not miss,
Did an unknown sick fly-bee kiss,
Pestilence’s wicked bliss!
Shinning in ill-light did ugly flower give forth,
Great fibrous brown-green apples of Mr. Ed’s stomach loss of equine might!
Poor strangepeade almost lost sight!

32. Population: No more

Continuum of Space & Time,
Spectrum of radiation sublime.
East Africa’s Alpha hot beginnings,
Beast of Time’s Omega cold, distant, distant thinnings.
From what was to be of instant fusion of baryon and lepton dream,
To what shall be of disillusionment of models decay of proton theme.
Our time in Time’s time.
For to Blue Shift is Hope’s Chime,
Music so sweet and divine!
For to Red Shift is true Tragedy cost of Crime,
Music bitter and of unfinished lost rhyme.
Our time not too fine,
Our time in time,
We have to sine,
We must define,
For our future time to Shine!
I hope it is yours and mine.
Children of the Stars,
Should not die wicked of War’s scars.
Not known is where first human born,
We should hope last human not scorn!
Can’t cooperate?
We should endeavor to operate!
Pray to God victory over enemy?
God’s command for Heaven’s Victory if you love your enemy!
Love of missile technocracy?
Love with thistle diplomacy!
Love of ogives hard rushing escape?
Love with olive branches firm brushing shape!
Love of oil?
Love of corruption uncoil!
Teddy Roosevelt, “Talk quietly and carry a big stick?”
strangepeade, “Talk emphatically and marry a school’s brick!”
Fear Chief Seattle’s dark words, fool,
Cheer Kennedy’s heart’s words and ask what to do!
Can the Last Human be Time’s jealousy of Life’s singing Might,
Or will the last human be Galaxies of Crime’s fallacy of flinging damaged kite?
Hailed for creations to forever sail,
Or railed for miss-creations always met fail?
Dying a million years hence,
Yet forever bold Heaven’s golden starry, starry flying,
Or dying bloody wet on next years fence,
Cold, cold tears crying, crying, “Biological wars dark frying!”

33. War Monkeys

Radio of Time,
On every station chimes,
War Monkey’s crimes.
War millions 20th Century dead,
Scar of billions umpteenth centuries bled.
Over,
And over.
Again,
And again.
Echoes of Old Man Time,
“Heckles of Enron Greed’s climb,
Shekels from Emperor Nero’s Crime,
Speckles on Homo Sapiens History blood spattered rhyme.”
Ruddy Viking and Hun,
Bloody lightening of fun!
Hairy, ‘oh so hairy,
Derry was so, so scary,
‘Lo! Near is roaring Styx flow of war go-go madness so merry!
Join in the chorus,
It’s for us,
War Monkey’s chime of the dark, dark forest!
It’s a shark’s toothy lark spark fit,
In this howler’s pit of a park was Dissonance’s Hit loathsomely spit!
Feel the beat?
Peel of thundering War’s feat in the trash strewn streets,
Pounding regiments of shuddering War Monkeys earth tromping heat of feet!
Pillage and brigandage,
Village’s massacres to Hell’s Brig will be War Monkey’s wage.
Down the chute,
Out Ares’s constructions flume flute,
Don’t forget the loot,
Making eons loop,
No way out the sick primate’s Earthly coop!
Prison of Nature,
Derision of our stature.
Can’t wager escape from failure to civilization mature,
From Black Holes of our Fate in Nature.
Horrible and,
Incorrigible.
Jane Goodall,
Plain her study of us all,
Claim, I, Waiting for Godot,
Shall primates fall.

Chapter VIII     Which did does begin with Black Avian Snow and ends with an Electrician…

Discriminating Reader, ye are upon a real treasure trove of my most sacred brain droppings! ‘Oh, ye of the hungry neurons, of the palsied axioms, take deep into thy starved belly my crusty nuggets! Well fed, revitalized and nourished, march on brave soldiers from my oasis!

15. Crye of Birds

Winter cruel and Storm evil,
Driving feathered friend to a buoyant land,
Observed by the sad eyes of a Sea’s eagle.
And so the birds came upon us seeking answers to their pleas.
And island before them made of cold steel not their paradise.
Seeking only rest from their plaintive beatings of wings,
Was their plea did they come to us from the sea.
And so the birds came to us to cry in their fright.
Swirling, dizzying arcs did they describe in the nest of derricks in the sky.
Hear their Cry?
Hear their Plight!
From madness, fear and loss of hope of deck’s chemical sipping did their hearts explode,
And so eyes of birds, blinking, telling me the words of Last’s Flights wings unfold,
Pealing from uncaring sky,
Falling like black snow,
Bow of Life strung and arrow falling short, we all could not answer their call to fly.
Hearts of bursting,
Beaks gushing Life’s wine,
I saw the peak of their life ebb like the tide washing out of dying bodies upon cold steel like drift wood dead,
Upon shores, unfeeling.
Witness of cold, near deathless, quiverings on decks of steel, I cried.
And oil flowed still when birds came upon us to die.

16. Sally Jo

Gentle wind stirring
Leaves of Missouri trees,
What is love, oh’ holder of majesty of Summer’s nights?
Moonlight held, on June night,
Face of such beauty, my heart’s delight.
Soul screaming,
Spirits yearning.
Free, Love’s collage and hearts beating
Wind stirring, hair held under stars
Eyes large and meeting and scars healed.
Souls, quivering, drinking,
Spirits peeking,
Kisses pinging.
Warmth of bodies as sweet wine leaking past lips,
Dips as of blazing roller coasters
‘Oh Love, I am your willing slave…
Chimes of Trees of Leaves singing in Praise,
Swaying in warm Missouri Wind’s chaise,
My love flies, my hearts triumph!
Face held in hands under shining Moon
But only of memory
Ethereal castle of my Summer’s sands
Hidden Temple and Guardian of Love,
Mistress of Caterpillars,
You, Sally Jo, shall be of millennia spans.
When Sol’s warmth waxes from hydrogen taxes,
My soul shall be still be Heart’s willing slave
And Light’s darkness.

17. Music of Lungs

My bodies rivers feeding
Mexico’s heat.
Dried desert’s dust meet
My legs feat.
Heart a’gripping,
Lungs pounding,
Toes cracking!
Pounding, pounding Nike clad feet
In endless heat of Cramp’s desert,
Lonely traveler, I.
Like suffering dry Wind,
My spirit blows
Heeds not Buzzard’s Cry!
Blow torch heat,
In lungs that won’t fucking quit,
Stupid, stupid lungs that don’t quit!
Music, music my body sings
In heat that bodies lay’eth down and sputter,
Candle lights flickering.
Crawling, crawling
My spirit surges
Not knowing how to die
Across deserts and hills,
Trails, valleys and mountains,
My spirit flowing
Where or wear, the Finish Line
Doth not matter,
For struggles wear not out,
Stomachs emptied and
Tears that have died.
Toes that bleed, toes that spurt life’s hot liquid
On sands of test of mine and of time,
Do we run and fight,
And hear the music of Lungs.
Never, never quitting,
Stochastic crying and Sophistic screaming
Are heeded not by Lungs of Singing.

18. Words of Poison

Drinking, drinking deep
Filling my belly,
Filling my mind,
Filling my soul.
Screaming for release in the middle of the Night,
I try and fight.
Overcome and washed out to dark Seas,
Alone and on lone,
Words that buoyed,
Now draw down like cement collars.
To depths of unreal surrealty.
Words of Poison.
My heart’s bane.
Words of Poison.
Of Human’s History of Words of Poison.
Drinking, Drinking deep
Are not we captive of Opium’s Den?
Captive of Leader’s Words of Poison?
Slave of Pope’s Hope?
Lust.
Power.
Material Gain.
Dope doth smoked.
Words of Poison.
Poisoning Deep.
Humanity lost in Words of Poison.

19. Nut of Madness

Swimming, Swimming
And shoulders burning,
Chest chaifed on long, long
Red boards of wax
Blue, blue-green waves of dreaming.
Darkness.
Steam.
Hot water giving life
To San Francisco Bay iced waifs.
Swimming, Swimming
Wet suit legs kicking triumphantly
Blue-green waves of seals splashing.
Showers.
Young bodies cold.
Seekers of warmth.
I was a lark.
Prey to monsters of Aquatic Park.
Darkness.
Darkness.
Swollen, distended monster testicles of the freaks
Hanging,
Blaring like a blinking, red lights of Terror’s Night,
My mind creaks,
Swimming, swimming hard
Blue green waters of running.
Shower waters glistening,
Seal like, my wet suit body poised,
A shark hungers,
A man watches,
A man burns in unholy madness,
Hiding in the damp darkness.
I’m prey,
I run, screaming into crowds might.
Blue, Blue green waves of gulls screaming,
And nights reign returns not of days blight.

20. Richard Pulley

Broken nose,
I disclose
Was just of fight’s pleasure.
Richard Pulley,
In sullied gladiators gullies,
Did we oft find our bodies in battle?
Mud tossed, wood splintered fists
Underneath sunny Hagginwood’s trees did we not find that we were lost?
Fight’s pleasure?
White skin.
Black skin.
Fighting was leisure.
Did we not find that blood is red?
Brothers, indeed, through a rouge of blood I plead.

21. A body in the Street

Lost.
Abandoned.
Naked.
Exposed, dirty vulva lost amongst shocked eyes of Tijuana’s streets.
Prostrate, I repeat.
Weak.
Hungry.
Lost of cope, where is this grungy Lady’s hope?
Dirty, filthy, stained
I, hungry of drunkenness, abstained.
Could have been Jesus,
Despised and
Decried amongst the voices of
Disgust and inhumanness of my mind, of unjust choices of social unconsciousness.
Better that I was the Knight of my kind,
Better that I was her rescuer,
Better that I was her champion,
I could have picked her up in my arms and brought her to a church.
What cost to me?
Strength, God given,
Shamefully, waged against 50 cent 12 ounce enemies.
I was not her Hero she deserved.
I was not even her Quixote.
I was her guilty Pluto, unfeeling Guardian of the Underworld.
Please forgive me unconscious woman of uncaring streets.
I failed.
Please be alive and comforted somewhere un-assailed.
Please, God, forgive me of my sin,
Of my callousness,
I shall feel her pain thrusting, driving deep in my heart forever.

22. Deer’s Gait

Presidio at night,
Fog clouding your adolescent Runaway’s plight,
Take Flight!
One should take fright.
Do not dally,
For from Night’s Darkness,
Will cometh freaks.
Hiding in bushes,
Slithering like snakes ready to rush us,
They will come at you in streaks!
Uttering guttural release,
Eyes will come upon your
Young, hot maleness.
Run, Run.
Take Flight
Like deer’s white fan,
Better thee come to thy clan,
Than be part to monster’s plans.
Hear them?
In bushes?
Run, Run for your life!
Hear them coming after you?
Terrorizing you?
Beseeching you with groans of sick Sirens displeasure?
Running, Running after you?
Screaming after you,
Trailing after you?
Banshees of the Fog,
Howlers of the Night.
Let thy legs become as of Guardians of the Forrest,
Deer’s Gait,
You can’t catch this bait!
Carrying you, like they did for me,
From ugly and uncertain fates,
Out distance them, out pace them!
Lungs of fire, legs of deer,
Lightning of Night,
Prancing and bounding explosiveness of might!
Dancing the dance of life and death
Your life appealed,
Wolves disappearing from your heal…

23. Viking

By Frigga’s Golden tresses,
I was emboldened and hoping for Norwegian caresses.
Long and tall,
You could knock down a wall!
Fair and fierce,
Care I thy sword arm’s pierce!
Eyes of ice field’s blue,
Let’s drink to your appeal,
Oh’ Viking woman of Stavanger!

24. Bloody Law

Guts and money,
Cuts aplenty.
Buzzing of an angry Hornet’s Nest,
Bane of Texas Rancher pests,
Don’t put Electricians to test!
Compact and Tight,
Care thy mouth or you’ll be in a fight!
Strong and fair,
Right thy wrong or you’ll dare!
Electron’s gladiator,
Wrecking truck’s steaming radiator!
Woody, stabbed neck,
Bloody shirt’s effect,
“Oh for Fuck’s sake!”
Men hurled into arcs,
Bodies still and curled!
No one can refute you,
I salute you!

Commune hoc ignorantiae vitium est: quae nescias, nequicquam esse profiteri.

+

++

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Chapter IX     Which did Begin with Observations of a Man in Green and did end with One, too. Chicken-Scratched sometime between November & December 2003.

8. Valdez of the SEALs

Tall and ugly, undreamy.
Hard of bone,
Shard of stone.
Lithe Kung-Fu,
To knife sheave lungs of fools.

9. Tanya’s Moon

Night’s winds,
Caressed Skins.
Expressed starry Tanya’s Moon,
For unstressed dark, cool sands to be felt soon.
Hush of beach’s state park of Chicago lights land.
Nude and dancing,
Luna’s denial of prude’s prancing!
Running sand’s buff,
Star’s shining fans flopping stuff!
Laughing and drunken singing,
Minds un-chafing and heart’s cheer teeming.
Crash of waves,
Lash of heated passion’s long, long heart saves,
Flash of meted soul’s strong, strong bodies waves.

10. Windows

Eyes of many skies,
Are two spies,
That ply soul’s seas and are not of lies.
Lips are tips,
And kiss of ships,
Of a thousand and more numbered slips.
Hands,
Death’s scams,
Life’s giving spans.
Face of Heart’s space,
Of Unhappiness Place,
And Laughter’s Grace.

11. History’s Slaves

First World War,
Scar of Ottoman and His Majesties waning Star.
Asquinth, Lloyd George & Kord Kitchener were lame,
But was Winston’s beginning great Fame,
And backdrop of Great Britain’s, France’s and Russia’s Great Game.
Children of ill parents:
Wilson’s League of Nations unskilled and hemorrhagic,
Treaty of Versailles tragic adjurations.
Iraq, Syria, Lebanon and Saudi Arabia of unskilled Hashemite apparents.
All was lost,
Because unknown language ignorance cost.

12. Visions of Words

So hither came strangepeade to stand before Fate,
“On shores of the Styx I sailed from afar, I now slither for words fits Visions, ‘oh Fate.”
“If you want to have Visions of Words,” so said Fate,
“Drink of Derision’s gourds of Hate,”
“You’ll loose, mortal Faust wannabe and your soul will be Mine.”
So sick lick of pestilences ooze,
Drip, drip sang consequences of spell’s dark, starry booze!
Rhyming of fame with berry wine,
Climbing to tame Word’s airy Time.
Pox of consonants found,
Box of writing’s rhythm constants astound,
Lock’s keys were a stash of singing vowels consulates so profound!
Out sprang stinging bees of Pandora’s most strange and to my surprise,
Devout and rang bell ringing glowing Hand’s aura to arrange a lyrical magical reprise!
Touch of a cold, cold poem of Litches itches,
Such old, bold tomes of Witches finches pinches,
Crunch of bones folds of a dusty loam of Isis, goddess of Egyptian bitches.
Glowing Pandora’s Hand clutching,
Vision of Words mad butchering.

13. Manson’s Mansion

The Devil in the detail,
Not in Prison Industry’s retail.
Millions and Millions constructions spent,
Billions and Billions obstructions rent.
Lawyers and Judges,
Foyers behind the scene begrudges,
Industrialists and psychologists,
In gold dust, do we not list?
And Tycho did not look in sky with fists.
The cast of the play,
If I may?
So sitteth unpretty Manson,
King of malformed man’s minds and son’s sadism slip,
Swastika on forehead,
Caustic costs hah!
And scores not read!
While all American Girls,
Can’t tell what countries Artic swirls.
File USA children in toilet hurls,
And money piles as of wind in Fat Cat furls,
Chaucer smiles that your Criminals are Pearls!
Manson’s sick prophet’s profiteer profit whirls!
We should flail this trail of ugly snail with a salted nail,
Ale that makes us pale,
Fail in our mail,
Wail of black, brown, white, red and yellow mellow children’s education not sail!
Bustin’ Rocks,
Not caps while on their Gangsta head a Lawyer’s sock stocking stock?
Busta Move,
And please approve,
Don’t for the sake of our children, reprove,
Put on a smock and ask, removed,
“Where did France and Europa send Waterloo’s Napoleon?”
Too a salted Papillion’s island that sick, sick birds flock to bust rocks and die malted,
And we, not hearts halted, should be of exalted docketed docked mocks!
It’s what Spock would do!

14. Raider

Under Moonless darkness,
Under stars silent starkness,
Came hither greens clad barkness.
A glimmering bug?
A shimmering, moving rug?
Nay, eyeless security’s grader,
It is faceless Obscurity’s raider.
A fusion of silent, flowing wind of the night,
Silent, screaming blend of might,
Confusion of sight,
Profusion of heaving ill light,
Contusion’s moving black hole of soundless owl’s flight!
Hiding and
Gliding.
In the trees so high,
So free to spy!
In the dark of your pool,
Sun Tzu’s tool!
Remorseless and
Recourseless.
It is not a game,
Plot not of fame,
So do not blame.
A plan,
So bland,
You would not be my fan.
Coming closer,
‘Oh, so ever closer!
“On the wall?”
You’ll never see me in the fall.
“On the sill?”
Come to take my fill.
“What was that sound?”
Clothed in blackness, there was no sound!
And you were not around.
“Nothing found?”
Confound?
Profound.
The Raider of no sound.

 

Chapter X     Beginning with Breasts as large as Small Moons and Ending with the real Moon. A collage of oozings from 2002 – 2007 smeared upon thy screen taken from various periods of your antihero, Don strangepeade’s Life…

Curious Reader, I, Glorious & Hidden Master, humbly present to you for your enjoyment, or displeasure as it may happen, delicious & elegant brain droppings from my head, secret Drunken Kung Fool chicken scratches…

 

1. The Anna Nicole Poem

Whilst I waiting on the chopper,
Shall I tell thee of a fainting big whopper?
There was under the Sun,
A Hot mama’s son,
Who loaded-up on Methadone.
Did his loaded-mama condone?
And then under the Bahamas Moon, too,
There was a Magistrate,
Who about to swoon,
Was a kind of part-time farmer,
And dust laden & sweating from his laboring,
We’d find a glowing,
Maiden Anna Nicole’s island citizenship for her hoeing.
And then there is the Weasel Stern,
Whose cold hands of mortician,
With fire of evil desire burn,
Confirm like medieval magician,
Did Anna Nicole expire and now we discern
Same shady hands yearn to grip both her baby,
And her money we surely to learn maybe.

2. Hunter

strangepeade’s lunar running,
Night rhythms strumming.
Shadow’s hale,
Moonlight’s pale.
Darkness wandering,
Hunter’s four-legged chuckles pondering.
Deer’s awareness,
Self’s superior fairness.
Licking lips,
Ticking drips.
Deer’s prancing,
Fear’s chancing.
Time slows,
Muscles honey flows.
Light’s echo of eyes aglow.
First, two, three
I poke fun at thee!
Queer forest’s illusion,
Deer’s wet muzzle snorting mass confusion!
Tickle me sweet,
strangepeade’s hilarious feat!

3. Cat Pizza

Poor little kitty,
‘Oh, you’re such a beauty!
Wild and crazy,
But my mind was lazy.
Trying to break free,
I should have thrown it in a tree!
Hissing and spitting,
Poor little kitty started pissing & shitting!
Sprung from my hands and out the back,
I should have rung its neck and that’s a fact!
I was too young,
To behold such a bung.
For in my hand,
Was a fat cat pizza,
That I wiped in the sand!
There is a lesson,
In this session.
Respect pussy,
Or you’ll be busy and in a tizzy,
With a mean little hussy!

4. The Thing in my ‘Fridge

The stew that was gold,
Is now just dark and cold,
What once was told to be tasty,
Is now just mold and mangy!
I have to be careful ’cause this is not the end,
I try not to offend,
‘Oh new ugly life form in my crisper bin!
‘Oh what shock!
Where is Spock!
I try to sleep,
But fear the Fridge won’t keep,
That ugly one-eyed puppy from trying to peep.
Something is coming,
I feel like running!
Something is sliding with a screech,
My heart is gliding out of reach!
“Oh, God, what is that stench?”
“It is I, Bog, now get me beer or I’ll make you my wench!”

5. Arc of the Long Knife

Moon’s light at night,
Did we spy a dark man’s plight.
Height of tree,
Free of ugly drug’s might.
Night’s Larks,
Park’s fights.
Men yelling,
Drug’s money smelling.
Fear heard,
Fear smelt,
Fear seen,
Obscene!
Brother and I watching,
Men fighting.
From bark of safety was seen,
Arc of the Long Knife so keen!
Glinting of afterhour park’s ugly yellow light,
I felt time slow before ugly drugs’ might.
Plunging deep,
I fear’d life cannot keep!
Into heart,
Was this unknown man’s soul put into a cart.
Falling, dieing, convulsing.
I was still and revolting.
Safety of trees,
I decree,
Was unheeded by men of drug’s decrees.

6. Whores of London

Night seeping upon Hyde Park and I peeping
Lookin’ for drinking
Did I come upon the lair of the Whores of Soho.
Ho’s tities bold and I told they yearn’d to clutch at me purse
Thirst of drinking is a Curse,
Whilst lookin’ for drink in the allies of Soho!
Money was blood and beer was watered
And the Whore Queen came upon me
Angry words and passport number demanding
This poor sailor was just lookin’ for drinking!
Doorman and three were upon me!
Oh’ Lord, did they prey upon strangepeade!
Body slashing and fists connecting
Whilst legs pumping in their dungeon, before I was bludgeoned!
And so griping strangepeade was free!
Running, Running with pipe in fist past Achilles,
God heard my pleas!
“When money is blood and tits are of stoutness of wood,
Sailor best take heed, or thee shall surely be in the weed!”
So sayeth this strangepeade.

7. Color of the Moon

Pale is the color of the Moon.
But why not blue of water,
Or green of life,
Or yellow of the sun so hot?
Pale is the color of the Moon my friends,
Because the view is its lot.

Chapter XI     Wherein Don strangepeade did start a new life in hills of an Aragon-like place… Chicken-Scratched recently during Summer 2008.

A Short Collection of The’s – A log of sorts of my initial adventutres related to this dusty ranch, written by Don strangepeade, flower of manhood, knight of letters, hidden master of the secret drunken kung fool society & bequeather to the downtrodden masses petals of loveliness from his subtle and sublime mind falling down to you, Reader, like a warm spring rain upon thy parched mental fields…

1. The Outsiders

We listen to Country,
And we talk Country,
But we’re not from the Country.
We chose the Country,But we weren’t chosen by the Country,
Because we’re not from the Country.
A warning,
Forming,
We’ll always be from outside the Country from places brewing & storming.
We’re not natural to the Country,
Which has a slow beat on the capillary roads in valleys presided over by tree.
Each footprint, a cancer, is a theft of the slow lifeblood of those born free…

2. The Bedroom in Our Head

& Through the mist of parables,
& Cloudy parallels,
& Dusty nuances’ spells,
Traveled to escape my Dad in me brooding & bounding long,
& Far with my mind’s ear full of lament’s echoing song,
“Lo! Can we escape the psychology of our youth’s resounding gong?”
For She is like my Mother & all the rest mere diversion.
She, somehow, is a different, better version not wanting child’s derision,
But, also a repository of my transference’s conversion.
And in the Bedroom in my head,
I sleep with my Mother & She with my Dad in the warm bed,
And I maybe with Her’s, too, in the Bedroom in Her head…

3. The Outpost

Saw two societies where I supposed one,
At a small Outpost that Spengler would recognize not fun,
Where the larger sold the smaller’s want under an indifferent Sun,
But the larger, also, bringing dis-ease,
Surely seen by the smaller with unease,
But the Gold & Trinkets & Shells smoothing all with ease…
And whether resource greed today,
Or religious war yesterday,
Both to Ozymandias disappear someday.
For without enforced, lawful balance,
Without the code of a Heinleinian Starship Trooper’s citizenship dance,
The organic, hydraulic societies fall to Chance,
& Spread-out flora & fauna Malthusian-like un-contain,
Like in Nature, but on a different, harder perceived, plain
& on different Time Scales beyond the Human domain.

4. The Rejection

In the dissonance of your projections I was put to test,
& Perceived your Rejection of the West,
But saw, too, how you were rejected by Humanity in the rest…
You, offended by its artificial, hydrocarbon sloth,
& Industrial froth,
& Radiations’ Decadence spilling forth
But, polluted, polluted Mirror,
Mirror, On the Wall,… no more a smoky obscurer,
For both She & the West are the same fear’d I of my eye’s acclaim: Her…
For what is Unconditional Forgiveness,
When both can’t budge from the mess,
And not discern the sameness, but promise & hope each to confess?

5. The Song of the Quiet Bird of Hearts Made Set to Sail…

There is a bird,
Sitting on my rail,
Whose singing is heard only by my heart made set to sail…
A Bird you can not see for your eyes focus to fail,
A Bird you can not touch because your fingers to grasp & flail,
A Bird you can only hear with your heart made set to sail…
It’s song of quite interludes:
Of a tree’s bending in the Wind’s changing moods,
Of a hawk gliding on the rising thermals; it’s piercing call echoing in valley quietude’s.
And the only one way to know of its existence is when the light of joyous Existence glints:
When she is soaring in the Sun’s lazy noontime glare of jubilant expense,
Or when she is in the Moon’s midnight shafts of soft, silver tense…
But she is always usually passing overhead, you, whom discern her fleetingly,
Try, while looking inward quietly, detect that Existence sparkles in your eyes cheerily.
You, of inner ear, will hear her quiet song, God’s blessing to heart’s made set sailing…

6. The Wanderer

Didn’t have a Mother,
Nor a Father,
& Cursed to Wander…
Can’t put down roots,
Nor, with a beard, put on a good suit,
Listener, I, to late night owl hoots…
Offended, as I get older, by chaos,
Accepting, as I get older, fates us
&, here & there, for a time, or two, sometimes even joyous.

7. The Even Steven’s

There is a Land,
I wished was as close as my hand,
Where I could lay my feet in the warm sand…
I’d go there now and live almost nude,
For, it’s a place where a dude,
Like me, who simply wishes to be left out of the fugue…
A place with Books & Maps on the wall,
A fine 17-hand horse out on the pasture or in the stall,
And warm summer breezes even still in the Fall.
Where a strong shake seals,
Honest deals,
Under an unpolluted sky that heals.
Tired of the mire,
Of the bovine poor and the scheming heirs setting all the lost Republic to fire,
We need a Gunslinger, not Fascists, whom to read this and to tie me in wire!
‘Oh, to leave this place of belly heave’n & ache’n,
Of the backward, uneducated drugged-out heathens,
And go to the Land of the Even Steven’s…

8. The Odd Fellow

With the Land Lord chatting,
When in came in two mangy dogs quivering,
Followed by an Odd Fellow on oak tree legs shuffling…
With dogs held tight by a thick fist at the end of a wire,
Shaking with fear before their Sire,
My Lady & I were in a mire!
Fur thick with shit & from their tongue, not thee to want one lick,
Their eyes wide and little hearts beating in a slide to cardiac fit,
When a yellow lake formed beneath one sorry hound unfit!
They, who fail, with their legs between their tails, were for sale!
“These fine hounds be expensive,” gibbered the Odd Fellow of his dogs female,
But my gut told me he beat his dogs in a squalid haus from a bad tale…
So with bucks worth forty,
Put into his hand saying he would have no luck & that I was sorry,
But he had none maybe in life & into his truck went he with his 4-legged shorties…

9. The Red Welts of Truth

She said she had a friend soon to be wed,
Then moving out of an apartment, too, she said,
Then this, and then that also said made me get red…
A nickel here & there a dime,
No relaxing time,
& being stung by the bees of stress of melancholy sanguine.
But I had to get a beast of a pooch from a cage lost,
And then she had to have hers & ‘oh did we surely pay a cost:
3 dogs and 2 exhausted humans sleeping in tiny her car on the Oregon Coast!
And our arguments in Newport,
Like in the Tavern of No Whisky For Your Thirsty Laments,
Made me laugh in exasperation of our poor judgments.
And on my skin, hives, where them bees lived in buzz’n hoards, were itch’n,
& wrote large like pulsing neon signs of that fisherman’s bar only beer servn’,
Were the Red Welts of Truth not lyin’ nor hide’n…

10. The Lights

When 1 + 1 + 1 doesn’t equal three,
Its sum means the Republic will soon not be free,
A national embarrassment is the real answer can’t you see?
When it don’t = three,
It means Science has again been manipulated by those of greedy, evil decree!
How many times do we kill again, and again the old man Socrates?
The bovine mind prey to the Corporation, Church & the State,
Filling them with Science distrust & hate,
Are enslaved to sorry, boardroom created psychobabble fates…
But they, intellectual fumblers fools, don’t know they, too, drink the Hemlock,
They who wear the flip-flop Birkenstock,
And stare into the dark night and see only the lights of LSD Woodstock…

11. The Darker Design

I see them,
They who do not win,
Lost somewhere, somehow in Life’s spin…
‘Oh, thankful for my tech school education & Navy training: I’m an accident rejoicing!
What would be, or where would I be without it: Yoked to a master in a field slaving!
I see them, bugs on a melon, but bugs on a melon on the table of the master laughing…
With knowledge comes freedom from the Factory & relaxing that results in thinking!
Without the Comfortable Ratio, come’th poverty & struggling because of no reading.
And in the Post-Republican landscape of our Nation rotting, I’m left wondering…
Why are American husbands & wives working over 300 days a year unkind,
And wind-up poorer than the European or Australian of sunny disposition fine?
It’s because Americans are subjected to an education of a Darker Design…

12. The Poem I wrote about Fate which, like Entropy, none of us transcends, well, if like Shakespeare, Ferris Fucking Beueller, Telly Savales, Donald Sutherland, Don Rickles, Steve McQueen, Lee Majors, Lee Van Cleef, Charleton Heston, Michael Douglas’s Daddy, Clint Eastwood or Ronnie Reagan (a list surely to grow as I can’t really think as I’ve now been into the beers), rarely anyway as best I can figure it as most of us just end up like so many others anonymously out-gassing naked-stiff with bad teeth on the coroner’s table these days, or rotting in a field somewhere with sword wounds yesterday that some archaeologist digs up today examining the skull musing, like Hamlet, “To be a Son of a Bitch these days, or not to be…”, or like Charleton Heston’s character in the Planet of the Apes, “You dog-fuckers blew it all up!” Yeah, or something like that anyway. Just remember one damning thing: You can bake it, baste it, or even sugar coat it – but a piece of shit is still a piece of shit. Too, you’re always a fool when you bet on a horse of curious pedigree or go to the Pound and buy a dog with crazy eyes. And in conclusion, just remember that most of us aren’t the cream and are your ordinary cows bellowing while blowing-out shit in the pasture…

And when people come up to me heated & spouting this,
Or spouting that in a hiss,
I always remark on it like seeing on their pants the revealing stain of dirt & piss:
A child, unless a stray dog like me, is usually a result of the math of parents & Society,
And when they grow up silly or sometimes strong but usually always lusty,
They ain’t free – trapped by Fate, they’re just a product of something either fine or ugly.
A man or a woman don’t ever really walk around with their own thought,
For when you put dough in the oven: it either rise’th, or it fall’th lost,
And when you really look at it all; we all pay the cost of parents that fought…

13. The Moments, Quiet, with Dogs of the Bright Eyes Shining

How pleasing it is,
Healthy Dogs,
Stretched-out, rib cages up & down.
Each a cup of clear glass as most things is:
What we put in,
A Dog gives out…
And when we look at them with eyes bright,
Is it us giving?
Or is it them of the Bright Eyes delivering?

Merda taurorum animas conturbit

 `

“

“`

Chapter IV

A Short Chapter of my Urbis Brain Droppings which did droppeth aplenty in August & September of 2007…

 

 

Hungry Reader, like some assistant chef, I’ve worked these many days in the Kitchen of Prose ‘reviewing’ the submitted on Urbis whilst garnishing with my pungent droppings of oozing galore of lovely substance & form. I present them, these plates of steaming bounty, here for you of the bellies needing sustenance & warm…

 

 

1. Writer of the Mouse Wheel Terrors,

Ghost, I feel thee feelings to be lost.

Refrain, delete, delete, delete!

Compact and tighten up or thee to come to cost!

Message ethereal of pleasing imagery replete,

Risk reader finger flicking, flicking, flicking economy terrain,

And thou message lost to all not to compete!

2. Writer of Quiet Observation Profound,

I don’t know if can be quiet,

I sometimes miss the beauty of a moment,

You who do see them with elegance compliant.

Remind reader of loveliness not lament,

Was like looking upon some small flower brilliant,

You of the slow heart so pleasing as a poet.

3. Writer of Old Man not Heard to Change by Santana,

You say, “WTF!”

I say, “Groovin’ to the words, baby, so moving!”

Distinct is the message reader to pluck.

Observe what I also, “But were you too young & playing?”

Are you in this imagery of old man sad obstinate stuck?

Family sad story from one generation to the next staying…

4. Writer of the Wind,

I can not offend,

because I’m afraid that your writing is to win.

I’ve just added some housekeeping below,

but your message I would defend on top and low.

5. Writer of Sublime Writing Elemental,

Have I read your Ichor before?

My, my, my… Endless praise for this Comparison

you have in store!

Best writing on Urbis?

Poetic sire; you’re on Fire!

Deafening stamp of Vulcan poetic fury: I digress…

p/s – I’ve copied this to review at my heart’s distress!

6. Writer of Philosophy not decided upon by God,

Drinking wine was yours seen not to be researched,

Word different from Yahweh?

Two paths can’t be chosen or thee to be lost in the birch.

Verily, like sands through an hour glass,

These are the days of our lives,

Love in time of 2 Philosophies your soul not to Heaven pass…

p.s. I’ve copy and pasted this to look at for it has class…

7. Writer of the Gentle Lilacs Festooned,

You wish me to be specific,

But you communicated first Lilacs Festooned.

And so I’ll reply with poetry pacific.

A beautiful, wonderful poem,

You have fashioned of human passion,

But you to look at last line or reader to roam.

You, “I bloom.” I, “Ohh, no ending is this!”

You of Lilacs Festooned can loose to poem not finished doom.

8. Writer of so Above but tugged Below by Love that was of Scorn…

Emotional Energy you waste,

You who torture yourself,

You to fly away and not make haste.

For to stay,

Never you to be unchained,

Risk your heart to a demon who delight & play!

Unless you to say to yourself unfeigned,

Your letter won’t to be read and is okay…

I of heart’s pain to move on is plain.

9. Unknown Writer of Hand-Holding Beach Strolling,

Social Commentary & Love in one piece.

I ‘think’ you can develop it more.

Not sure of your construction technique – but, I perceive, your delivery

purpose isn’t of doubt.

If I may, I’ve attempted some changes…

I do like the use of atypical symbols.

In your case: 2. It calls for attention by a reader.

10. Writer of Class that I have not Alas,

Easy flow,

Though not to rhyme,

Can’t critique what I’ve not the class for subtle & slow.

Imagery fine,

But I didn’t understand window panes & blinds of hushed personal crime.

Your message, however, altogether is sublime.

11. Writer of Fears Lingering Hindering,

Review I can’t,

For I, too, see my Father of Post Traumatic,

Hanging in distance memories so deeply plant.

One thing for us both I plea,

“When do we let it go?”

I’m 36, you’re 23 and I fear for thee…

12. Writer of hydroxyethane Odysseus Trip,

Wanting honesty

You should recall

Strange Epic of un-Rhyming Odyssey,

Trapped by Calypso

Unless you labor to hourly rhyme,

Trapped until then no one but you can fix, so…

13. Writer of the Lockdown Blues Shakedown,

As guard or prisoner no use define,

We’re all citizens in the End,

No matter lockdown blues confine.

Remember Law of Rhyme,

Words of sweet refine to intoxicate sublime.

Refusal is misdemeanor writing of crime.

14. Writer of the Strange Analogy of Remembering,

Rat Pack,

Dinner Party,

Generations memories & class I lack.

Vision of forced conscriptions of yesterday,

Black & White.

You to give colorful descriptions for us today.

In a mirror you who see,

Us behind the mirror who are blind,

Remember more sublime or your reader to flee…

15. Writer of Love’s Pain…

Only one stanza,

Has possibility,

The rest need work’s bonanza.

Capitalize, punctuation & grammar.

Emotional exploration not anger’s demands plans.

Or risk unread words of worth mere stammer…

16. Watching Writer of the Willow Trees,

I broke up below,

What I couldn’t see previous in form,

And only then could see beauty of Willow’s halo.

For you a warning,

Writing to flow like stream peaceful under Willow,

Or reader caught in limbs of Willow confusion forming…

17. Writer of Views Stiletto,

More rhyme,

Or reader not past Stiletto,

Your great material unfinished poetry crime.

Reader seeing feeling but wanting flow,

You place stumble consonant blocks!

And back to desk lamp you of Stiletto View to go.

18. Writer of Blues Foreboding Warning…

Captured the reader with foreboding,

And how few often with same writing?

Simple, flowing but I offer 2 blues foreboding warnings…

Last line, x’d the comma, & you to say, “the Blues”?

And “your heart you poured out” you end with “through,”

“Why not rhyme with blues?” I construe.

19. Writer of Tolkien-esque Giant’s Epic,

Almost belonging in a book,

Writer of a Giant’s Epic,

A reader may become lost without 2nd look.

Why did the Giant need the town not near the arctic?

Expound on the threat of the Winged Horse.

What happened to the boy in this short epic?

Explain the Pact more,

Hoping to see more Writer of Giant’s Epic,

But put to floor unless you to descriptions explore.

20. Writer of Hendrix Crying Mary Lix,

And to feel foreboding,

Needing more explanation,

Join the two into more deepening unfolding.

Rid it of the asterisk,

Check the construction punctuation,

Or to lose good material you risk.

For a second fleeting,

I was reminded of Falkner in the first,

But you gave a blow of world lost screeching,

And so now Writer of Foreboding,

Recommend to write construction unfolding deepening,

Listening to blue light of Mary softly exploding…

21. Writer of Scholarly Trepidations,

What would a man of 36 say to you who of 10 years,

and can’t add to years more than 6?

Surely to cause praise amongst your graders & peers.

As your writing is lucid,

But do watch the grammar & the rhyme despite your school fears.

Keep at it young writer of less than the 10 & 6 years…

22. Melancholy Writer,

Just turned 36,

Who am I to grade non-redemptions attempt at unfix?

A rhymer I and cannot fix,

And wouldn’t beat thee with sticks,

Close to say, “…What went before cannot be changed,” is slick.

23. Missing Maddy (something in a letter to Sean actually)

Waiting on November,

I caretaker of my body & soul not in 1rst person,

Found I souls my thoughts to surrender.

Short & funny we hope for more discussion.

What has happened to Maddy ask we not to offender,

Sean and I wait on days more of her sprite collusion.

24. Writer of the Saving Graces One Too Many,

Two’s Company,

Three’s a Crowd,

You of Saving Graces too many is not serendipity,

You to rhyme to fix this cloud,

Work on construction of clear imagery,

Or Reader to walk to door, “Are you my saving grace?” out loud.

25. Writer of Eulogy Beautiful,

My only Comment is at the End,

You who write of Eulogy Beauty,

Imagery bright with rhyming I commend.

Message clear,

I hope I not to offend,

You of Eulogy Beauty to win awards not to fear.

26. Writer of the Out Loud Laughing,

I took a look,

I thought it should be in a book,

Laughing out loud my guts shook!

You of the laughing writing will have us all hooked.

27. Writer of the Odysseus’s Iron Maiden,

Confusion soon set’s in without meter,

Walking in your one stanza desert,

Daughter of Demeter.

Kidnapped by Hades from a crack did spurt,

Hermes freed with pomegranate seeds,

But you don’t say enough for reason’s comfort.

But you use imagery & metaphor for reader to feed,

So are you trapped,

In financial struggle with a Pluto of dark deed?

28. Writer of Lyrics of Mind’s Mad Ranger,

Believe me when I say to you,

This harboring thoughts of conspiracy & despair,

Always results in melt-down you to rue.

Yea, so what: Your lyrics can’t repair,

Democracy going down means no one can fix War Economy,

It just plays out behind closed doors’ black affairs.

So where does this leave you writing of angst hegemony?

You to sing words of Siduri:

War Gods are above so we to live as we can in harmony.

Pay thee heed to my words for you I worry.

29. Writer of Women’s Banner Fly so High,

One night drinking on Urbis,

Looked into the sky,

Saw flying rocket creaking ’round Uranus.

Said I to myself, “Now dat rocket’s got some hips so fly.”

Put down drink with realization, “No Captain Kirk on Vessel.”

Who never plant’d flag of Man but flag of WoMan-kind high.

30. Writer of Memories Road Downtown Lacking Morals,

Downtown ain’t bad.

City Hall where the Laws are made,

History & Art Display’s rad.

Could have ate high dine,

Could have seen shine,

Could have wandered ancient paintings fine,

You choose darkness wanderings shade,

No wonder you hate Downtown!

You to choose paths different not to lament & fade.

31. Writer of Sea’s Sublime Watching of Conduction,

I love rhyme but that’s absent here,

And so I slowed down my reading,

Your lovely imagery I to peer.

Pistachio pudding foam stopped I to ponder,

What a lovely mind you have,

Writer of Poseidon’s Realm of ocean yonder.

32. Writer of the Chocolate Culture,

Hot off the runways,

You need to look at Paris,

Or writing to crash into garbage pales.

“All art is worthless,”

Said Oscar Wilde,

But please consider my writing peerless.

33. Writer of Feeling Love without the Light On,

Out one night,

You crashed ’cause your lights weren’t on.

Wrecking your poetry car to fright!

Not wanting to offend,

You who feeling heart more than pen,

But keep at it, but turn the lights on I recommend.

34. Writer of the Clarion Call of Revolution,

Turn off CAPS,

Your message already powerful,

Or risk reader off to marching away stamps.

Your message full of anger,

My mind of life’s wisdom not come to emotional cramps,

I wager your message a mad animal in dark manger.

35. Writer of the Book for more than One.

What to do,

When you’re sweating all alone,

Friday night with Kama Sutra on the loo?

Best advice mate to grab the phone,

Call a lady to be your girlfriend to do you,

Or buy a blow-up doll to practice with your bone.

36. Writer of the 20-Somethings Blues for Nothings,

I have no arguments with thy writing,

But why do thee focus inside?

When all around thee Life is so delighting?

Dressed in dark refined,

Your poem telleth reader for you to go on trip,

To kiss girls under moonlight & love combined.

In Lo Confidence Until Thee Celebrate Thy 20-Somethings.

37. Unknown Writer of the Lightening Bolts Writing,

Not wanting thee to write,

Again you not to stand in a storm,

Or thee top be lit like match in ugly fright.

You writing of electrical imagery above norm,

Profound & sad,

Hope for more just not under Zeus’s energy thorn.

With Quiet Reflection & Now Your Fan not so Bad,

38. (my newest addition sub munitions not of review’s rendition) With a Jack & a Coke, this fell out of the Blue with a stroke. Do thee not agree? Not for grading, but only of my heart’s joke to thee in hope will thou belly laughter be awoke. Perhaps thee can help with a 3rd Stanza collaboration not broke? In Nuncle’s court, I too, of High Regard for Thee, strangepeade:

Lurking, lurking,

As a ‘poet’ here I am so poor!

To read a review cursing,

I have to review so much more!

Again & again,

Into Greek Tragedy I am immersing,

Into heaping, heaping literary store’s bin!

Sweat of fear of trap of word’s gore my soul spiraling!

39. Writer of the Dried-up Hearts Needing Nourishment Outward,

Read quickly but hard because of heart clot,

Wanting more shells as that is the best,

Reader needing imagery machine gun fire into heart.

You to write like this here to test,

But can’t until you start,

To free yourself I don’t know how I leave to rest…

In Hope of Regard of Writer to Flush Clot of Heart’s Fester

40. Unknown Writer of the Theme too Familiar,

Like flowers in a Row,

Have I come upon this before?

Same theme of sad female farmer sad labor plow.

Poem like men of future all before,

Some to plant bad, some to plant good:

You & reader not to smell bad ones in a flow…

Very Respectfully and Hope to Read of Heart’s Flood

41. Writer of Film Noire Bacall Love’s Fall us All,

Gimmie Gimmie Coincidence?

I plead Innocence.

Heard, “Don’t let the Sun going down on me,” confidence.

“Too late save myself falling…”

“Took a chance…”

“Change a life…”

You to drop cigarette past tense,

and drop the man post haste,

To heart petals lit back to the Sun & happy banter hence.

42. Writer of 2 be or not 2 be,… “Truly?”

Seek thee not subtle communications,

Oh, Reader of the Greeks!

Skip chapters to see no one reads Meditations…

Lost your flower of examinations upon ph. freaks,

“Singing, Mrs. Robinson,” Euclid-dations…

“Ku, ku, cachoo,” your sacrifice of reason creaks…

Where have will you Gone, Writer of Sorrows’ Truth?

43. Writer of Scent I have smelled before,

Hay, D.J., “playing record of favorite – Homer,”

Calling up the request line,

Grabbing inuendo by the fist full, I not robber.

Subtle as mist upon a meadow quiet so fine.

Reader , have to think…

Hay, D.J., want more I on the request line sublime…

Regards Not in the Cubes under Incandescent Stars

44. Writer of the Scarlett letter,

Rarely come upon,

IMAGERY: yours -

Powerful, sad – who doth she to look forgone?

Into my eyes: I see ugly lechery,

And in heart’s hearth burn, “Reader’s heart fell condone.”

Not into later years we alone in bar’s dressed confectionary.

Regards of Writer of sad Tumbleweed Rolling Bar not visited,

45. Writer of the Disturbing Vision,

Short lines not normal will Have I.

Reviewed 3x.

Urge not to review such Dark I confide…

Can’t Regard Writer pending Hot Hell in Time…

46. Writer of the Best I’ve Seen and I to copy for Personal Meditations…

You’re 18?

Never I to write like that I’m 36:

Like cockroach: I to scurry under the stove fainting.

You’re a switch when flicked to Write,

Light’s all of the place,

Filling nooks & crannies with your Mind’s idea flight.

Humbled, I to Crawl Away from Thee Prose as if Bug Spray for I…

47. Writer of the Fear You Make me of Pallid Toothy Girl Dating,

Under the Moon you festivities dig’n,

Listening to Kravitz,

“There is nowhere to run, Nowhere to hide”!

Before the Sun she bites in,

You’ll find rouge flooding out the other side.

Your falling petals to End!

Regards Deep of Praise, but Fear of the Lady Gothic Bar Lurking…

48. Writer of the International Look the Other Way Day Agenda,

Your writing I not to comment upon,

But Message I will,

Male-ism this, Feminism that: Our attention gone.

Lost are Children in the schools & on our streets.

Prey to monsters in print & in the dark.

Yet: We to vote our Sexuality accomplishment effete?

Have we become so lost – Doom, Doom, Doom

To put Penis & Vagina on Hubris Pedestals?

I am this, you are that: but runaways, “Boom, Boom, Boom.”

49. Writer of Theme which Sprouted to Flower Elegant & Bold,

You to observe writer of lo confidence seem:

Life a farmer walk upon ground of our souls

Drop, Drop, Drop do seeds fall from hand Life’s theme.

Some plots bold,

Some plots to fold,

But I watch yours for already I see gold.

Regards of the Watcher of Flowers Unfolding

50. Writer of Religious Banner Careful Thee Not Let Free,

Short your words sharp like swords,

But long have rivers through Time,

Flowed of blood & bodies stiff as boards.

Review your message of violent conceptions,

Your fruit of War not of ripe yet,

But world doesn’t need your religious misconceptions.

You not in Regard of Works That Send me Armed Lurking in Shadows

51. Writer of Beauty I’m Afraid to See,

Someday I to ride in front not to last,

Of Train you now ride,

But I fear the Beauty you know on you cast.

Half Long my train now,

But it goes so fast…

Slow down, slow down life I yearn to live full now.

In High Regard of Imagery I can’t Escape

52. Writer of Sentiments I know all too Well,

You to observe line 2,

Drop the l to rhyme with war,

And that it the real deal long due.

Worry you make same mistake as I.

Why to you call it war?

Pay you heed message of Siduri.

Worry you I who Fight War for no Reason at All

53. Writer Thinking of Love’s Chemistry and not on Writing,

You ask, “can you relate?”

I say, “First: grammar, punctuation & spelling!”

But… I can relate on Love’s Chemistry with a mate.

54. Writer of Past Abuses 3rd Grade Shame…

What are we to do…

Looking back and see the small kid,

To hit & abuse we did to sue.

Did we not yearn to be champions?

And, yet, they beyond us to rise:

They did not stop from our curses small murmurings…

In regard of Loan Denials by Kid Thy Stroke Because Thee are Broke

55. Writer of the Steel Sphere in Thy Throat & Choking…

What is this?

Spacing, rhyming & stanza’s constructions,

You 2 review writer of thinking only love’s bliss’s..

Delivery not of foul corruptions,

Out from the gate with proper gist,

You to put back in womb for proper cooking’s…

In regard of Feelings more than Writings

56. Writer of the Flowing Prose of Persied Glow…

Sweeping forth from Urbis constellations,

Found I this I wish to keep for myself,

& only can I give thee adulations.

Simply thee must write more

Waiting I with expectations,

Writer of the Sky surely to score…

In high regard of thy views astronomical…

 

Non curo. Si metrum non habet, non est poema.

~~~

~~

~

The Dread Philosophy, Fruits & Satire of the Secret Drunken Kung Fool Society.

~

Profound teachings set down for the Education & Mirth of the Trodden Masses,

~~

By the Hidden & Sublime Master, Hope of Dreamers, Fools and Rogues:

~~~

Don strangepeade, sublime knight of Roguish Antics and High Silliness,

~~~~

Guardian and Transmitter of this August Tome,

~~~~~

And Fearless Contemplator of Bonfires, Barbecues and Laughter,

~~~~~~

Whom Thee should all be most Wise to Consider if Thy Lives to be Richer.

 

 

 

i. Please see iv. firstly…

ii. And not the start do thy kindly eyes first do gaze upon…

iii. But some of the numbering be most confusing and stressing upon the thinking parts…

iv. To feel the words, as opposed to reading them, one’s belly should have a goodly amount of wine already presently and warmly.

v. Chapters are newest to last and consider this note to be i. firstly…

 

 

Chapter I     Which began with a Fire and did end with my Father who did come to the Period. Chicken-Scratched October 2007 to Febuarary 2008.

46. The Fire

Before the Fire,

My Fire went higher,

Our Fire,

My Fire,

Higher together,

Higher.

My life.

Our Lives: the logs.

And Time: the fire.

And we burn.

In Time do we turn,

Our Light held inward,

To Shine outward,

Warming others,

To Burn too…

45. The Noise

I don’t want to hear the Noise.

I see the Fire light on my Body,

And I see the light coming out, too,

But you can’t hear the light from there,

Like from the fireplace crackling.

You can’t hear the light from there,

But you can hear the Noise in your head,

But I don’t want to hear Doubt,

Or Indecision,

Or Fear,

Or Paranoia.

I only want to hear what I can be.

I don’t want to hear the Noise,

Keeping me up at night,

Waking me from sweet sleep.

And when my sleep is again right,

I will be right,

And for you to see, here I too write.

44. The Lady

It was my baby,

And she grew up into a Lady,

But maybe,

That Lady was dark and shady…

And for eighteen years,

All I had was praise for her from peers,

But now I, with beers and not tears,

See the Lady, dark and shady, robbing me of my Years…

And I could stay with her,

Knowing Life for another eighteen Years grey whirr,

Or cast off the dark and shady Lady so much like a bur,

And find a new Lady, whom to nurture and my heart she to stir.

43. The Moments

Seeing the wind flowing,

Looking out the window,

In the conifers, I knowing…

Like during last September,

Or in other quiet moments multitude.

Reflected today & tomorrow will remember…

This, or that: what did it all mean?

Nothing. I exist. Beautiful. And that is all.

And the moments flow past living and pristine.

And like Nabokov,

Plainly do I perceive,

The finite moments that quietly murmur like a dove.

42. Ronald Duane Peed

Through a dirty tinged glass,

Do I look’th upon what hath cometh to pass,

And my Heart to break’th as surely before a lass…

Know that in Life, Thee were a tolling bell.

Know that in Death, Thee by Science, of barbarian genetic European spell.

Comfort Thyself if in Heaven, or elsewhere in druidic drunken spell;

Pray with the Angels or gods I to join Thee with my skull…

If Thee, however, be in Hell where the daemons dwell,

Count a failed Adventure later I to join Thee, with Axe shortly after fell…

Chapter II     An allegory of the Sky, Earth & other things… Chicken-Scratched September 2007.

When the clouds drop down rain upon the parched ground; the Earth doesn’t know the pain of the storm itself because it is selfish…

It can not hear the rumblings within. 

It can not see the lightening.

It can not know that the rain drops are the tears of the Sky.

It knows only a crazed need: hungrily, greedily taking in that which it needs to send up, out new life. It yearns to grow. It conceives to evolve. It does not like its drab appearance; the Earth prefers the vibrant, raucous color of pink-cheeked Life. A simple hope: a dream of lush, green trees and birds, of flowers and bees all under a cheerful yellow sun. It doesn’t know that the rain pelting it is not cause for joy.

It doesn’t know that which gives it hope of Life, are but the tears of the Sky…

When its thirst is at its highest, when it has turned to opened badlands; it knows only of want.

It doesn’t think to touch the Sky where they meet in alpine meadows and rocky, snow covered crags to caress it, stroke it, console it, befriend it in it’s time of wind-swept need…

The Earth thinks of its wounds first; it only knows its pain…

And so it comes to regret its wants which drive it. It looks shamefacedly inwardly for it is a kind of partner with Blue-Eyed Sky that is taking and not giving…

Chapter III     A Satirical Love Letter. Chicken-Scratched Late-August 2007.

When one has been in a desert as long as I and to come upon an oasis, nay, a land of the verdant green of life found in thy honeyed words: I to acknowledge my souls isolation; it’s starving, pitiful condition and a tear forms in my eye…

Bow of life strung, arrow falling short; that tear, that single jewel of my sorrow rolls and falls alone to the desert floor…

I lay myself down in thy deep, cool grasses that enfold me as if your hand cradled my malnourished soul itself. Your shade trees, full of gentle sway, fruit and song of bird, protect me and nourish me from the depredations of the cruel sun I have known so long in my wanderings.

The tide to turn, my spirit returning… and wondering, I, “Who art thou?”

“Are thee lovely Calypso?”

“Are thee fearsome Athena?”

I think thee all those and more…

Behold! Before me in thy nimbus of satire, voice of phonic beauty & lovely feminine form, eyes of piercing sky to melt the heart of Men, stands:

Fearsome Slayer of endless waves of slavering, mindless subhuman minions from the Maw of Call Center Hell itself: the Lovely, Angelic Atlanta, Queen of the Wordsmiths…

And my cup to fill with a Champagne of Happiness, my soul’s yearning quenched…