I looked out east this morning
The early light of day was painting the landscape
Much to my surprise the foothills of my beloved Cascades
Glowed with a lovely purple hue
Instantly my eyes filled with tears
As freedom was dying all around me
And the victims themselves
Clamored for more police-state oversight –
Was faint at first, a distant ringing
Like church bells in the neighboring township
The sound bounced aimlessly off the valley walls
Yet each time it struck my ears
My eyes filled and I caught a sob
Deep in my throat
Dylan called them the “chimes of freedom”
But I think they are ghosts of a bygone era
Haunting those of us who remember the dream –
Fascism and dissent rule the evening news
And no one is listening to the wise old bluesmen
When grandmamma is 38 with a “**** it” attitude
And the police shoot unarmed minorities in well-lit streets
Leading with bleeding is seeding discord only
public outcry is for Kayne instead of Kazakhstan
and the CIA led ***** trade
is giving narcotics anonymous new parade routes
truth hurts, like an arthritic hand
gnarled and twisted
in the freedom mist
….better get **** drunk
And reminisce about blissfulness –

blindly towing the party line
rows of lemmings looking for death
of the American dream on cable television
in selected cities –
bile rises as another exploitation campaign begins
trapping the masses
tricking the weak into buying
materialism as success
bane of existence
thy name is consumerism
sheeple mindlessly following each other into mini-mall after
mini-mall
seeking the perfect shoes and spatula
for holiday gifts
and office exchanges
fat liar holding children with a big red *******
to match his suit
singing the praises of pokemon and ninjago
to medicated youths –
broken parents drag zombie bodies into darkened rooms
flopping down in front of the propaganda machine
for another dose of reality
brought to them by GMO foods and Multi-national oil companies
as they are the only ones who
truly understand the public –
tears well as I realize my isolation
only awake soul in a land of sleep-walkers
and everyone is so over-medicated
I am unable to rouse a soul
….just scream in blank faces
wait for 2016
and plan my mountain escape –

hyped blood moon leaves me longing
no doom, no massive uprising
just another day
so many times the end of humanity
has reared its head
only to falter
when the day actually comes along
who among us remembers Elenin –
it is only through the revisiting of ancient ways
that we stand to exist beyond the horizon
returning to experiencing oneness with the natural world
as a part of instead of a steward too or protector therein
Carlin calls it ego, but I think stupidity
holds humanity at sway
thinking less pollution can somehow fix the Pacific
except fallout has been a part of that sea
since the late 1940’s –
no one looks to the Lorax
or even Woodsy the Owl
instead focusing on the little green head
on dollar bills…
pill popping beer swillers killing the planet
while claiming to be the smartest and greatest nation..
my patience is running out –
doubtful change can happen through human interaction
I wait for the earth to rid itself of this virus
massive tectonic upheaval
super storms
lice….
we all gonna die,
and it will be all our fault –

As one

                                                of SEVEN billion

I


   s
     u
        p
          p
             o
               r
                  t


random




                             population
                                         control.

waking refreshed, happy
full of the knowing that all is well
no need to worry for asteroid impact
or salmonella outbreaks
I turned in my Capstone –
looking to the future with faith-filled optimism
they really can fix Fukushima
they aren’t spraying aluminum onto the populace
it’s really just what happens when jets cut air
pesticides and fungicides
combined with antibiotics and steroids
make our food safer
I turned in my Capstone –
longing to show the world the new free version of myself
not concerned with gay rights
un-involved with the Occupy movement
faltering on the desire to better myself through education
seeking only to fit in and make some money
reshape myself into a machine cog
I turned in my Capstone –

yo, dawg
I remember this one time
we was straight chillin
I fell out and was sleepin hard, dawg
my homeboys was actin the fool
smoking that tea
wildin out
like they was straight mad
party was of the hiz-ook
then this little blond ***** rolled in
takin bout whitey
o’ some ****
I was tore up, dawg
sleepin in a muthafukkin teapot
this ** flappin her gums
bout this and that
like we give two *****
homeboy, we was jess lookin to rip it up
out of the blue this trick
says ‘cat’
dawg, I jumped up
running across the table
moving furniture
up in this here muthafukka
my homeboys lit out after me
hollerin like big dawgs
one a’ those fools
we like to call the Hatter
went to rubbin a bit o’ jam on my nose
a little on the gums
you how we do
anaway
that **** did the trick
and I fell out
hard like a muthafukka
passed. the ****. out.
hit the bricks and skid my chin
you feel me?
bout that time this little trip rolls in
talking about being late n’ ****
that Hatter straight destroyed his rolex
send homeboy to cryin like *****
dawg, that **** was the craziest party
we still talk about the madass ****
…..never knew what happened to the blond
chick was a trip ---

blood moons rise
and the Temple Mount is cloaked in tear gas
innocent lives lost to the droning of drones
irradiated dirt sets under fingernails fresh from the garden
the horsemen died without a flare
the samurai ghost warriors tremble at Wall Street policy
the tears of ten thousand babies
have been drank by flies
spreading vaccinations and pesticides
to wildlife protection areas.

* eating fast food at the gas station I pause to reflect*

morbid wealth in the hands of the conservative party
granting respite on one out of every 135 african americans
who can tap dance while rapping the Gettysburg Address
but only if they will perform on the upcoming reality show
“The Tappin’ Rappin’ Afrikkkans”
…….sore from the blatancy of new world racism
society sits back pretending to be mortified at the train wreck
but the ratings go up each week as water color fodder
fills the desperate air between lonely co-workers
trying so hard to be clever
they sever ties to cultural evolution
subconsciously choosing instead to live the lie
eat trash wrapped in petroleum
and recycle their ***** waste for the less fortunate
as a tax write-off

here is another one
mostly for fun
like a little cap gun, son
I
Hop on one foot
Like a muthafukkin bunny
I’m lucky, its sunny
But allergies got my nose all runny
The drum beat
Keeps my feet sweet
Light and neat
Homemade Halloween treat
Back to the street
See I’m rollin
In nothing stolen
Knee swollen
**** takes it’s toll , man
But I still jam
Like I am on a muthafukkin roll
I stroll
Into any place of business
Like I witnessed
Jehovah’s ******
Simply put, I’m the best
****** rapper in the
Pacific northwest
But that’s just a guess
I don’t get out a bunch –
Well I
Seem to play this game
Where I try to pick the brains
Of these criminally insane
Muthafukkas on my job plane
Don’t drink Champaign
But if I do its out a mason jar
Check out my appendix scar
I lied, still got mine
It’s like a shinning star
Brown dwarf, cant see it from afar
But it will destroy the par
Leave golfers in their little cart
At the speedie mart
Riding on the BART
Did you just ****?
I get silly still
Its these badass pills
Cause all kinds of thrills
Homeboy, can we just chill? –

wordsmithing virus lyric
twisting lines empirically
like British empire builders
treating native speakers
subhuman /
reading worn cliché
daily lamenting regurgitated
form and style
while smiling at the beguiling nature
of multisyllabic structure ~
it’s easy to forget (in a legalization nation)
that the idea of utilizing parentheticals
is really
just using parenthesis  ~
creating space between the artist


                     and
                           the
                                reader


is pretentiousness personified /

it is our job to play Ishmael
and take them with us
not leave them shore bound
watching the speck of sail
slip into the stratosphere ~

come with me
lend me your hand
more importantly your eyes
and an open mind ~

then we can journey
together /

fractured rays pass through tattered treatments
the broken fast moving clouds ever changing
shadow creatures dance across my desk and skin
playfully morphing from recognizable shapes
to distorted images of madness
my concentration only hastens the changes –
thoughts race to match the sky
bounding effortlessly from subject to object
objectification to subjugation
absconding subjected objectify-ers
subjugating the obtuse –
swaying tree tops pepper my field of view
a light breeze plays among the needles
damaged branches dislodge and fall
in the ever-changing Fall –

fat-backed rat finks
roller rink
kitchen sink
thinking back to Corporal Klinger
and Klingons in small thongs
smoking star ship bongs
in a smelly pond
broken wand only sparks slightly
mightily I try to be
free from discriminatory flees
I sit on the floor and be
quiet as a church mouse
in the glass house built by my
light-skinned spouse,
the louse trounced
pouncing on the bouncing ball
falling into the dousing mall
desert grouse espousing rabble-rousers  
in denim trousers
holding perennial flowers
while the gourd towers
bow their heads to the sunset
vetted Reds in beds of lead
break bread with the dead
instead of raking fall leaves
betting on getting let out
cloutless louts just about shout to be heard
and the herd moves forward
every methodically –

E. E. Cummings ‘s

deceased…

                the man known for nonconformity

                conformed in the most predictable way,

                                                           ­        died

wrote volumes poemspoemspoemspoems scribblestampscrawl

                                            ­                                                          Revered­



all the time spent on self-publication...

                                            ­              I have one question to pose back, Sonny

Did it hurt when your brain popped,

Mister Cynic?

                                                         ­                                       --- Sam Temple

lasing fallacies
facilitated by flunkies
fictionalizing facts
for freedom
re-done interiors
inferior to craftsmanship of old
offer glimpses into consciousness
of the common folk
squandering birthrights
for a burger richer in trans fat
and bacon flavoring
atop an evangelical spire
I peer into soulless zombies
seeking connection
with my kin
only to have reality slap me back
as wolves are kin to pugs
but they cannot coexist
storm clouds gather
night falls
tears drop
I am alone
bone dry dust bowl
harboring fuchsia scorch marks
landscape scars
fracking remnants
humanity’s blight
my line of sight tracks trite sprites
pixie wings and bath salts
eating dog faces for jesus
or worse
feces
out of hunger
horrified I recoil to a safe spot within
again
with old friends
in the din
I win

rushing mountain stream
grey stones protrude
blackberries hang just above
little splashes cause sparkles
sunshine filters through branches
light dances on the moving promenade
a lonely leaf passes by without fanfare ~
we sit watching
discussing home ownership steps
dropping names of realtors
considering taking the plunge
just over 1050 square feet
spring fed wood and oil heat
tiny cabin off Tree Farm road
future property of Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Lyman Temple ~
bright blue Steller’s Jay
squawks his arrival
***** a mow-hawked head
and considers us for a moment
three quicks hops and one more call
before he flies off into the foothills
nature gifting us a nod of approval /

trolling the doldrums for crumbs of gold
selling old caldrons to witless witches
wearing goblin teeth and dragons blood
earrings from Hot Topic
I languish in the Emo village that is the United States –
Self-serving ******* preserving their precious habitats
while habitually encumbering the global ecology
drinking biodegradable Starbucks in Buick Escalades
escapade-ing ***** raiders afraid of Mercury in retrograde
staying clear of the mayhem
and playing fear propagating madman
I stoke wildfires with gasoline
prodding the populace into premature ******* –
poorly formed ideas the norm
the scorn for the figureheads shows on the shoreline
boorish oarsmen, moored, pour their kerosene blood
onto the floor…. Sure,
pure Fuerer fodder,  but newer shoes
were never shod
and the godhead faces west into the sunset –
druidic fluids escape wiccan slits
as the children of the Azure seas never get to be born
Pleaedian starships collide inside Antarctic subterranean dwellings
indiscriminate shelling of uninhabited caverns
as ravenous reptilians eat the jaw muscles
and left eye sockets
of organically fed Dairy cows…
espoused louse houses in Fall fashion blouses
trounce the infirm in clown shaped bounce houses
again, the sin goes unnoticed
as the blood of the innocents grants the elitists
another thousand years of power –
The tower on the hill still shines in the moonlight
on the 5th night of delighting the religious right…
mighty flightless birds self-assured and fed
on bramble burrs
purr at the sight.
bodies strewn all askew;
the moaning few with skin turning blue
true to the stories of old
as lack of oxygen blends with the biblical beast mark
and staving for air the impaired dare not to ask for Jesus aid…
instead they lay, waiting to be saved –

I stood in the cold rain
Feeling consumed by overwhelming hunger
Trying to make sense of all the lies
Wishing there was a way to stop this **** wind
If there were any truths to our shared dreams
And if I would ever be free from these memories.

I thought back to the many nights we spend talking about our dreams
Turns out, many of these were just lies
Like broken mirrors I tried to piece together the memories
Hoping it would satiate my hunger
Instead I felt on my face a blast of cold wind
Followed immediately by ice-laden rain

I wish we could dance again in the spring rain
Spin like children in the warm summer wind
But it will not do, telling myself these lies
Holding onto broken dreams
Like a starving man holding onto hunger
With eating, his only memories

The treetops swayed in the wind
And I thought to myself I must get out of this rain
Break free from this flood of bad memories
Sprinkled with years of lies
I must wake from these terrible dreams
And do something about this hunger

I felt a churning inside myself, like I was suffering from hunger
But this too was just more lies
I was being eaten alive by memories
Giving myself cancer reliving these dreams
Standing alone in the rain
The only thing on my face, the wind

There can be no more smiles, only the rain
At least with rain, there are no lies
just the feeling one has when they give up on dreams
and live only through their memories
dying slowly from an untamed, unnamed hunger
until they too are carried away on the wind

Girl conditioner
        Lovingly stroked through whiskers
***** Flatbeard smiles

Hot and flat iron
         Please hipster gods be so kind
Beard becomes calm sea

Personal grooming
         Turned to Japanese garden
Terraced beard landscape

Rogaine investment
          Thick beard glued into donkey
Looks like a Jack-***

Caveman gone ape ****
            Preferring the barber shop
To hot biker chicks

Poor ***** Flatbeard
            No one thinks you very cool
Eskimo status

Rustling leaves fall
            No, just ****** beard in the wind
Peed some while laughing

No love for hip beards
           ***** Flatbeard needs to die
Slow, painful, mean death

Who dares disturb our quiet sleep?
With observation dark and deep,
looking around our peaceful plane
wondering about a friendly keep.

A little horse so very plain
Struggles under a chilly strain
Looking back at the driver’s eye
Ready to run the path again

Quietly the snow does fly
Coating the land in pearly white
A silent night without a peep
Leaving the stranger filled with fright

Be gone intruder, flee this deep
Upon your horse to make the leap
For we are cold and want to sleep
…for we are cold, and want to sleep

skin slightly paler and just trusting enough
the younger twin by two minutes explained
sometimes mom gets this way
standing at the open trunk of the ‘84 Mazda 626
feeding the feral dog old bologna
somewhere in the deepest humid South
late summer, two-thousand two –
driving her home from school
the oldest sits double uncomfortable
with cramps and an upset stomach
while watching me
doing the strangest dance of delicacy
as who knows the mystery of the first moon cycle
…safe! –
tromping through the stream bed
string-less sneakers barely remembered
against all odds and laws of physics
face still ***** with a sugary ring
smiles fly as the biggest agate of day
lay in stubby strong fingers –
strange prompt without limits
on this second day of poetry month
two-thousand sixteen
invoke old memories of strangers
becoming a family….

one day their children will call me Grandpa,
and Sam will quietly slip away –

dried mustard t-shirt
handcuffs like silver bands glow
anniversary

Taking stock
I find myself
Needing only one thing
Always seeking this feeling

Looking back over near thirteen years
You seem to me to be a perfect vision of loveliness
Never giving me reason to be sad

Today, I think about our love
Even in stressful  times
Made difficult by financial worries,
Poor communication or misunderstandings,
Love and laughter are the constant
Every day I fall for you again

seconds tick by as angry faces look back in disgust
a smile passes over my lips as we all know nothing can be done
this is life in the corrections institution
while I leave at 5 o’clock each day to go home, we share these hours
quiet hostility
combined with the occasional splash of regret
this, however, is usually passed off as an illness
and they go back to their cells, or as I refer to them “their hotel rooms”
as an instructor, the anger is not directed at me
but instead pours out whenever the officers walk by
leaving me to wonder about the reality of after-hours treatment
I sit in a swivel chair watching light bulbs flash into existence
awareness coming into the life of a ‘lifer’
the realization that they too can be more than they imagined
better than they thought
different than the image the department of corrections would have the world believe
proud of themselves I sit humbled
watching the embracing of an experience
and the acceptance of something other than
what their parents, teachers,
and society
told them they were

she spoke to me with baited breath
having just had a herring luncheon
I sat her down and hit her with ‘The Facts’
the 400 page volume had been recently published
she responded out of hand
and gave it to me
like a champ
her voice quaked
trembling with worry and nerves
I told her to calm the **** down
ease up
let off the gas
and just chill
coming closer and wrapping me up
she smashed me flat
planting wet lips all across my plain
holding tightly the reigns
I was put to stud
and broke the bank…
we both fell out
and crashed hard –

trying to sleep in the hostile hostel
stranger noises allow terrifying fantasies
to permeate my tired mind
sleep deprivation as a lifestyle choice -
shadow figures encroach
as frozen muscles fail
only able to tremble, be it the cold
or the horror of what I cannot make out -
shapeless faces blend with faded wallpaper
morphing from alien abduction
to hysterics over tree branches scratches
rain against the panes bring fresh pain -
drained, emotionally
slumber finally conquers
the mystery of sleep paralysis

1- Totes inaprope dope smoker swisher toker blunt wrap roper you be like my ole aunt groper
2- She be grabbin ***** on all ya’ll in the Fall by the ball court short shorts and written reports
3- ******* dorks and eatin pork like nanu nanu Mork with a stork baby drop on the porch
4- Carry the torch to the couch jump up ta bounce see a fool to trounce and slap in the head
5- Make him brain dead said I see red in bedrooms full a un-wed mothers slack jaw brothers
6- Druther act like one another than smother muthafuckers with rubber maid garbage cans
7- Hand feeding planned partenthood in the hood acting no good wit mad wood ya shoulda
8- Put those down came round and found a pound for slingin, bringing back the Ringling elephants
9- And cellophane wrapper sandwiches ******* snitching on rich kids for gambling small wagers
10- Drunken rage-ers deranged rangers feeding bears strangers and rearranging body parts
11- Carded farters impart special gasses on mass media fascists  allowing brash

Each head accounted for
and every paycheck cashed,
we hunched near a campfire.
My father struck a match
and touched the tip of a Lucky Strike.
The horses whinnied softly
and stomped their hooves,
the cattle bawled in the corral.
My father leaned closer to the fire
took one long dirt-flavored drag
drew another square from the pack
and wished one day he could watch it all burn.

I remember creeping up slowly
I was not allowed to play
in the busted and rusted out
’56 Ford –
I remember the faded yellow paint
peeling in the sunshine
chipping slivers off
and watching them flutter slowly to the ground
like the oak seeds
helicopter style
spinning and twirling
down, down, down…
I remember the shinning silver handle
with its easy downward force mechanism
and how smoothly the door came open
as if it were fresh off the lot
and I were an interested buyer
and not a child
breaking rules placed for my safety
and well-being….
I remember not caring if I might get cut
or rusty paint chips in my eye
only that this was mine and Grandpa’s special place
and I missed him –
I remember reaching out to the ripped and faded interior
feeling its heat on my hand
I remember my ears being perked
straining to hear the backdoor
of the farmhouse
if mother found me
dad would whip my *** after work….
I remember that is what he called it.
I remember that hot upholstery
and my small fingers  
twisting a string
before I made my move to jump into the cab
and drive, cross-country….
as I looked up,
legs like coiled springs
I remember the fattest bodied garden spider
I remember his black and yellow pattern
his perfectly developed web
I remember standing in shock
as this monster had taken over my special place
I remember falling backwards onto the yellowed grass
his freakish body forever imprinted
my 4 year old psyche damaged
giving me a lifetime
of an unreasonable fear of spiders
…..I remember that day
because I cannot forget it –

setting, delicately on the ten foot
two by six
scooting gingerly as to encourage
no splinters
clad in both sparkly regalia  
and plain jeans
the inebriated fairgoer glanced
through half-lids
swaying while speaking, reeking of whiskey
lips moved quiet
inaudible outside of guttural
groans and grunts
we all sat watching, both in awe and shock
the strange man
so overloaded on psilocybin
could just be
and we, so high on the marijuana,
only laughed –

~


slightest dust
                         of white
   fell silently on the  
                                   foothills

an old doe sluffs the extra coat
trots slow towards the northeast
         her heavy breath
                     a falling cloudbank

in the distance a thrush sings to me
         or was it the morning sun
                  the entire meadow
                                 enjoyed the interlude  /

puffball cotton swab
clouds hung low
looking like I could reach out
***** them with a fingernail
and send a deluge
crashing through the valley below –
littered across the misty green valley
large black-bodied cows
exhaling steaming tendrils
one long bawl travels
the length of the meadow
her rumbling song
inspires a smallish brown thrush –
fir trees set along side
creating a border of mystery
from in-between
a slight and leaning maple sapling
and a large dominant fir grandfather
a tan doe steps out
tentatively
behind her two speckled fawns
their long ears
turning and twisting with each pasture sound
they step into the clearing slowly
and begin to pull the dew drops
off the grass blades….
morning ritual of the farmland –

Hello poetry website:
I need to complain and cry on an imaginary shoulder
as I tire from all the deadlines and expectations
to be a parent, and husband
employee and student, 6’5” and 310 lbs
I feel I fail
and will only fall
yet, each day I awake with hope in my heart
that this will be the one
that moment when I become ‘normal’
when I no longer beat myself up about eating habits
or care if my hair is mussed
when I no longer live confused and frustrated
masking mediocrity with marijuana
looking back at life as a ******
as the only time when things were clear
Is this all life offers?
Am I to forever experience longing?
my plight is not unique
or special
it only holds any importance at all
because it is mine

endless miles of dark pavement
hours of white knuckle horror
illegally transporting pounds
processed into oil
curing her cancer –
new age family doctor
with a medical card and an interest in chemistry
distilling Everclear creating hope
1 gram a day
rear-view mirror road-rage
only wishing to be safely home
14 hours to go with a life on the line
watching a plant heal all that ails –
networking growers into family practitioners
dropping the bottom out of Big Pharma
one human being at a time
freely functioning as philanthropists
looking only to see families restored
Robin Hood as a pothead –
nothing could be simpler
than curing cancer
just grind up ****
pour 191 proof over the top
strain and keep the liquid
low heat cook it down
until only oil is left
5 drops of water
and a coffee warmer
decarbonization
then eat it
a grain of rice at first
then increase
to a gram a day
60 grams in 90 days
just try to die –
watching her gain weight and coherence in front of my eyes
seeing it again
knowing the truth
living in a lie
saving lives as I cross them
modern day travelling physician
carded
but unlicensed –

~



each step
      purposeful
                
no longer can discontent rule
                 when that has become the norm
                             we must remember
                                    unity

promises coated in smelly swamp mud
                         lay disheveled after spoken

no one is expected to remember
                 words carry meaning

it seems I have been cursed
             with an inability to forget   /

It’s not supposed

                     to matter…



But how


                          fat




Is Hillary!!

wormwood visions
the nibiru hype train
prepares to leave the station
once again
taking the prepper squad
and doomer crew
out to look again
at the vastness of space –
april forecasts
200 mile per hour
straight line winds
2016 the year of destruction
same as 2012
or Y2K
or the bicentennial
the age old crisis
of an incoming body
ready to destroy humanity
for the umpteenth time –
6000 to 8000
biblical years of existence
150,000 year old cave art
made by co-magnum
breeding with Neanderthal
looking to heavens
at the rogue planet
or failed dwarf star –
another checking of the packs
another inventory of the ammunition
one more sideways glance
into the southern skies
seeking validation
and maybe a little more warning
than what the powers that be
will give the population at large –
probably nothing will happen
the odds are this is just a story
like the devil or Santa Claus
just a way to control those foolish
or unsettled enough
to buy in
most likely this year will pass
without a celestial event
designed to alter mankind
push us to the next evolutionary jump
force us to become a single people
working to survive
the electric and magnetized
universe –

~

news reels of stock footage spin endlessly behind my eyes
grainy black and white headlines flash
strobing faces find me through the rotation and
stare into my eyes through static and filter
rich sienna waterfalls spill over pale lids
as I realize they cannot be saved

skin and soil carry ancestry through mitochondrial links
this commonality ends with each new crime
        shivering controllers pull tighter rare and endangered fur
        coats and scarves     mittens and hats
        they see brilliance in our separation and live
        like vampires on disunity and hate

each day the echoes reverberate with the crying
cold grey cave walls my only comfort against the noise
an olive drab tattered backpack with empty canned food cans and
a broken hatchet handle matches my mood
as I wonder aloud to no one…
How did you not all see this coming?

engaging the clutch
smoothly transitioning through the gears
easing the accelerator
speeding into a new experience
dust trail follows behind
holding the past
in a fuzzy grasp
clinging
to lost ideals
fading in the rearview
unknown curves lie ahead
dangerous slides
rocky passes
potholes
filled with potheads
trading progress
for papers
pushing through the normal modes
I find myself in uncharted territory
new lands
strange formations
exciting prospects
prophetic
seeking unridden waves
and buried caverns
I explore my new surroundings
as a university graduate

I couldn’t do for my mother what I did for my dog
By Samuel L Temple

Trip One
The phone rang soft, as it is want to do
answering it I found the quiet voice
of my dear mother. It was November
and a chill not only filled the air, but
also my very being shook with the new
information I was being given.
2013, yet another way
for me to hate Thanksgiving had begun.
It was only a few days after we
discovered my old lab had cancer too.

Falling to my knees I wept, but only
for a moment, I realized my wife
and I had already been researching
a cure. A brand new life was unfolding.
We had both the material and the
know-how to produce a new cancer cure.
His name was Rick Simpson and he was our
hero. Youtube and websites gave the news
and we watched eager and with bated breath.

Being an outdoor grower gives one the
access needed to produce large amounts,
being part of a co-op gave me the
ability to outsource all my needs.
A plan was made by the skin of my teeth,
and we set out trying to save mother
from the scourge that kills indiscriminate.
At the same time our old black lab, Jimmy
was losing weight and growing foot tumors;
we were embarking on a two-front fight.

It was chilly that late Fall afternoon
As we loaded the old Nissan pick-up
And headed down south to California
We left meds for the dog with our sonny
and loaded pounds, sealed, into blue crates,
filled the tank and bought some food for the trip
and said a silent prayer as we began
this epic journey to save moms life.
The sun shone through the clouds and I felt warmth
…would be a while before I felt again.

It was over two full mountain passes
when the fuel filter popped, leaving us stuck,
in Medford…a little cash but no car
my dear Auntie was the call we made first
and she, as always, wanted to help us
so she wired some dollars and we got
ourselves a rental Avenger that day
the journey recommenced and South we went
stopping briefly by the Bay for a friend
who donated pounds to the cause at hand

For another thousand miles we rode
one arm stretched South, and the other behind
we avenger-ed our way to the badlands
near Goat mountain, butted against a base
we found a small white oasis of love
inside, a frail, sickly, cancerous mom
wrapped in a blanket all smiles and pain
my dear sweet mother extended her hand
skin draped skeleton with liver spots bright
and hazel eyes shining with love for me

Small talk subsided and so we began
to encourage mother to look beyond
fifteen years, Narcotics Anonymous
and all the kool-aid she could ever drink
had so corrupted her processes that
she was unsure about starting a new cure
I tentatively brought out the product
handed one gelatin capsule over
and I watched her swallow pure cannabis
extracted with grain alcohol en masse'

Pounds of marijuana stuffed into pills…
“More than one whole gram ingested daily
and don’t you ever, ever miss a dose
you think you must take chemotherapy
so please just smoke after the appointments
be sure to get so much rest and don’t stop
try to eat and be a little active,
but rest is key to healing…and mother
these instructions are not for fun, you see
I honestly believe this can cure you”

We visited through the weekend and left
heading up the interstate to Oregon
hopeful and tired, we held hands and talked
inconsequential nothings passed chapped lips
as both of us rode home deep in new thoughts
thinking back to the grey shade of her skin
and the light that still shown strong in her eyes
I began to feel a pride in what
we were trying to do, and for her faith
that my mother placed in me that cool day.

Trip Two

I sat at the edge of my bed, thinking
we were about to take a winter drive
I had rented a nice 2012
Chevy Malibu, but there was no beach
only the forethought of desert sand dunes
and the ole military base fence line
mom’s pet coyotes would be at the trough
and her beautiful pits would be lounging
all I could do was softly pray for her
whispering under my breathe, let me see.

In vast style and comfort we headed
south again. Stopping at the Bay, again
getting product from my friend, yes, again
and driving down the I-5, cruise control.
Fast food and the ever watchful radar
were the order of the trip as miles
disappeared and the ribbon of road crept
beneath tires stretched to infinity
soon the Tehachapi’s gave way to sand
rocky desert with Joshua tree stands

The coolness of early winter did blow
sending particulates and shivers down
the arms and legs of my wife as we sat.
Looking at the small white cottage, hoping.
She came to the door with twenty more pounds
and the smile I remembered from my youth
she spoke of lower counts and feeling good
and increased appetite and acceptance
fifteen years, narcotics anonymous
and finally she could see for herself.

Marijuana had more to offer than her
than just ‘high’ to hide from reality
it was medicine, possibly the best
the world could offer. It blends perfectly,
with the endocannabinoid system
boosting the body’s ability for
fighting off cancer and disease. And now
there was a real chance at saving her.
Tears were shed as we all hugged and smiled,
kisses and proclamations of success.

We packed slowly that morning, feeling worn
Fifteen hundred miles lay before us
With Monday work looming after a long
Sunday drive. It was in Barstow that I
decided I wanted to show Tina,
Reno… so we took the 395
north, the Serria-Nevada’s loomed large.
Working within the constraints of time, we
seemed to be right on schedule, Reno
by four, and at home eight hours later,
it was about that time I noticed the
snow level was getting closer each mile.

It was in the early evening when first
they came; little specks of snow, delicate.
Softly falling on my clean windshield
This moment matched the snow along the road
reached our car, a sinking feeling began.
We drove easily over the first pass
Just a shade over 7000 feet high,
the snow,  falling faster, I heard a sob.
Glancing over I saw my wife huddled,
face to the car door, crying quietly.

Creeping in like a child wanting one
More drink

there is a space
      far out at low tide
          near the mouth of a river
               where the sand is flat
                                                 and wet ~

one instantly remembers
why people thought the
     world had an edge

why they shook

        fists and sticks

ran clutching babe

         to safety of cave

when asteroids passed by ~

why when the goddess comet
               Venus
finally came to find her home

and Mars no longer suffered

when gravitational pull and
      magnetic fields
                   did     not     exist ~

when it could only
      be God
parted waters

and those
feet
in sand like this

saved them ~

global disaster destroyed
                  collective memory

so many have
       the tales

all of their gods
                  saved them ~

it’s easy to remember,
                all so innocent

when the moon
                 is new

when the season is summer

and toes, exposed

can follow a river

   to the sea

          at low tide ~

when stars reflect

                and the world
                       floats away

when it is at first
                       terrifying

to be so small

and simultaneously

invigorating to the
               point
of physical vibration

when recognizing oneself

as part of the all

made by the all

and therefore

yourself the all…………..


I see you Whitman

with your toes          in sand
                
                                                    like this    /