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)

That someone
Transcendental
But the scene got dangerous
Lady confidential
The Candle in
the wind of diamonds

Went International
A kiss all over
Continental

{A Scene}she play like
a *** phone
The Xylophone,
not a girl's best friend
Used as a weapon

The scenes crying your eyes
out being alone
Taught her many lessons

And those I phones will become old
The new science of acting is bold
Like the I-spy  you've been
Sherlocked
Pretty smile closed locked
Your earrings what big loop
He's draping the sheerness
The fairest of them all
escaping they need the
The darkness hitting those
stage lights
With your lover
Your body so lovely but
The scene changed to the

{Arsenic and lace}

never will he cover
Death becomes her

What happened to
your love scene
So-called part of your face
His words can devour
her footprints
The scene next required
dinner mints
Like tracking

The trance what a long trip
My taste bud acidy
Flying with lucidity
Meeting My Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

The scene was set up with one crack
To be naked no lines left out train track

The Prince looked away
Never to kiss her

But its I
In the scene, someone will bless her

The whole shebang act
Not some kind of
Seed planted
Whole wheat clean as a whistle
bagel
With your cute beagles
Watching your whole set
Like twins or double bet
What a set she has
Detective scenes of
Chocolate Bavarian cream
Vanilla sky the scene you had
was only perfect for
your dream
Doughnuts all cream
She slipped out of her
French crazy horse
burlesque
scene

The Nutcracker ballet
What meaning yearning
But waiting so long my steps
Got lost in his fire
The desire was higher than
Those outtakes and scenes
To do over again
Primetime someone
Will do the scene again
They skipped over
too many lines
Became the dark silhouette
The scene can be changeable
Channeling into someone
remarkable

We are not built up
to take instructions
We are the someone's
Walking the thin line
Or the thin man
Slim man scene
The restriction chair
Like the guillotine
was the fad
Getting scared and angry
Someone showed up mad
Was pitch black dark of the light
Flickers

Should a scene have teasing
No silly quite the drama so
theatrical they hired someone
Was she anyone well known
Like no artist over the website
He was teasing her hair I mean
That wet diving suit was
like the Rite
She got the look shopping
at Shoprite
"Like Loreal" but more surreal
What April fools commercial
Loosening his tie so political
Their discussion all
exceptions to the rule
Bullfight what kick
in the pants mule


She was born Nutty Professor of snickers*


The true believers and achievers
The passion within us
The colors come to ******
Like a scene
We know how to act when
we aren't acting
Like the punctuations
P...I...E...C...E...S
Those nooks and cranny
bits of pieces

Look at her nieces
they look guilty
When we are doing a scene
It's not necessarily about
being wealthy
Everything is
tangible you're on your own
Even if you're not well known
Like a movie extra
Extra read all about it
I am capable of acting anyway I can
Like my words are written
They can shine a stage to glisten

afternoon hanging heavy,
caressed by a tomato soup fog,
tired carpet, fleshy velvet couch
both aching for validation.

ten photos of the same dog
speak Latin all at once

a desk in utter disarray,
fishbowl walls slimy
and coated in shame

a bookcase crammed with
stepfather books,
trying too hard, too much, too soon

giant cilia lined lungs swing from the ceiling,
******* in and out and in and out and in and
all of the oxygen and

it has already been an hour,

$150,
a check is fine,
see you next week.

We walked amongst the ruins famed in story
Of Rozel-Tower,
And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory
And heave in power.

O Ocean vast! We heard thy song with wonder,
Whilst waves marked time.
"Appear, O Truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder,
"And shine sublime!

"The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles,
To despots sold.
Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles!
The Right uphold.

"Be born! arise! o'er the earth and wild waves bounding,
Peoples and suns!
Let darkness vanish; tocsins be resounding,
And flash, ye guns!

"And you who love no pomps of fog or glamour,
Who fear no shocks,
Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamour,--
Exiles: the rocks!"

Early morning in Putnam county , blue  , pink and yellow sky at daybreak  on a frosty November morning , freezing temperature exposing our breath as we alert the beagles of our presence.......The beagles know !!!!
Shot gun loaded , dogs released into thick Georgia pines and water oaks , depth perception and distance obscured . Within minutes the baying of the hounds begin , long and drawn , further each second filled by high pitched whimpers signaling the start..Song of rural Georgia , my Uncle and I on guard , the pack alerts the hunter of the cottontails arrival ....
We double time in the direction of the baying , the quarry is returning from start ,frozen ground crunching beneath our boots ....The dogs have returned , a single shot is fired and the contest has ended for now but repeated several more times that day....We return red faced from the cold ,  the smell of gunpowder and tobacco . The beagles at rest , we prepare our harvest for a feast at a later date ....Back indoors , coffee and a good day of hunting !

At eight weeks old, she was our newly rescued mixed beagle pup.

Noah named her Daisy. Not a name I would have chosen, but certainly as sweet as

memories of Grandma's homemade molasses
bubbling in the old iron kettle brought out from the smokehouse for only one day each year on a crisp fall morning.

By sixteen weeks it was evident that all involved in the rescue didn't know squat about Beagles. After a frantic thirty seconds on Google, our mistake was quite clear in the form of about five hundred red and black and tan photographs.   We were the proud but red-faced and slightly shocked owners of a "**** Dog". Yep. And Daisy was her name-o.

Two years and seventy pounds down the road, I sat in my morning solitude spot this day with a good mug and a good book watching the nut hatches, house finch, and Black-capped/Carolina Chickadees tearing that special blend seed up as Daisy patrolled the yard for squirrels with one eye and her nose to the sky watching for the lone and clever Rock Pigeon scout that always precedes the flurry of flying rodents raiding my feeder. I can't help but to smile as Daisy glances at me through the deck door glass to see if I am admiring her skill and diligence.   I am.

This being a Sunday before the dreaded M word day, I tend to lounge lazily around the house in my worn Clapton pj bottoms and hol(e)y Langley T-shirt. My shadow follows me from comfort to comfort spot knowing that I leave a trail of odd snacks from my kitchen perch to living room couch to study to lazy bed, and back again. She is showing a bit of winter fat.

To be continued....

r ~ 9Feb14

I looked on as an elderly man was painting an old farm house in oils, surrounded by trees dressed in their autumn finery. The house was shown as an aged and faded white surrounded by a low picket fence that had fallen into disrepair and long since been forgotten. The old dilapidated barn in the distance was expressed in varying shades of grey and peeling red paint. I was enraptured by the image I was seeing unfold before my eyes. It appeared to be such a simple piece, but it grew in complexity the longer I viewed it. Its underlying tones were of sadness and loneliness, time, and things forgotten. I balked at that, finding my initial assessment woefully inaccurate, this was not a lonely place, a forgotten place; this was a place that had seen life and heard stories! I knew the man had not yet finished with his painting and would not be so for some time. He was quite meticulous, as if he was paining the memories of his life. Every stroke of the brush had its designated place, its own meaning, and the way his hands grabbed absently at the different brushes seemed as if they had been pre-selected before he ever began. As his story was being narrated in layers of paint and hue, I found myself thinking about what life might have been like in that place he was creating. Who might have lived there? The colors in the painting boasted an autumn season, and though they were warm to the eye the season would have been cold, the growing…slow. No, it wouldn’t have been planting season, it seemed more likely that it would have been hunting season. I imagined game animals in the surrounding hills and a man in a flannel jacket walking silently through those amber colored woods, with rifle in hand and beagles in tow. The frost of his breath echoing the smoke that whispered from the chimney of the house. It would have been warm inside, and maybe children played by the hearth in the day’s early hours before they went reluctantly about their chores under the watchful gaze of a firm, yet loving mother. My thoughts darted to and fro about this painting in the most ridiculous of fashions, seeing people I would never meet, living events that never happened. But I was held to it long enough to allow my imagination to escape, and for a while, frolic freely with the idea of something beautifully simple.  I left the elderly man to his work as I carried on about my day, thinking to myself all the while that if a picture is worth a thousand words, a painting is an unread novel.

This is about the frustration of being a father, after a divorce

In between

In-between
These alternating saturdaze
my children whirr . . .
Some telephonic conversation point
They, hazy fantasy . . Half Imagined lives
Now . . Mummy and daddy
Don't play husbands and wives
Anymore . . Each has
Like carrion for seagulls
Stashed Respective Legal beagles
To one side
as incisive as their fickle knives
And Baying for partition
Crave To slice the final pieces
From this pies remaining lives

So . . This is here
where we are now
No more catch up at the days end
Not tucked to bed
Not kissed goodnight
No stories nor
No prayers to send
There's nothing not
Nor can I do
To make this feeling mend . . . .

Since Each has their part
in this narrative marked,
Queued slots in time
All's written down, agreed
Is for the benefit of all
Is legislated for, defined

so . . . . we wait . . . .
Each flicks their counter stick
days become hours as
Slow minutes tick
by and by . .
Then when I see them at the weekend
I tell myself the biggest lie
That some piece of the pie
Is better

A sullen , blue eagle sentry patrols stone fruit orchards
Black and tan beagles braying for the hunt filled morning
Orange Alabama horizons , China goose down caught , drifting south
Collard pods rattle white -washed homesteads , pollen entombs tiny towns with ragweed ferocity , cattail gardens and fog induced rainbows ...
Dove mourn blackberry winter , dew washed back roads drift quietly into lake country ....

Fractured light cascades in.
                     Flowing, ever wider, ever wilder
          with each passing moment, leaving
great pools of heaving color on the desk by
the notebooks I refuse to keep.

I.

There stands a building, overrun
by the very nature it once fought
so proudly to keep out.
It's walls hardly more than crumbled
stone, it's staircase, hard white concrete
interspersed with moss.
You keep a cozy home here.
Your beagles run about, guiding
lost or lonely travelers to your
warm and inviting den.

II.

The hallway was long, dark and
under water. The people floated about
still trapped frozen in the moments
that must surly have been their last.
At it's greatest spots the roof is so
high, the tile so dense that it
seems like a subway, a train station.
The blue lips of the people around me
seem to whisper pleasant lies.
Seem to call me, as though a touch
could wake them from forever sleep.

The sun's rays do not touch these places.
                     They do not know my works.
         How could they? Why would they? They don't belong.
The light breaking in are from the passing ambulances, cabs
and cars. Sounds I have learned to ignore.

III.

We are never more pathetic than when we
are swinging. Each time we hang back, we let
our heads dangle. It feels like that moment
when we lean our chairs back in class.
Proudly stride on two legs, and know
absolutely know that we are very near
to death. We reach through the world around
us, bending the color and light, forcing the
air from our skin and our bones and we hold
on to each other. We are so very near death.
We are so young, so close.
We swing on, and we open the same door,
again and again, only to find it still
closed.

IV.

My teeth are falling from my head.
They are healthy, they are wonderful
bright and shiny white, like they never
are, and they are falling from gums.
New ones grow in, without the irritating
itch that I remember from my youth,
but with bursting skin and a lack of blood.
They come in immediately. When I look up there is
food. So much food, the smell is so good.
But my teeth, my new teeth They are
too dull to chew. Soon they are falling out
as well. I shove them back in, pushing
them hard through the broken gums
but they won't stay. I don't know why
they won't stay.

When I open my eyes to the dull buzz of the alarm
                     My head swims, my brain reaches for the
         last few remaining images. It tries to put them in order,
tries to make sense of them. But nothing seems to fit.
There is only me, the light, and the desk. My works are in order.

We are the championships

Dipsy do's soft serve
Just curve your dog
enthusiasm

He wants another hug
what heroism

Doggy dog leash pull

The presidential Poll

The bark full of dogs

Back to the future

Dog Bow wow machine

feature


The collie matched the

checkerboard

Barking Dixie to the ward

Being hugged and dodged

The ball in his mouth

We were both doggy tailed

Help me "Honda Accord"

The Waffle bowl meets

his approval dog bowl

The Patriot "Super Bowl"

like the dog dupper

Who really needs to eat

Moms supper
Again what a pain
What remains Hollywood
Hotdogs barkery train

Mr. Snoop-dog big and long

All sporting dogs trampoline

jumping like the Alpha College

scout snapping Dorm dogpiling


Your heart was trapped inside

his bark

Those troops hit a stump

Presidential

Trumps?? Devil dogs hired
Boot camps

Sylvester Balboa bark scoop

Saint Bernard Knox

Smoochy poochy jet lag

What a watchdog and friend

This is dog La La land


Bagels and those cute beagles

Slurpee lips no cat naps

From there wags and whiskers

I was left with a Soda pop

Three Stooges and cops

Having a dachshund meltdown

Football tackle stampedes

smarty pants

in my dockers seeing

Those cocker spaniels


Elton Johns of Daniels

Why do the humans become

like suckers dogs are the true

pledge hustlers

The Twitter subject became a

Dog Litter

Those dogs bark's Dads with

soda pops do-wops

Feeling nutty professor

my socks in my dresser

The dogs become smarter
than their masters


Someone was barking up the

wrong tree


You're the one who became

the pain can't you see

Diggetty dog house pet ate all

the water bugs happily end

Making a mate four leg friend


Who needs the dog house

Or his bone in T steak teeth

The corndog Kitcat kibble
bailing him out


Basketball he dribbled

Double Taurus dog was named

Boris Karloff so territorial

The Gulf of Mexico became his

surf and turf dog editorial

This was the operation double dip

This pup was the panic button

Her bark his park whistling tea kettl


Flip the house throw
out the sitter

The dogs ruined all the carpet

But you were leashed to him

like a magnet you felt like

Down to your last paws



Golden finger bone fund

You bow to their paw feet

Going to the "Bow Wow"

colorful Parade


Dogs new flash

"Hot dogs devil dogs
Raid bark and purr

Way smarter than you Sir

He bounced to his biscuit

Like a Karaoke dog game

Barking so spot suited

You were watching the

sports game the dachshund

was in a cabbie City


The human or an animal

Snipping your sneakers

Housebreaking a dog to
just imagine
All the people John Lennon loved
his dogs just Imagine

Hey it wasn't anywhere near a

dream but so worth it

You reached for his paw

no place like home Dorothy
last straw surrender


But the rewards of having

a dachshund if you only knew

People that don't have dogs

Some of them would not

understand that's OK


Dog spelled backward God

and their paw's with not
one flaw

Now drink your soda pop

at the bus stop all dogs

American flags playing tag

But remember your dachshund loves

to be hugged opening up
your emails


So much compassion love like no

other competition


Those jumps and wagged tails

So loving and running to greet you

and lick you so much to tell you
Just love and think