Buddy, was a dachshund,
an older dog.
Rescued in a Walmart parking lot,
existing on God knows what,
sick, hungry and afraid.
His foster mom called him "Verloren"'
which means lost, in German.
But we called him Buddy,
because he was.
He was with us just a few years,
that was all.

****

When I woke in the morning.
Buddy lay unresponsive,
with shallow breath.
The night before he couldn't walk.
I think it's time, old friend.

At the vet,
I held him and gave the directions
in a wavering voice.
I left as soon as I could.

A dark cloud settled over our house.
That night we slept fitfully,
but the next night,
I was in an indeterminate space,
with furniture scattered about.

Buddy was under a highboy,
sleeping peacefully as he usually did.
I looked again but he wasn't there.
A moment later, I saw him again
and then he was gone.

Some will say my dream,
was just  me processing.
Or was it a sign,
a message from Buddy:
I'm OK.
It's OK.

Dropping her cloak, **** she leaned into the storm and glistened.

The rocket shot to its apex, and filled the twilight sky with white and orange glowing fragments

The car skidded to a noisy halt, the sides fell away to reveal 8 clowns smoking cigars

N-I-P-P-L-E-S. ******* was his name. *******, Joe *******.

A cherry ‘67 Ford Mustang, sumbitch, be still my heart.

After eons, the T-Rex pushed his head through the earth and thought, “Oh good, a picnic”.

Confronting his mortality, next time around he wanted to be one of those **** tomato eating gray squirrels.

The Venetian Red fish
Slithers through the magentic sky,
Sniffing the violence of electromagnetic vibrations,
I, behind the branchia, spur her/him on,
Far away, the sight of thunder rumbling and static,
Feeling the inky indigo of the mirage of toothy desire.
Hearing cold textures of slippery fishy scales,
Tasting the black velvet Jesus, Elvis, and Nixon,
Our banner.

Oh, that can’t possibly happen said Jonah,
As he was enveloped by exactly that,
A piercing cacophony of clashing color
That resolved itself into the image of his ex.
No more, no more.

The red fish jumped the river Stix,
Halting at the 7-11 from hell.
A seventh circle infernal Powerball anyone?
A hellish scratchie tempts my soul.
But my lucky number is a binary: 1-oh,1-oh, 1-oh.
That’s hell for you, unsymmetrical.

Needed, perhaps a chance encounter,
with an itinerant puzzle person
Would they sort the senses and find truth?
Could that help or should it?
He winks and I don’t believe her.

A stolen kiss thrown
At the 2018 Little League Playoffs at Southaven, Mississippi
Still echoes in their brain pans and mine too.
The dull stylus of dangerous thrills
scratched my pancreas as Jim shoveled his lunch.
But I have better manners than that.

In the chaotic magentic atmosphere,
I mount my scarlet stead,
and move on-- as you should too.
Adieu. Adieu. Adieu.

Entering, marble and shiny surfaces everywhere.
37 minutes waiting on the outside of the iconostasis,
Waiting for the acolyte to lead me into the sanctuary.
She calls my name
Presides over the ritual weighing of the meat,
Leads me to a vacant cell.
Blood pressure measured and blood taken.
Thank you, sister, for not hurting me.

Alone again, imprisoned.
Observing the posters on the cell wall:
There are images of all the doctors and deacons.
Twenty percent have ears that stick out.
Can't tell about the women.
The priestess arrives, listens, decides and prescribes
12.5 minutes to her, an hour and fifteen to me.
My offering, a tenth of the non-insured offering, is collected,
Then I'm done for 3 months.

I don’t think anyone lives a normal life—
One New Normal becomes the next New Normal.
Birth, accidents and illness, death, marriage, children, divorce, a new job, a new place to live.

There is only the Now Normal.
Like straight sections of a road between curves—
the Now Normal responds to a big change
and lasts until the next big challenge.

The normal, as spoken of,
is a predictable pattern of days.
Is that even desirable?
What would life be without changes that test us?
Nietzsche had a point:
“What doesn't **** us makes us stronger”.

Maybe change is the real normal.

Written by Jim Beaupre on this 474st* day of the current Now Normal.
Or it it the first day of the new Now Normal?

* February 9, 2020 - May 27, 2021.

Erwin, bitte, bitte!
I guess I should have told you first
when I found your missing diary.
So here I am, stuck in the kitty SuperMax.

Yes, I am Schroedinger's cat
trapped in a box with
food, water, and air--
and an infernal machine.
There's no way out--
no litter box either.

I assure you that I'm alive-- for now--
But I wonder about the world outside--
Does it persist, has it vanished--
or is it in a more indeterminate state?

If anyone is out there, please LET ME OUT!
Because life goes on— for a while,
How about some kitty litter, Bitte Schön?

Thoughts of dreads came and went.
I fell asleep to dream.

No, not the infinite intestinal maze
with red, slimy, pulsating walls
forcing me ever-forward.

It was worse.

I was in my own bed with a big snake.
I was tangled in the covers and I couldn’t get away.

Flick, flick, serpent kisses to my face.
Slither, slither, as coils envelop.
I knew it was a dream but I couldn’t wake up.

And then I did.

There will be no litany of dreads,
No enumeration of my deepest fears.
No dark dwellings of my darker nature.
My secret fears will remain secret and deep.
Nothing more is needed,
Reality is tough enough.

I now know:
Beginnings have hope, and the tingle of the unknown.
Anticipation of something new, the frisson of the future.
The chance for change, an opportunity for action.
Building and creating something with my imprint.

Endings have consequences of compromise.

Beginnings are better than endings.

In the beginning there was procrastination,
and I can't wait to start putting that off.

To begin or not to begin that divides us all.

Deferring action never increases entropy,
and lengthens the life of the universe.

Completion happens once, but delay has no limit.

I'm not dithering, just exploring all the options.

This "beginning" poem has just been hijacked by hesitation,
and dragged down the rat hole of reluctance.

Oh well, there is always tomorrow.
One can always say, my muse took a snooze.

Just a glimmering of an idea--
No flesh, no bones, just a mirage in the distance--
But also commitment.
And so it begins, the beginning begins.

Collared for white collar,
To society I'm paying my dues
The Trump appointee Club Fed blues.

The beds are pretty clean and soft,
At Club Fed, they hardly cost

Shootin' shuffleboard, takin' a snooze
Just forgettin' the Club Fed blues

The **** beach aint just ahead
Club Fed just aint the Club Med

At 3-pm, it's tea and cake
Every night supper-- it's Trump steak
The cash register rings, it's all his take.

They're adding on to the Club Fed thing,
A spanking new Congressional wing

Having latte with a Trumper con
He whines,"I'm no Don,
I was just a pawn."

On the ladies side, want to meet
Lori, the College Admission cheat

No black ink pen tattoos
Just plain old Club Fed blues

Bill Barr and Rudy sit at table
Remembering when they were on cable
Just spinning another Ukrainian fable

Missing my 5-pm yardarm *****
A stiff price to pay, the Club Fed blues

When I leave it's to the Caribbean
To a fat numbered account
And I'll finally lose the Club Fed blues.

Love isn’t static
No, it evolves,
waxing and waning
to an uncertain end.
It can fade,
or it can continue to grow
and become something
truly wondrous.

Canto I: Before the beginning
St. Augustine was asked, "What happened before creation?"
He replied, time is a part of creation--
if there is no time, there is no before.
Now many conjectures--
We don't really know, but Augie could be right.

Canto II: The earliest and furthest we can see
400,000 years after the beginning,
the atomic plasma combined, and light broke free of matter.
3000 degrees then, 3 degrees now, expanding and cooling--
The Cosmic Microwave Background: escaped light, fiat lux.

Canto III: The big bang starting point
Dense, hot spacetime with physics different from ours.
What is to become the visible universe is the size of a proton
(give or take).
Separation and emergence of the four forces, gravity first.
All the energy of the universe is present--
It's all in a low entropy state,
primed for almost unimaginable transformations

Canto IV: Inflation, an evidence supported theory of crazy expansion
Superluminal expansion of spacetime.
In an instant, inflation begins and ends, from proton-sized to inches.
Within spacetime the speed of light is energy's maximum,
but need spacetime itself be so limited?
We don't know the full extent of spacetime, just what we can backtrack.
After inflation, a coasting slowing expansion begins

Canto V: Particle creation and cooling
Age of subatomic particles--
Is this when dark matter appears or is it already there?
Quark creation, fusion and confinement into particles.
Neutrons, protons and others.
Recognizable physics processes occur.
Cooling, coasting expansion.

Canto VI: Normal  matter
Protons, electrons and photons appear in a hot plasma state.
With cooling, electrons are captured and atoms appear.
Light, with fewer charged particles to dance with,
leaves matter behind to create the Cosmic Microwave Background.
Free at last!

Canto VII: Changes slow, but expansion continues and then spurts
Clouds of matter, normal and dark, gravitational compaction.
Two billion years: Proto-galaxies and stars form
Things are starting to look normal.
Feeding on dark energy, expansion speeds up. Surprise!
Galactic accretion continues

Canto VIII: Life
Four billion and a half years ago earth forms.
Less than a billion years later, there is life.
Are we special? Does life exist elsewhere?
The visible universe is 14 billion years "old" and counting.
Everywhere we look we see uniformity:
We may not be alone.

Canto IX: The end?
All distant terrible fates:
Don't worry, be happy!

My muse
took a snooze

Focussed,
painting fast but deliberately.
Then,
Time slows and I watch myself apply paint to the canvas--
distant, but connected, on autopilot.
Conscious decisions, many per minute... cease—
but the painting progresses,
and then it’s done.
Not a regular thing, a rare event—
Twice only, unforgettable.

strong coffee to stay alert
protein and poetry for strength
hard times are coming

Their names are:
Katie, Bobo, Bear--
Max and Buddy,
Sushi and
Grafin Hegwig von Stubenrein*,
Hedy for short.

For 30 years, dachshunds, chihuahuas
and miniature schnauzers.

Chihuahuas are definitely
the undercover dogs,
but dachshunds will burrow too.

Hedy and Buddy at the foot
of the bed, cross- and lengthwise.
Bobo too, but anywise.

Sushi and Max like it
when we sleep on our sides--
preferring the crooks of the knees.

Katie was an armpit dog.

Dogs are mobile and in a pinch
do double duty as a heating pad--
but a cold nose on bare skin
is welcome in the heat of the summer.

Night or nap, the company is welcome--
Did we rescue them or did they rescue us?

I've become a lazy reader,
dismissive and curmudgeony too.
Magazines or books? Not magazines--
Magazine readers are a different species.

So books it is. Let me take inventory:
Nonfiction. Sorry, just the occasional science book.

General fiction lost the war for my attention--
Do real people really have so many feelings?
So often and so detailed?

So I read genre fiction.
But bang, bang adventure has become tiresome--
after all how many times and ways can you shoot/stab/blow up/car chase?

Likewise, there are books that seem spend pages and pages describing clothes.
Even though Chaucer also spent many words describing clothes,
his best lines were about bare ***** hanging out a window.

All my favorite characters are now old, Harry Bosch, George Smiley.
To my regret, the Wall falling and the Cold War ending almost wiped out the thoughtful spy story.
Science fiction, a previous favorite, took a goofy turn awhile ago, and I’m done with it.
Let's see: fantasy now seems written for teenage vampire-witch wannabes. Just flutter away.

What's left? I think it's only Detective stories and Poetry.
I'm pulling for Harry Bosch and Billy Collins at 90, and, God bless him, John Le Carre.

Outside, near the entrance,
a tendril wafts into my nose—
A pleasant olfactory response,
as the molecules are absorbed,
and work into the capillaries,
Traveling through the veins,
Into the heart twice and then the arteries to the brain,
Binding to and activating the nicotinic receptors—
Causing a release of dopamine—
Yes, a runner’s high!
And never mind the downsides,
Even after a 30-year quit.

And yet, I'm glad I quit.

Strobing flashes in the clouds,
Thunder rolling through the hills.
Dust puffs with the first drop-
The promise of grass and prairie flowers.

The Indian gentleman, Brahmagupta,
invented the zero, null, nil, and zip--
just for times like this:
You betrayed me, you broke my heart.

Rewind, erase, delete, obliterate.
You are naught to me.

Black holes are really cool.
The bigger the cooler.
And they are not really black.
Absorbing real quick, emitting real slow,
By George, that's the way to go.

Driving down a backroad in desolate Apulia,
a black cloud of birds formed behind a hill--
It became two then one again in dynamic flight,
resolving into specks and finally,
graceful darts of life.
In the air: Swerving, splitting, rejoining.
Aware of each and all,
a synchronous response to a secret call.

A wave in motion, a flowing organism,
never repeating but ever the same.
We stopped and looked with wonder--
How do they do that? And why?

A lightning bolt: Is it a protest? Pesticides?

What would we do when
topsoil blows,
oceans rise,
food is scarce,
and wells run dry?
Probably nothing as organized- or beautiful.

The Indian gentleman, Brahmagupta,
invented the zero, null, nil, and zip--
just for times like now:
You betrayed me, you broke my heart.

Zero, null, nil, and zip--
Rewind, erase, delete, obliterate.
You betrayed me, you broke my heart.
You are nothing to me.

Rewind, erase, delete, obliterate.
Brahmagupta’s wonderful cipher lets me precisely say:
You are naught to me--
And not just for now, but forever.

In Boston, I shared a bed with a stranger,
In New Orleans, it was rope...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

In Memphis, I sat with a stray cat,
I smoked-- the cat did not...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

In Atlanta, forking out bail--
an all night binge on Chanel...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

In Chicago, cut my hand
on the shell of thorns...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

At home, settled now,
looking for more words for the next verse...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

Strobing flashes in the clouds,
Thunder rolling through the hills.
Dust puffs with the first drop--
The promise of grass and prairie flowers.

The bongo drums of his thought carrom across the cosmos,
revenanting across the dawn with nodules of coltan from beyond.
A clear channel for reading the universe:
"When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
"Thank you for making this day necessary."
"It's déjà vu all over again."
"You can observe a lot by watching."
“Ninety percent of the game is half mental.”
“Pair up in threes.”

The smell of a quantum of disconnect,
the taste of the magenta of non-sequitur,
the  sight of logic colliding with chaos,
the touch of an insightful short-circuit,
the music of senseless syntax that says it all.

Coinciluckily, the saving grace: "I really didn't say everything I said."
"Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours."
Who else would say, “You’ve got to be very careful if you don’t know where you are going, because you might not get there.”
Que sera, sera - "It ain't over till it's over."

Before the sun, before the birds--
The porch calls. The raw spring earth.
Reflection time.

A jogger's headlight dances down the street.
He doesn't nod, I don't wave.
Solitude.

There are books that teach, that we revere.
There are poems that we remember because they are true.
But there are only a few movies that show us how to live.

Just as the Don prepared Michael for his life, his words guide us as well:

"Don't raise your voice- Improve your argument."
"Never hate your enemies, it affects your judgment.
"Great men are not born great, they grow great."
"A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man."
"Accidents don't happen to people who take accidents as a personal insult."
"Time erodes gratitude more quickly than it does beauty."
"Never let anyone know what you are thinking."
"Forgive. Forget. Life is full of misfortunes."
And if that fails:
"Revenge is a dish that tastes best cold."

And when life serves us lemons, Clemenza offered us this:
"Leave the gun, take the cannoli."

In the almost musty basement, with the TV playing,
Sharon and I were on the sofa making out.
Urgent kisses, clothes a-jumble, smooth bare skin.
And Walter Cronkite broke in:
"President Kennedy has been shot….”
Shocked, we turned away and watched the world convulse.

We drifted apart,
each to ourselves, changed.

But in the autumn of my life, sometimes at night,
I still think of  
that blustery autumn day in Ioway.

i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway

We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die

But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.

Dreams curl away,
Eyes blink open, toes wiggle.
It's morning, ready or not.

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time.
Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes.
The thin comfort of fading memories.
Every now and then.

After our loving,
drifting and dreaming;
the dog barks for supper,
and so it goes...life.

Concealing more than revealing,
Forgetting more than remembering,
Talking much, saying little.
The triage of truth.

The Standard Model is full of sticky, quirky Quarks,
perky little Fermions, and the Boson Higgs,
the reigning King of Mass of towering might;
who, by spontaneously falling off in any old direction,
gives ad hoc Masses to nearly all, and to all a birthright.

And for all normal matter in creation,
the Boson Higgs is the physicist's salvation.
Alas, we could have learned more,
but a Weasel ate through the Collider core.

Canto I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Summer and after school: Paper route, neighborhood yard work, dogsbody in a drugstore, measuring houses for the county, fireman EJ&E railroad, janitor and bottling line Pabst Brewery Peoria. 1952-1962.

Fresh caught Mississippi River catfish. Muddy Yummy. Burlington, Iowa. 1959. Best ever.

In college, Fr. ***** usually confused me with my roommate, Al. Except for grades. St. Procopius College, 1958-62. Rats.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, my first day. A guy came in and said: "Who wants my horsecock sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." We never knew how many he drank. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate, contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettios and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month. Ames. 1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…”. Ames, 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Des Moines. Deferred, 1964.

Married and living in student housing. Packing crate furniture. Pammel Court, 1966.

One of many undistinguished PhD theses on theoretical physics. Ames. 1967.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness. Palo Alto, 1968.

US science jobs dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968. Aachen, 1969.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. Amsterdam International Conference on Elementary Particles. 1971.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border.
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973. Harrassment.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

"Maybe there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

On my first day at work, my first federal felony. As a joke, I impersonated an FBI agent. What the hell? Huntsville. 1974. Guess what?-- No witnesses left! 2021.

Hard work, good times, difficult times. The first years in Huntsville are not fully digested and may stay that way.

The golden Lord Buddha radiated peace with his smile. Pop, pop. Shots in the distance. Bangkok. 1992.

Accomplishment at work, discord at home. Divorce. Huntsville. 1994. I got the dogs.

New beginnings, a fresh start, true love and life-partner. Huntsville. 1995.

Canto II. In the present century...

Should be working on a proposal, but riveted to the TV. The day the towers fell and nearly 4000 people perished. September 11, 2001.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

We bet on how many dead bodies we would see. None, but lots of flip-flops and a sheep. Secrets of the Yangtze. 2004

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

Here's some career advice: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Third and final retirement. 2015.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. I moved on, but stayed interested. Continuing.

I’m eighty years old and walk like a duck. 2021.

Letter: "Your insurance has lapsed but for $60,000, it can be reinstated provided you are alive when we receive the premium." Life at 81. Huntsville, 2022.

Canto III: Coda

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.

(Begun May 2016)

"So why are you painting a woman in a bottle?"
The challenge. Handling all those quirky reflections and layers of transparency.

"She has phantom arms and legs, what about that?"
Yes, pretty cool. A Vitruvian woman in a bottle.

"I'm looking for Meaning: Don't paintings look under the surface?"
You mean, what does it mean, really mean? It's just a way to test my skill.

"But what are you saying with that?"
It's not feminist nor anti, it's just an exercise. Besides, there's a rope.

"But aren't you, as an artist, exposing reality, presenting emotions and feelings, seeing the soul?"
I'm not on a soapbox-- I'm testing my skill-- I paint and don't think about it too much. After all, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar' or is it 'just a smoke'? *

"I don't like your message."
OK, I'll paint you in a bottle...
As a shrunken head.

Blackbird:
       In a field, pecking corn;
       At a pond, drinking;
       At dawn, stretching;
       At sunset, disappearing;
       Chasing dinner, a bug.

Blackbird:
       In flight, bringing the storm;
       Circling my house, waiting;
       Over sea, with the wind;
       Spiraling up, diving down;
       Quoting Poe, nevermore, nevermore;
       At the window, knocking;
       Bringing omens of trouble.

Message delivered:
Blackbird in a tree, observing me.

Bang! bang! went the screen door,
"Don't slam the door!", my mother.

Decades later...

Bang! bang! went the screen door,
Sounds like heaven to me!

She was twenty on the night she came to our street.
And where she was, there are flowers by the curb.

She was twenty and from abroad, but living in Ardmore and sad.
Her friends, who were not really her friends, left her on our street: drugged and dead.

But every year, her mother brings plastic flowers to that spot on our block,
And what could have been, is remembered.

When I first heard Elvis, I shivered.

Blue, blue, blue suede shoes, heartbreak hotel, you hound dog, you!

But when the Beatles came along, I left you behind.

Later when you came to Huntsville, you were fat, and then you went back to Memphis and killed yourself--- **** you!

My road is not a highway, well-traveled and straight.
Nor does it meander through the woods or follow a country brook.

No, it's often like a cave with short horizons;
And when there is a fork, I take it.

Paintings delight my eye and ignite my imagination: Devotional icons, the omni cubist view, the brazen eyes of Whistler and Manet; and Monet's lilies.

The perspectives of the renaissance and the violence of Caravaggio; the lush glowing skin of Rubens' nudes; and more!

I celebrate the intellects that created these.

I'm just a miserable bunch of quantum field excitations. A bag of bags of quarks. And so's my truck.

I was entangled with a gal, but things went South. We're still ensnared— unmeasured and immeasurable with no divorce.

Dark energy, dark matter, dark thoughts-- I'll go to the dark side and jump in a black hole.

That'll teach you,  bit....   [loss of signal]