Poetry's a plumb line the gauge the depth of intellect.

Plumb Line

Spouting [10w]s all day makes me feel like a faucet.

Mountain plumbing is constant crisis
Joe Cottonwood

Terry and I climb a different hill today,
a narrow trail
weaving among wildflowers
where we search for an old water intake,
finding rusty pipe but no collection box.
Mountain plumbing is constant crisis
as storms re-engineer the landscape
while three hundred houses wait to wash.
Terry, you should know, operated
the water system for years and years
in our old hippie town.

Moving on,
we walk around the former reservoir
that collapsed in the winter of ’82.
Now that was a crisis.
I say I used to come to this hilltop
every day at sunset with my dog
to meet a woman and her dog.
Terry says thirty or forty years ago
he used to come to this hilltop
every solstice to drop acid with his buddies.
“When was the last time you took LSD?” I ask.
“Last week,” Terry says.

Terry, you should know, is seventy-two
with cardiac plumbing that has
weathered a few storms.
He says the trips are milder now, sweeter,
like spring-water from the little glen
on the hill above his cabin,
gurgles out slowly
but worth the wait,
at the end of that trail
only you and I know.

Allen Wilbert
Allen Wilbert
May 5, 2014

screaming in pain
cleaning her drain
it was very clogged
I am very logged
loved my plumbers crack
she gave my ass a smack
faucet beginning to leak
from the point of the peak
ended up in bed
she gives good head
wanted bill to be free
told me during my morning pee
I said you lost your mind
so I poked her from behind
how about half price
she said sorry no dice
please free she would beg
as she played with my third leg
running wild was my imagination
you could feel my frustration
after the plumbing was all done
it turned out she was a nun

poetry and plumbing
Joe Cottonwood

“If you grow old, it is your own fault,”
I say to Terry as we
climb the mountain behind his cabin.
Terry is wearing a device that measures
his heartbeat and sends it by cell
phone to doctors at Stanford.
Terry has a flutter, nothing
serious, probably.
Terry has a great heart, actually,
something serious,
warm and wise.

We ascend this hill on Tuesdays
every week discussing
poetry and plumbing
our twin passions
the gathering of mountain water
funneled into pipes
delivered to homes,
the ordering of words
funneled into pages
delivered nowhere, sadly.

We discuss friends fallen or falling,
the arc of marriages, parenthood,
oddball relationships,
each a story and a puzzlement,
webs woven of love and rage.
That, and motorcycles, we talk,
pacifist veterans who walk
still seeking sense of an
incomprehensible war
shaping our lives.
We are harmless.
We survived.
He, the Air Force;
I, the draft.
So we hike, hearts pounding,
the simple friendship of two old men
seeking the hilltop
again and again.

Terry Adams, poet and friend.
Here's a recording of my reading of this poem at the Beat Museum, San Francisco:
Wack Tastic
Wack Tastic
Nov 14, 2013

Watching strange scenes,
On a fabricated screen,
I did not know where I ended,
And the vision,

Sep 9, 2014


Life is hard
any way you stack it.

Soul Survivor

If you'll notice,
I'm one brick shy... :-)
Sep 29, 2012

Words flow no longer a trickling drip

but the raging Mississippi with that

dream steamboat demotic.

It is good and I am whole.

The spirit is alive

and flows from these enlivened fingertips.

I am my own and this energy will be harvested.

I will storm and I will rage from dawn

Through the twinkling night.

I’m a plumb in a Fruit Basket that’s out of control, Two Apples ones green because the Banana forgot that he smelt see he was so old.

The Grape would always sit on its own in the corner in the cold, The Orange could never peel it’s self so the story goes.

The Kiwis always got a twin he aint really in a rush to want to go, Mangos getting weaker as they feel the muscles grow.

Crunch getting over taken by the hour glass that never grows, Sand dunes created by the sweet taste of the Tangerines we all loved to know.

Fruit salad created by the imagination our taste buds have grown to know Pears trying to mingle in this fruit basket that’s getting out of control.

See the birds all sing to the sweet taste of the Nectarines that I’m missing just thought you should know.

This fruit basket is getting heavy i can’t carry it anymore; I’m a Plumb in a fruit basket that’s gone out of control.

JidosReality 7.5.11

And then there was slow,
the falling of dandruff like snow and it's tough,I am
taking the rough with the smooth or taking a ticket for the suicide booth,can't decide if I should get the return trip or just ride.
And then there was slow,
it's like you know where you're at but don't know where to go,so
you put on a show and it folds the first night,
you walk,
talking with crows in the slow.

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