implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from
and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff...
and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia.
both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless...
on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest.

again and again, we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of a sham.
we blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp
in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps
the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore
of Never Asked.

but regret This.

Shot a rabbit two days ago, it was a good shot taken at distance from height. The rabbit died instantly, it had been digging holes in my lawns, it had to go.

I watched it die and I had cause to ponder the death from a religious angle, where believers say we go to another place when we die?

I know where this rabbit went, he went into my vegetable garden, buried deep with all the other varmints and critters that have crossed my path.

Over the years we, (my wife and I), have turned that patch of barren volcanic ash into a wondrous source of lettuce, potatoes, onions, rhubarb, tomatoes and leek..by adding the carbonaceous remnants of not only these creatures but of composted vegetation, seaweed and selected fertilizers. We also grow the most beautiful roses and deliahs and crysanthemums you will ever come across.

And do you know...in the dark of night other little rabbits and bugs and things come out and nibble those very creations...unaware that they are completing the circle of being.

This is the true spirit of creation, as I see it, where deep in the garden, the motes of nutrition transmogrify beneficially from one entity to another, eventually, for the common good of all.

This is the basis of my belief. Feet on the ground...
What is....most definately is!

M.
Taranaki NZ

© 2011 (by Jim Sularz)
(The true tale of Frank Eaton – “Pistol Pete”)

At the headwaters of the Red Woods branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of dry sunflowers flail.

In a grave, still stirs, is a father’s heart,
that beats now to avenge his death.
Six times, murdered by cold blooded killers,
six men branded for a son’s revenge ….

Rye whiskey and cards, they rode fast and hard,
the four Campseys and the Ferbers.
With malicious intent, they were all Hell bent
to commit a loving father’s ******.

When the gunsmoke had cleared, all their faces were seared,
in the bleeding soul of a grieving son.
Ain’t nothin’ worse, than a father’s curse,
to fill a boy with brimstone and Hell fire!

Young Eaton yearned and soon would learn,
the fine art of slinging lead.
Why, he could shoot the wings off a buzzin’ horsefly,
from twenty paces, lickety split!

Slightly crossed eyed, Frank had a hog-killin’ time,
at a Fort Gibson shootin’ match.
Upside down, straight-on and leanin’ backwards,
he out-shot every expert in pistol class.

By day’s end when the scores were tallied,
Frank meant to prove at that shootin’ meet.
That he would claim the name of the truest gun,
and they dubbed him - “Pistol Pete.”

In fact, Pistol Pete was half boy, half bloodhound,
a wild-cat with two 45’s strapped on.
In District Cooweescoowee - bar none,
he was the fastest shot around!

Pistol Pete knew his dreaded duty had now arrived,
to hunt down those who killed his Pa.
He vowed those varmints would never see,
a necktie party, a court of law.

Where a man is known by his buckskin totem,
in hallowed Cherokee land.
There, frontier justice and Native pride,
help deal a swift and heavy hand.

Pete was quick on the trail of a killer,
just south of Webber’s Falls.
Shannon Champsey was a cattle rustler,
a horse thief, and a scurvy dog!

Pete ponied up and held his shot,
to let Shannon first make a move.
The next time he’d blinked, would be Shannon’s last,
to Hell he’d make his home.

With snarlin’ teeth and spittin’ venom,
Pete struck fast like a rattlesnake.
Two bullets to the chest in rapid fire,
was Shannon’s last breath he’d partake.

Pete galloped away, hot on the next trail,
left Shannon there for a vulture's meal.
Notched his guns, below a moon chasing sun,
and one wound to his soul congealed.

There’s a saying out West, know by gunslingers best,
that’ll deep six you in a knotty pine casket.
One you should never forget, lest you end up stone dead,
“There’s always a man – just a shade faster.”

Doc Ferber was next to feel Pete’s hot lead,
“Fill your hand, you *******!”
With little remorse, Pete shot him clear off his horse,
left him gunned down in a shallow ditch.

After getting reports, Pete headed North,
to where John Ferber hunkered down.
A Missouri corner, in McDonald County,
filled with Bible thumpers in a sinner’s town.

Pete rode five hundred miles to shoot that snake,
with two notches, he welcomed a third.
He carried his cursed ball and chains,
to **** a man, he swore with words.

But John Ferber was plastered, and he didn’t quite master,
deuces wild, soiled doves and hard drinkin’.
Someone else would beat Pete, the day before they’d meet,
sending John slingin’ hash in Hell’s kitchen.

There’s a night rider without a father,
under a curse to settle a score.
In all, six murderous desperados,
Three men dead - now, three men more ….

Pistol Pete was now pushin’ seventeen,
just a young pup, but no tenderfoot.
With two men in the lead, he was quick on his steed,
to **** two brothers who killed his kin.

Pete rode up to their fence, with a friendly countenance,
spoke with Jonce Campsey, but asked for Jim.
“There’s a message from Doc, that you both need to hear,”
Pete readied his hands – both guns were cocked!

Pete continued in discourse, and got off his horse.
all the while in an act of pretense.
Jim came to the door and Pete read them the score,
and shot them both dead in self-defense.

With the help of the law, they verified Pete’s call,
then gathered any loot they found.
Laid Jim and Jonce out, in their rustic log house,
and burnt them both and the house to the ground.

Might have seemed kind of callous, but weren’t done in malice,
that those boys were burnt instead of swingin’.
They just sent them to Hell, sizzlin’ medium well,
besides, it “saved them a lot of diggin’.”

There was one man to go, he’d be the last to know,
that a hex is an awful thing.
That a young boy would grow, with a curse in tow,
to **** a man, was still a sin.

Pete garnered his will, with the best of his skills,
to take on the last of the Campsey brothers.
It would be three to one, Wiley and two paid guns,
Pete knew his odds were slim and he shuddered.

At nearly twenty-one, Pete knew he may have out-run,
his luck as the fastest gun.
This would be the ultimate test of his shootin’ finesse,
only a fool would stay to be outgunned.

But Pistol Pete weren’t no liver lilly,
and he loaded up his 45’s.
He rode into town with steely nerves,
maybe no one, would come out alive!

Pete knocked through that swingin’ bar-room door,
Wiley stood there with a possum eating grin.
He said, “Hey there kid, who the Hell are you?”
and Pete shouted, “Frank Eaton! You killed my kin!”

All four men drew quick, with guns a’ blazing,
Wiley got plugged first from two 45’s.
The bar-room crowd dispersed in a wild stampede,
everywhere, ricochetin’ slugs whizzed by!

When the shootin’ had stopped, there was just one man standin’
all four men got plugged, includin’ Pete.
But only a shot-up boy rode out of town that day,
and a Father’s curse, that played out complete –
was a bitter mistress to bury….

At the headwaters of the Red Woods Branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of morning glories flail.

In a grave, still deep, is a father’s heart,
that lays quiet in a peaceful sleep.
And six men dead, who now burn instead,
compliments of Pistol Pete!

another
smothered lover
in the Hollywood hills
unbag the bottle
crack the seal
oh the appeal
of intake
for the sake
of intoxication
so meek and unique
in gurgled screams
a pixie in the hand of a king
compelled
to discretely
capture the beauty
in eternity
expelled
i just felt
i had to nest a shell
and befell
clearing her residual
flirtatious signals
even in the squirms
and even in the squeals
even though i know
she yearns
to be hooked by her gills
dragged through landfills
in a projected field
where she would yield
and kiss me.
i'm gonna pretend
to love her
as i tenderly
shove her
in the river
of our love
take her under
my loving thunder
and plunder her
when drugged
dazed in her wonder
i hold her under
from above
if only for a moment
we locked eyes in love
she fit me like glove
remnants
disposed of
in a rug
posed so beautifully
for the smack
hack and rip
one pretty *****
dumped
in an irrigation ditch
triumphed
our wordless
relationship
its over *****
move on with it
in the mouths
of varmints
oh
charming
as im clicking *****
on key chains
sticking misfits
with loose lips
usually homeless
decoys
here to destroy
nothing
in my twisted ploy
to employ
maximum points
conjoint
my addictive anger
to something a little stranger
im going to dangle
her entrails
in front of her eyes
while i'm bangin her
shes looking so surprised
from every camera angle
the mangled *******
what a lamo
hypnotized
in the passing of life
in the
blood
the ***
the ****
and the knife

It is not just the way that you move, much more or less the way in which you  
dress. The caliber of your presentation: it has no scope, no measurable standpoints.—
For you are a poem with feet, and at one point God called you a star.  

But you are a song, who is gently prancing melodies that cure my maladies. And  
I want no one else to hear you when you sing. Because I want to be the only one
who listens…listening until the day my bones run dry and no flesh, no carcass  
is left of me. And vultures shall feast upon my cruel skin, shivering in the dark rays  
of night, leaning over the crevices of my teeth. My teeth, the size of piano keys.

You stick to me, and **** the life out of me like a silky, black ******* leech. And I  
love you too much, and you, perhaps too little. Giving you each and every inch of my purple heart; still not being enough. And still when you speak: it is with outstanding
purpose and resolve. You spoke of love, even when love did not exist. As all  
eyes look towards you, and all ears lend their time to you too. As if you were a
magnet that connects two distinguishing charges: grace and charm.

Your wicked ways will be what I will die falling in love with. For every time I  
breathe slowly, and calmly, and every step I take, it is with confidence. I am not
a broken machine, living in this mechanical planet:  

I will eternally, faithfully, and all of me will rise to you whenever you shall
move
dress
sing
**** me off
speak…or…  
whenever you shall too love me, just enough.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the coop
Not a creature was stirring, because of the chicken ****.
The scratch grains were flung on the floor with great care,
In hopes that soon they would eat some better fare.

The chickens were nestled all snug in their nest,
While they pondered which worms tasted the best.
With their mom in some soup, and dad lunch meat,
Their high tech coop simply couldn't be beat.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
They sprang from the perch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window, they flew like a flash,
Peering through the pane as they heard another smash.

The LED spotlights on the coop outside,
Gave a midday luster to make it hard to hide.
When what to their wondering eyes they all saw,
But imprints in the snow of a large predator's paw.

With other tracks spotted, they all took a vote,
Then they knew in a moment it must be a Coyote.
More rapid than eagles his cousins they came,
And he howled, and yodeled, and called them by name!

"Now Coy-dasher! now, Coy-dancer! now, Coy-prancer and Coy-*****!
On, Coy-comet! On, Coy-cupid! on Coy-donner and Coy-blitzen!
To the top of the coop! To the top of the fence!
A fresh chicken meal! We will soon dispense!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the coop-top the cousins they flew,
With snarling teeth, for some "chicken stew".

And then, in a twinkling, the hens heard on the roof
Much prancing and pawing and it was no spoof.
And I as the "farmer" now checked my phone,
Because an SMS text made the situation known.

The varmints were dressed in fur, some mangy in spots,
I knew that soon they would be having second thoughts.
Wiring, and controls that a coyote can't hack,
Made a pest-proof coop, impervious to attack.

Their eyes-how they twinkled! The electric fence made a flurry!
The predator deterrents had reacted in a hurry!
Their growling mouths now drew up like a little bow,
As their fur turned white from the highly conductive snow.

The stump in the yard was an early warning device,
To detect all the varmints that the fowl would entice .
Sound masking systems had been activated too,
As well as an outdoor alert lamp which flashed red and blue.

The Alpha coyote was chubby and plump, like a jolly old elf,
Or rather an elf who had inadvertently electrocuted himself!
with glazed over eyes and a writhing head,
Soon gave me to know the fowl had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, and abandoned his work,
With an unfilled stomach, he turned with a ****.
spotting me now outside, he immediately stood still,
Then the crack of my .22, and the echo from the hill.

He sprang to the ground, to his team gave a howl,
And away they all ran away with no taste for fowl.
And I heard the rooster, as they ran out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

DEC 2014 by Kirke Wise

where our daisies nightly… and our minds politely -
just might be
the rightly garments of
our inner varmints.
or Something has just
Might Be.
but something precisely -
has dawn in a vice. armaments shiny.
and all of our beautiful
dying -

dying ignightly.

parentheses.

so Love is outside
We.

I'm a graying aged gunfighter
Time to get out of the game
I can not see to shoot my gun
I can not see to aim

I used to be the best there was
The top of every list
Now I can't hit a **** barn door
I shot at one and missed

I could out draw anyone
Who faced me on the street
Now, I'm more than likely
To put a bullet 'tween my feet

I play a little poker now
Spend my days just passing time
I break even mostly
The way I play, well, that's a crime

No one round here knows me
They don't know about my past
To them I'm just a codger
I don't do one **** thing fast

I noticed things were changing
Ten years back I'd say
I had a gun fight in Dodge City
And it didn't go my way

I threw down with some punk kid
He was drunk and really ******
I got my gun stuck in my holster
He fell down, he shot, he missed

I walked to him now laying
In the street, out cold, not dead
I took his gun and holster
And then went home to bed

A gunfighter of substance
Would have killed me where I stood
Was I lucky he was drunk then?
Or was I losing it for good?

I packed my stuff up in the morning
I left the town later that night
The next fighter might be sober
And I'd not survive that fight

I took off for the desert
Made plans just where I would go
A state where I could hide out
Where my past, no one would know

On the way I stopped and practiced
Shot some cactus and some trees
I was shooting though at rabbits
I can't survive here eating these

One day, a rogue coyote
Came and took me by surprise
I shot a tree, it fell on him
I aimed between his eyes

The sooner I got settled
The safer I would feel
Too much longer in the desert
I'd end up some varmints tasty meal

I rode on in to where I am
I can't tell you just what town
I've got to keep it secret
Or I may just get shot down

I have a small room at the hotel
I play cards to pay the rent
I speak with a slightly muddled accent
I try to be a southern gent

I've been here now for near six months
The town is growing fast
So, my time here might be cut short
With the future, comes my past

For now I just play poker
An old gunfighter at heart
One day I know they'll find me
I'll go to boot hill in a cart

I'm an aged old gunfighter
There's not many still around
I'm hiding now from my last gunfight
That will put me six feet in the ground.

“Television brought the brutality of war into the comfort of the living room.   Vietnam was lost in the living rooms of America—not on the battlefields of Vietnam.”                              Marshall McLuhan

You understand where I'm coming from,
Reader Rabbit, you twisted ****? Maybe not;
While you and your boy/girlfriend, later your wife/husband,
Were ******* backpacks around Europe,
I was of a less fortunate, less frivolous cohort,
Like the poor, who always miss the fun stuff.
So I stayed home and waited, dreading time,
Treading water in Queens,
Doing the graveyard shift at the Wonder Bread Bakery in Jamaica,
(No, not that Jamaica, mun.)
Building bodies 12 ways, and sweating out the inevitable,
Praying to my lesser god not to hear from my local draft board.
And who was I to disturb the universe?
“It ain’t me, it ain't me, I ain't no senator's son;
It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one, lawd naw.”
(Send  "Fortunate Son" Ringtone to your Cell)  
I was just another cynical working-class hero,
Unlike you, numb nuts, and the rest of your silver surfer friends.
I knew I’d wind up without my teddy bear,
Convinced I’d end up sans security blanket,
With no ****-vacant musical chair,
To plop my sorry non-exempt, 1A **** cheeks
Down into when the music stopped,
When the music’s over, turn out the light--Jim Morrison,
Lizard King--turn out the light.
My horse, my horse . . . no wait . . . **** the horse . . .
My kingdom, my kingdom for a 2-S college deferment!
What kingdom?  
What was it Jesus said?
Not of this earth, anyway.
Colonial Indochina: rich man's war, poor man's fight;
It was such an efficient way to rid trash from poor neighborhoods.

Needless to say, I’ve been having a little trouble adjusting ever since,
Since I got back from that Kafkaesque Disneyland Jungle Cruise,
My personal Cold War thriller,
My Tecumseh Sherman “War is All Hell” war,
My war: 45 years ago next week.
These things take time:
So says the recorded message on the VA’s PTSD Hotline.
45 years ago I packed up my duffle,
Packed for what I thought was going to be my last time in uniform,
Grabbed my Army discharge papers, and
Limp-dicked out the side door of,
The Veterans Hospital in St. Albans, County of Queens.
I’d like to say I never looked back. But I’d be lying.

(cue PSA: VA Reaches Out to Veterans:
The Department of Veterans Affairs will begin,
Contacting nearly 570,000 recent combat veterans May 1,
To ensure they know about VA's medical services and other benefits.)

Today and every day is 11-11, Veterans Day—
What gets me now is that all my time since The Nam,
Is on average two lifetimes,
For all those sent home, bagged and tagged.
Is it survivor’s guilt? I doubt it.

You may not understand this, but I miss that freaky jungle.
I felt safe there.
How quickly I learned to expect the unexpected,
And that meant to expect the worse,
Finding my comfort zone the more uncomfortable, the worse it got.
I miss the wet weight of the air,
The cloying heat and humidity.
Humidity: a plain and simple meteorological miracle,
When you have plenty of time to really think about it,
Which I did: 365 days and a wake-up.
You know that whole gorgeous hydrologic cycle thing?
I miss the rain, the sound of falling rain.
I miss the other sounds, every buzz and click,
All the arcane and dismal things that go screech in the night.
And that relentless insect hum,
The jungle vibrating and intense,
The colors vibrating too, especially that electric green,
A green so vivid, every leaf and vine,
"The world's richest repository of terrestrial biodiversity,” I read in some nature magazine,
Lying naked in bed while my therapist ****** me off the other day.
All those freaky creatures great and small,
Every miraculous living thing that’s really alive and thriving.
And this is why--I think,
Getting obnoxiously philosophical for the moment,
This explains why it got to be so easy to waste what was alive and thriving over there, including and especially our selves.

Death never seemed that permanent, that final over there.
And besides, you couldn’t **** anything for that long,
The critters all looking their wet and slimy same.  
Two minutes in The **** and you were
Killing every ******* gnat and bug,
Every leech and snake, anything &
Anyone that just looked at you sideways.

And the flora? Did I mention the flora?
Soupy Sales: (Smack! Bam!)  “I told you not to mention that.”
The flora:  the plants grew back and they grew back quick.
You chop a path on recon and the next day it’s not there anymore,
So you chop the whole way back to the L-Z.  
Chop, chop, Hop Sing!
You were one smart ****, Hop Sing,
Safe and sound in Lake Tahoe, Nevada-side,
Cooking up Ponderosa pork bellies for,
The Cartwright Clan: Ben, Adam, Hoss & Little Joe.
Meanwhile, I’m not earning any frequent flyer miles,
Aboard a chartered TWA, coffee-tea-or-me,
Royal **** airplane to Saigon,
A place called ** Chi Minh City today.
I remember looking around at the faces on that airplane,
As we landed at Tan Son Nhut,
Those forlorn godforsaken faces,
Black and Chicano and poor white trash boys.
Scared shitless, of course,
But we really were jolly green giants over there,
American conquistadors, Cortez and the Boys,
Seeking gold and glory and, of course,
*******, (www.urbandictionary.com):
That sweet wet hole we all crave,
Can't go for too long without,
Center of our life's desire,
What gives women the upper hand in almost every situation,
Except when you pay in South Vietnamese piastres,
Your basic exchange rate $3.00 *******.

Yes, we were American conquistadors,
But traveling light this trip,
Our black-robed Jesuit fathers having missed the flight.
That’s right, for us no Ad majorem Dei gloriam this time,
Our mission so simple and so clear:
SEARCH & DESTROY.
But mostly, Destroy.

And pretty soon you worked your way up the evolutionary ladder,
From bugs, to fish, to frogs and snakes,
Small varmints and reptiles, birds and rodents;
And by the time you taxonomy out to the runway,
You’re pretty much whacking anything that moves,
Anything you feel like, pretty much any time,
All the time, sometimes just to pass the time,
Just to break up the ******* monotony of it all.
So making the anti-personnel leap got sort of easy:
They all looked the same, didn’t they?
They all wore the same pajamas,
And it was never conducive to grunt longevity,
To nitpick the civilians from the soldiers,
Never a good idea to waste time distinguishing friend from foe.

Good Morning, Vietnam:
We really were nerve-gassed-Adrian Cronauers over there,
G-2 Army oxymoronic intelligence stiffs,
Having a little difficulty finding the enemy,
Having one hell of a time finding a Vietnamese man named "Charlie."
They're all named Nguyen, or Tran, or Thanh or Trong or Bao or Phuc . . .
Oh, ****, I get it now.
I grok the how and why,
Of all the names we’ve used for centuries to dehumanize the enemy:
***** and Nips, Chinks and Slopes,
Huns and Krauts, Redskins and Ivans,
Redcoats and Rebs, Zulus and Mau Maus, *****, Ragheads and Sand ******* . . .
To dehumanize is to be dehumanized.
Nominal dehumanization; linguistic trickery.
It made it easy . . .
Well, easier . . .
To **** you.

What was it Pope Innocent III’s legate advised?
“**** Them All.  Let God sort ‘em out.”

Is it smell of burning flesh that makes me so digress?

Yes, I miss that freaky jungle, my friend.
I miss knowing what to expect and what was to be expected.
And most of all I miss that absolute confidence,
My self-liberating soporific certainty,
That I did not give a **** whether I lived or died,
And no one else did either.
I miss the peaceful place to go,
Coping with fear by letting go,
By writing off my life,
My future "in-country,"
My 12-month tour of duty,
My 365 T.S. Eliot Ash Wednesdays,
Learning to care and not to care,
Cultivating indifference as to,
Whether or not I ever made it Wee, Wee, Wee,
All the way home again.
The answers were right there,
Always there, all the time,
In nursery rhymes, and counting songs,
In psalms and arias, and every blues and rock lyric,
Right there, so right ******* there,
In Kris Kristofferson/Janice Joplin parlance of the times:
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”

And life for me since then--
ONE BIG, FAT-TITTED INCOMPREHENSIBILITY!

What was that Walter Sobjak in The Big Lebowski said?

“This is not 'Nam.
This is bowling.
There are rules.”