(A bit of fun for Thomas W. Case - I think he lives in Iowa)

Hawkeye pride burns bright in Iowa City,
the place where Tennessee Williams learned to curse.

Iowa City hosts the 4th of July, Iowa speedway race, unique perhaps
because the cars have to stay behind a tractor for the first 199 laps.

How polite are the people in Iowa City? I saw a news report where a man was mugged,
traumatic? Sure, but the man still remembered to say “Thank you” before the perp bugged.

There are over twenty-six churches here, people can be a bit pious and obnoxiously reflective.
There’s a Hawkeye infestation in Iowa City because of the university, classified as ‘moderately selective.’

Geographically, Iowa’s where the rolling plains meet a limestone rise.(1)
Did I mention that the bars close at 2am? A travesty in any serious drinker’s eyes.

Some noted authors came from Iowa City, the locals are proud of that and own it.
Most were playwrights and novelists, luckily, few of them turned out to be  poets.

(1) whatever that is

This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howard is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Tuffy and Tougher and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commission.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincingly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me to do this, was the current champion was the
Grandson of one of my high school classmates that I detested, because he was such a proud blow hard, about every athletically thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not stomach his bragging and pompous way he walked, I confronted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was about 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and everyone else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneered a me, reached down and grabbed me by the callar of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pipsqueak, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hallway wall, so I smacked the back of my head against it, and was
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, working on my cardio, that's my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, that everybody ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left-hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was born, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school classmate that I detested, was supposed to be just a warm up match for him, in preparation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponent. My goal was to knock him out and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my background age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Vermillion about 60 miles from Des Moines, where the fight was scheduled. Vermillion was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground now, or in a old folks' home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky Strutton showboat. He has no idea who I am but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first and was warming up with little dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Throgmartin, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get into the ring, and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short, skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approached the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, because in about 15 minutes, five three-minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled halfway under the ring ropes, watching the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
VT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps toward him, then through him a big surprise,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprise, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposely hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever been cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expecting such an early barrage of attack and started back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teenagers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did, I took a big step forward and planted to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight announcer telling the radio listeners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like Howard is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came into this fight as a warmup for his upcoming defensive championship fight with The Rock, Rocky Argo and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howard in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howard is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but something about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back pedal away from Howard, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howard stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... someone wants to tell me something but is being detained by the police.
"Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the craziest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He must be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howard. We grew up together in Vermillion, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie", is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howard,
  what did yu call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring, beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the fight, VT is circling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is right overhand knockout punch. I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circling to his left.


This is the  the round Howard bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swaggering way, Howard had him intimated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't used to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his confidence. As usual Howard, try's his little tap dance as he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as "The Rock in Vermillion my real name is Rocky Argo. You said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the newspaper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, and out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just two minutes left in this round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is going to have to get more aggressive than, OH! Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak legged from a barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, trying to get up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the count of 8 but collapse. The referee is waving the fight over, and the Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been knocked out by Howie Howard in the 5th round just as he predicted."

"Let's listen as the referee announces the winner of this fight."
"And the winner and NEW DALLAS COUNTY LIGHT HEAVY WEIGHT CHAMPION IS HOWEEEEEE HOWWWARD!!

Howie, the talk around the dressing room is that you are 83 years old. Now tell us your real age. I mean, a 83 yr old man can't do that little jig you did tonight and beat up a 27 yr old. So c'mon and let this crowd and thousands of radio listeners know your real age."

"I was born on the twelfth day of July 1938, if my math is correct that makes me eighty-three years old, and that's the absolute truth."

"Ok, so tell us how you have kept in such physical shape to be able to
dance and beat up a young 37 year old champion boxer as you did tonight?"

"Well, first of all, I have to give God all the glory f or entrusting me
with an extraordinary physique. I have honored God many times in many ways because of this extraordinary body, that I , or others could not have done with a normal body. The second thing I want to emphasize is when I was just eight years old, I was convicted that there was a hellfire, called The Lake of Fire, that unbelievers in Jesus Christ are cast. I was just a small child, but I knew in my heart that in God's sight I was a sinner for whom Jesus suffered and died on the Cross of Calvary, and if I just received Him as my sin-bearer and personal Savior, He would forgive me all my sins for the rest of my life. And I have done a lot of sinning in my 83 years of living, one of which has been a distain for VT's grampa, with whom I graduated from the Vermillian High School in 1957. He was the most egotistical, arrogant, vain and proud ****-of-the-walk person I ever knew, and VT was just like him. His grampa died about five years ago, but I have held a grudge in my heart for VT's grandpa all my life, I thought it would give me great satisfaction to ruin his opportunity to fight for the Iowa State Championship.  So I arranged with the Iowa Dallas County Fight Promoters to give VT a warm up fight for him to fight the current Iowa State light heavy weight champion. I studied VT's fights and trained for them these past three months, with the intention of doing what I did to him tonight."

"So what are ..."Excuse me, I'm not finished yet. I thought I would feel good about beating the snot out of VT, but you know what? I don't. I was really enjoying it when I was blooding VT up, as though I was kicking the arrogance out of his grampa. But now that I've destroyed VT's  chance to fight for the Iowa State Championship, I feel empty inside, and feel sorry for VT. To all of you who paid out good money to see this fight, I just want to leave you with this one thought "A grudge is too heavy a load for anyone to carry"
     From Jerry Howarth's Book of Stories

This one time,

12. or 13, when me
And a bunch of other kids
From a different neighborhood
Played. Outside. From about sunup
To 9:00 at night. I dimly remember
(This light-bulb memory is the barest bit of energy
In an ancient filament of thought:)

It was a nightmare come to life.
There was this one kid across the River
(Rock Island)
They found him naked and dead,
In a discarded pile of coal.
His life brutally taken from him.
But that was the only time
I'd ever heard of something so horrible. Happening.
It was as commonplace as school shootings.
Which is to say, it didn’t happen in the
World that was ‘As Far As I Knew’.
Outside, everywhere, as far as I knew;
Was just where you went. No matter what.
It’s just what we did. And we did a LOT.

We played. On a job application, I would have
Written that. “Player”. As in: “Hey, I’m a kid.
I mess around. I’m unhygienic and smelly and
My hair is long and arms sunburned and sweaty
And tired and about as happy as any kid
Could be in 1975.

This one time,
I go in this dumpster and grab a
Sandwich the Mgr. of the 7-11 mistakenly threw out
It smelled. Badly. I pretended to take a gigantic
Bite out of it. My buddies weren’t ROTFL.
That stupid phrase was pre-born.
They laughed so hard they fell off their bikes.
Probably painfully so.
I worshiped this praise. Ate it like
Seinfeld eats applause.
They were rolling
On hot Iowa summer pavement, laughing fit to split.
On top of that dumpster, that day, in that single moment,
I was the King of Whatever

The manager heard some kind of ruckus.
The sandwich was in my hand, a cheesy spoiled grenade.
Which I promptly threw at him. ‘Cause he was the Adult
And I obviously wasn't Victor Mature.
He waddled back inside and called the Cops.
Not amazingly,
They were literally right around the corner.
My buddies took off like scalded dogs
I got on my homemade trail bike, laughing so
Hard I pedaled into a sticker-tree.

I didn't know what "irony" was back then.
Back then, I was so inherently goofy, that funny
Hilarious crap was somehow attracted to me.
Ironically, when I tried being funny on purpose...
Fill in the blank. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
I'm pretty sure.

We met at that French word I still can't spell.
Ron Day View.
Cackling like
Loony loons. We laughed out little butts off.

And we rode bikes EVERYWHERE.
Through the trails. There were bike
Trails trailing everywhere, short-cuts from point
Hay to Tree. And oh yeah, I climbed trees.
Constantly. And ate apples and plums from
That mean lady’s yard. She stood in her
Kitchen and glared through cat-eyed glasses,
Daring us. Daring me.
GO AHEAD. PICK JUST ONE SINGLE PLUM.
THEN I'LL CALL YOUR MOTHER!
(Interestingly, we didn't hang out with the
plums which didn't fall too far from Mrs. Tree)

Ate whatever was edible. Wild clover.
Yeah. Grass. And
Crab-apples that held the promise of
Painful bowel movements squirting out of
Your ****. Not ‘***’ because cussing wasn’t
All that big of a deal. You heard it in R movies.
But it hadn’t permeated the marrow of
Our entire culture. Not yet. It wasn’t all over
TV after, say, 8:45.

Nothing about ***. Absolutely Nuttin' Honey.
'Cause I'd be making stuff up in 1975,
When I was 12. Kissing was just...
You know.

We messed around, got into and out of trouble.
We laughed. The future hung over us like
Those mean-sounding thunderclouds,
Miles away, but moving from the North-East,
Because severe weather in Iowa always came
In the same direction.

It’s what we did. It’s just about
All we did as kids. Man, we were crazy, and had
Crazy fun.

We built bikes out of spare parts. They were low-
Slung and cool. Mine was always breaking.
I did a lot of stupid things, and somehow,
Somehow I got away with doing a lot of
Stupid things.

I believe in God. Now.
Way back then, I was Catholic. I don’t
Know if that sufficiently explains it
Or not. We ate fishsticks on Fridays during
Lent. We went to church sometimes
On Wednesday nights, the Guitar Mass,
And on Sundays. The Mass felt like it
Lasted 93 minutes, like our services do
Now. But it seemed to go on forever.
It as about 45 minutes, and we would always
“Leave Early” which meant, we’d take
Our Communion, solemnly, eyes
Downcast and humble, but I would slow,
Then stop, lost in the visage:
I looked up at the Man on the Cross and
Wondered when the Priest would ever
Get around to explaining why He
Died for my sins.
Someone would wake me from my
Reverie, and whisper, “Please move ahead.”
Shamefaced, I would say, truthfully,
“I’m sorry, Ma’am.” Because, in 1975,
When I was 12, I really was.
Sorry.

Then an hour
Later I was dressed in
Salvation Army rags (today)
And I would jump in the creek with my
Jean-shorts and off-color shirt on.
Sometimes, the bikes weren’t in the picture.
So we hiked. Never ‘walked’ but “hiked” which
Was moving with a greater purpose.
Great distances. The distances weren’t the great
Part. I forget what the great part was, because
This was when I was a kid. When I was 12.

The things you did
As a kid
You store them in a secret kid-locker
In your heart
And your heart, it grows, along with the rest of
You, like a quarter pounded into the meat of
A young tree. The tree envelops the quarter,
Taking it in to itself, swallowing time
That you only try to clumsily relive
(Like I’m trying right now)

It used to be cold, icy, and snowy in Iowa.
I know this; I was out in it most of the time.
Does anyone sled anymore? Toboggan?
Round-saucer spinning uncontrollably at
About 12 mph? Metal sleds with runners
And power steering? Down crazy-steep
Barreling down frozen white hills, crashing
Into copses of thin pliable young trees.
You only see this kind of stuff on Youtube
In somebody’s ‘All-time Epic Fail List
The failure is epic, alright. We’ve moved on.
And not necessarily to a bigger, brighter future.

Ice! I skated on long-bladed racer skates.
I could stop on a dollar’s worth of
Dimes.

And this one time
I
Fell right on my knee hard enough to
Grind a hole in my jeans. It looked like a ******
Meteor crater. A pretty girl named Tina
Felt sorry for me and sat right next to me
She wore pink pom-poms and I fell in
Puppy with her for about three hours.
Then she smiled and hugged me and
I was more frozen than the ice outside
And she left, her Mom picking her up
And eying me balefully as I stood
Pink-faced and flushed and utterly
Confused about the randomness of
What had just happened to me.
Girls from my town all knew
More about myself than myself knew
About me. They had me PEGGED, brothers
And sisters. But not this girl. She was from
The next town over.
That was a good day, if I’m remembering
It correctly. If. I’m pretty sure I am.
Or, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter.

We played a game called ‘Blackman’
Like a tag game in Gym, where
One kid is “IT” and a mass of skaters
Goes from one end of the ice pond
To the other, and the people you capture
(I couldn’t catch an old man in front-wheel
Drive figure skates and I got so frustrated
I gave up to jeers and yells and found the
Trees were good listeners to kids
Who couldn’t skate as coordinated as
They wanted to.

So ten minutes later
I would go into the Warming House, and
Listen to am radio. All the Hits! KSTT! Davenport,
Iowa. On ******* Blvd., which was really
River Drive, because the Hostess Plant stood
Sentinel on top of the hill, pushing out
Sponge-cake filling and HoHos and Cupcakes
And those awful coconut snowballs, and
This one time, in high school, I shoved one
Inside my mouth and tried to swallow it
And about choked to death.

I walked to Mark Twain Elementary School
And ran home for lunch, and was usually
Late because I was easily distracted
And when the school day ended,
I walked or ran home, hurrying, because
Captain Ernie and Bugs Bunny Cartoons were on,
And then Gilligan’s Island from about 4:00 to
5:30, when the news would come on,
And then Dinner,
And I couldn’t stand to sit still
To save my life. I have ADD. I
Know this now. I didn’t know it
(Nobody knew what it was)
I knew something was wrong with me
Or not-right. It was just the way
The World Turned.

Back then. I had no sense of ‘self’.
I was a changeling. I tried to fit into
Whatever people expected of me, which
Was very often extremely difficult, because
These people I emulated and thought were
So **** cool were just as messed up
As I was, maybe more; But I
Didn’t have the emotional maturity
(Or I couldn’t face the awful responsibility
That went with that awful truth)
To deal with it, so under the rug it went.

I was moody and happy and singing
One moment and crying in the shower
The next.

This one time, I was stuck
In the borderlands of childhood
And the beginning of a man
It was safe, for awhile
This one time.

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)

It's Wednesday, April 2, 1997, at 12:00 PM
I took a Greyhound bus to Des Moines, Iowa
It was a six-hour profanity demon hellride
At 6:00 PM, the Greyhound bus arrived at the Des Moines bus station
Two of my music fans picked me up and drove me to Fort Dodge, Iowa

Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride

At 2:00 PM on Friday, April 4, 1997, I went on a radio show joyride
I whipped out my Technics KN3000 keyboard and sung four rock songs on 88.1 KICB
At 6:30 PM, I rode with my friends to Knights of Columbus for sound checking
At 9:30 PM, I got up on stage and sung twenty rock songs in front of 200 rock fans

Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride

At 11:20 AM on Saturday, April 5, 1997, I caught the Greyhound bus to Chicago, Illinois
The Greyhound bus left Des Moines, Iowa at 11:30 AM
It was an eight-hour profanity demon hellride without music
At 7:30 PM, the Greyhound bus arrived at the Chicago bus station
I then got off the intercity bus and yelled like a stupid fool

Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride
Hell Greyhound bus ride

Kinkos, it's the new way to office

From a little town in Iowa,
Came an average common lad
He’d accepted Christ as Savior,
‘cause he knew that he was bad.

But as he grew to manhood,
Walking with the Lord,
He knew that God had called him
To preach the Holy Word.

From his King James Bible,
He studied very hard,
Memorizing Scripture
And praying to the Lord.

He knew the time was coming,
Not very far away,
And wanted to be ready,
For preaching on that day.

Now listen to his message,
It’s true and it’s straight,
You’ve got to trust in Jesus,
To enter Heaven’s gate.

The best of men are sinners,
Says Romans three and ten,
And on their way to a devil’s hell,
Unless they’re born again.

Yes listen to the Preacher
From that Iowa town,
Listen to his message,
He’s preaching all around.

He calls you to the altar,
To repent of sin
So open up your heart’s door
Invite the Savior in.
(Revelation 3:20)

So come now ‘ol proud sinner
And humble your proud heart
Hear the Savior calling you,
From your pride depart.

The day of judgments coming
So kneel before the cross,
And trust in Christ as Savior
‘Er your soul is  lost.
                            
                                 10/10/08

I'm on the road, but not
Actually on. A. Road.
Per se.
I avoid roads like cliches
Avoid plagues.

Fields are much better
Travel companions. As
If a lined-paper stretch of
hoed land could thought to be
Friendly to your feet, and knees,
And mind
Not that you traipse across it.
Specially
Corn. Inside corn fields is always
Maze-Y.
The Wind loves singing through
Discordant notes of thistle and
Thatsle; whatsle you'll hear
Musically is really up
To you.
But at night, the stars shining
Through the feathery filters of what is
More than knee-high by 7/4/whatever
Is a forget that's hard to memory.

Sleep in cornfields and you'll
Wake to the pleasant murmurings
(And nocturnal rustlings)
Of mice using your clothes
Body boots shaggy unkempt hair
For warmth. Sore neck, sore back,
Worth it, comically ship-jumping-so:
The little furry squeakers realizing the
Empty soft boat wasn't empty at all
And the critters abandoning you
With the flicker of tails, gone. A
Maze-ing.

Forests. Hmm...Temperate
Temperament. More
Crazies in the woods than amongst
Iowa's cash crop: 1 must B careful.
They generally want to be left A
Lone; I specifically avoid them, or
Will travel act like their long
Lost crazy cousin.
Just to fit
Out.

Small fires in copses of woods,
Huddled near flames, ears
Prickled for the sound of
Angels dancing on the pins of
Heads.

Occasionally, I tire of the peace of fields of
Green tassels and tall deciduous
Trees, and I hear cars, and imagine
I hear the conversations held within.
So I take my bottled strangeness out
Of seclusion and rejoin the race
Humana.
More often than not, I meet up with
The Angry.
They congregate in coffee houses.
Huddle in hostels.
Mob motels.
You get the jpeg.
The Angry desire to
Do what I do by second nature, and
By nature, first. I've thrown off my
Self-imposed chains, and walk free.
They see this - in me - or see the magic
Dust my boots tracked all the way across
Their own barren linoleum flo.
They are trapped in their mind-traps.
The Angry would imprison me and
Masquerade as me simply for spite.
(If they could CATCH me, bwaa-haa!)

I walk quickly, lope along I80.
I hate to do this. It's Russian Roulette
With 6 bullets in 6 chambers.
But to get to the back roads, you some
Times have to travel the fore roads.
Troopers of State do NOT like
Peds on the road. But many of
Them, after stern sternly Drill-
Sergeanting you with their Smokey-
Bear hats, will drop you off to
Your destination. "Keep safe,
Sir." They intone with such
Seriousness that I'm always
Biting the insides of my
Mouth. They could use a
Few dewy misty nights
Slumbering in an Iowa
City cornfield, waking with
A brood of mice nestled in
your knapsack.

Food. There's an issue there,
For some. Not me - not then, not
Now. The future is only the future
When it's tomorrow. Candy bar
Smashed by a bike tire in the
Gutter? What, some puke-eating
Dog should have that? Gross.
Gross is grossly
Defined by how long you'd
Not eat when your food ran
Away. Since I have almost
Nothing except a small green
Canvas satchel and a larger
Knapsack of essentials
(A few tools, a fire-starter,
Water purifiers, and my pen and
Notebook) and my good...

...Boots and thick socks and 1-
Piece Union Suit and many
Layers I'm glad to have at
Night but make me sweat
Heavily in the sultry
Iowa summers, I eat on the
Fly. Sometimes I chase away
The Fly to munch on what
It munched. Gross.
It's a living, because moving
Is work, blessedly peaceful, yes,
But have you ever seen a fat
Walker? They either get skinnier
Or they expire. So I eat
Whenever and whatever and how
Ever.

Dumpsters. Garbage cans.
The backs of grocery stores.
I trade sudsy soapy pruned hands
For burnt pizzas and more bread
Sticks sticking to my stomach
Like doughy glue. People out
There - people alone in crowded
Rooms - will trade kindness and
Conversation for food they may
Have taken home with them, or
May have just thrown away.

Lowered
Expectations, skinny middle,
Sore feet, leg muscles wanting
To stay up and watch late-night
TV, swollen ankles eventually
Going to sleep with the rest of
The body as I'm huddled in a
Little snow cave in Iowa, or
Waiting a rain beneath an old
Wagon, or bunking with my
Mice-buddies in an old barn.
There's a lot of life out there,
A skinny man with long, blonde,
And usually ***** hair, sweaty,
Smiling, eyes bright, nostrils flaring
At the scent of humanity: a
Peaceful Mind wandering
Around the belly-button of
America.