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?