take a course and forget what that course meant
take a job with the code enforcement
make a code and brutally enforce it
lead a horse, don't know where that horse went

sleeping dogs have the sharpest teeth
with a hunger from the heart beneath
who better could ever deserve this land
government visionary missionary businessman

make up a law just to break it
put it to sleep and then you wake it
take away and over-take it
it's my bedroll, let me make it

take a bow your job is done so keep it
make a candlestick and try to leap it
pull the wool down then fleece it
lead the sheep, forget where the sheep went

"Old Man Rubenstein",

that's the name they knew him by

He'd worked the shop for fifty years

His friends just called him Cy

Each day he'd enter from the back

For at the front door slept

Someone trying to survive the cold

Inside the store Cy swept

The store had been a fixture

On the street for ninety years

Five Generations of Rubensteins

Had seen the smiles and tears

Of young men getting married

Picking rings out for their brides

And in many cases watching them

As they tried them on inside

The street had changed in fifty years

In ninety, even more

But one thing about Rubensteins

Was their famous tiled floor

In the foyer, just inside the door

There were tiles black and white

They were laid out like a flower

It was really quite a sight

When his Great Great Grandpa

Laid the tiles, it was done by J.C Hardin

To signify each customer

Was welcome "in his garden"

Times had changed since Cy came in

The street was not the same

A lot of stores had moved or closed

The malls all held the blame

With suburbs came progression

And with progression came bad news

Most small stores lost their customers

To chains with modern views

But Rubensteins stayed on the street

Never changing one small bit

They had been right here for ninety years

And this is where they'd sit

The front, I mentioned earlier

Each night became a bed

For someone living on the streets

A place to lay their head

Cy would leave a pillow

And a blanket by the door

It was always there next morning

Nicely folded like before

Other storefronts opened up

At nine...right sharp each day

But, Cy would leave the door shut

Letting his sleeping beauty lay

There wasn't lots of people

Who would shop in Cy's old store

With the way the neighborhood had died

No one came round here no more

With pawn shops open down the road

And two just up the block

The fact that people went to them

To Cy, was not a shock

He really ran the business

To keep himself alive

For he knew that if he closed it

He was sure he'd not survive

His life was wrapped up in the store

Each decade on a shelf

He was quite the story teller

And of stories...he'd a wealth

He sold a ring once to the Mayor

For his engagement years ago

They were still together nowadays

That was forty years or so

Harry Cooper bought his wifes rings

And his son had done as well

He'd bought a special pendant

When he lost his son in Hell

He'd go down to Giannis

And buy his lunch most days

He was never in a hurry

And most times he'd stay and gaze

He'd stare out the front windows

To a time so long before

Then he'd head back to the jewellers

And he'd still use the back door

He thought of times way in the past

When Christmas windows glowed

With displays of rings and Christmas lights

Lit up the whole **** road

But now, the storefront windows

Were protected by strong bars

There were hardly any customers

And even fewer cars

He remembered when a shopping trip

Meant dressing up to shop

But nowadays, a pair of jeans

And a t-shirt as a top

He'd sit inside the storefront

Until about six everyday

Then he'd put out a clean bedroll

And he'd quietly slip away

He'd show up every morning

Through the back door every time

He'd check on his front doorway

And he'd hum a little rhyme

"If friendship is a flower

'And a garden grows in time

I'm glad I have a garden

And you've spent some time in mine"

He'd make sure when he opened

That he'd turn on every light

Then he'd go out side the front door

And sweep away the night..

Just off highway 80
I throw up my  boy scout
puptent and zipper myself in tight.
mosquitoes are out in force this evening
I try to hide inside my bedroll but
it's too warm to lie playing dead,
hoping not to get bit by the blood *******
little monsters, reminds me of tax time.

Saguaros stood
like spiny-sentinels
as I sped along the Camino,
alone,
top down.
Warm winds &
tequila-breath
burned my shot-eyes
when I first spotted
the thumbing Lupita,
way south of Ensenada
on good 'ole 1.
Her graceful
toothy-smile
under her full lips
seemed gracious
as I pulled up
alongside her,
kicked the door open.

She hopped in
& we catapulted
with her hair streaming &
brown-skin shining
in the falling sun.
We hit high speeds
smiling
as we continued
south, driving
into the coming night.

Twinkling-stars
& static-filled
La Bamba-tunes
kept us company.
We discussed
sacred-mysteries
in broken languages,
later, counted
each others toes,
rubbed noses
in my bedroll.

In the morning,
she was gone
left me a note
& the ruffled rose
she had pinned
in her raven-black hair.

As I drove off
in a dreamy-state,
somewhat disappointed,
a spiraling one,
a lone black bird
trailed behind me,
I'm sure it was her.

Soon, she disappeared
from my rear view memory,
but never out of my mind.

I want to break loose with hell,
roll like a tumbleweed
across the endless plains,
blow through nameless towns,
become a sweeping rain.

I want to fall in love with
the Queen of Hearts,
bedroll with faithless tarts,
shoot lead lightning from
my itchy fingertips
& rustle cattle.

I want to live
my life on the run,
ride fast
like the wind
on a trusty steed,
hold up banks & rob trains,
guzzle red-eye whiskey
to **** my pain
& not end up etched
on an oaken tombstone,
somewhere unknown,
decaying under
the prairie sun.

I rolled out and noticed
The bed across the room.
Empty.
The room was cool,
The unwashed everywhere,
And the door was open.
Usual.
My flights and landings were measured.
I bounded down.

Funny! His bedroll was not on the couch arm.
I searched.
Mammy's kettle whistled; her mug filled.
I heard the familiar tsk, the click of her teeth,
And the spoon circling and swirling
The teabag.

Through the window, over the picket fence
The maple tree was missing an opposing limb,
Resembling a cactus,
And I, soon to be four.
I once dangled from there,
Hearing Rossini pulsing through my neck
To my head,
Above the wheel ruts below.

Hmm. Not behind the couch.
The cupboard?
Under the hanging lace tablecloth?

The T.V. was dead.
The lasso missing.
His initialed boots gone.

I suppose I can loosen my knotted iodine neckerchief.

Hi-** Silver.
Away.

I'm driving along the San Bernardino highway
it's hot
the sky is translucent brown
below me speeding past
are the clapboard and stucco houses
the untended palm trees
trash on the side of the pavement
brown weeds choking the berm
a city of lost hope
and strangled dreams
my exit is coming up
and I expect to find a disheveled man or two
standing on the side of the road
under the street signal
when the old man is not there selling flowers from plastic buckets
they always hold cardboard signs
with words written in black marker
though I never read them
all cardboard signs say something about god
I see many faces here
there is the one armed man
wearing matching red shorts, shirt and ***** ball cap
he has a ******* on his forehead
sunken eyes, unkempt beard, *****
he looks just like Charles Manson
crazed and desperate;
there is the young man listening to headphones, his bike against the fence;
and the aging cowboy leering under the brim of his leather hat
sometimes I see true desperation in the eyes of the lost
but none speak to me
like the young man with the distant stare
witnessing some tragedy
in the mist
his olive drab bedroll lays next to his feet
tied with a worn leather belt
his sign simply says "Oklahoma"
there's a vibe about him that says hope has sold him a little more of the highway

she folds her man back into
his neat lines
she folds her lies back into their
well defined places
she drew a bath and drown the fears
she drew blades and let loose with
a little light carnage
always good for the soul
always good for the complexion


her false faces placed neatly aside
in the small hours of night
tears would come
small and dainty
perfumed and practiced
the tears would mirror the tale
would mirror the woe that must have
been in her heroines heart
been in her heroines soul
the tears would flow picture perfect
captured in a small vessel
to be tasted later
to show her true felt sorrows

in the the dawns breaking mist
a face dimly perceived
a man she would have known
if she had not chosen this path
a man who should have saved her
from herself
and she runs up the battle flags
and the the guards fire
volley after volley
till the apparition is vanquished
till the man withdraws
she folds him neatly back into the box
from whence he came
and carefully locks it up again
lest he escape

i lay in the ruin of
a distant castle
on the scottish shore
warm in my bedroll
with another woman by my side
such a distant place
of darkness long forgotten
a place of such hates long left behind

For what it's worth I've come to find that people and things ****** over make like lead pockets. Old business is just old business and yet the mouth stays sour, curdles at its ends like milk left out. I wash my hair and wash it again.

How do you **** a city? Not a short-change of ideas or institutions. A city. People, granite columns. Street lamps. Long lines of wooden benches. Car horns.

Bags and bags of bug-out gear: drop point knife; feather-stuffed bedroll; one dozen pouches, depositories. The **** is the escape.

The drop point.

Some thing in all of us wants a way out. It aches for freedom. Messy, nasty freedom, sweet as it is.

The son of Jung, Achilles

(This is after and during a second or third time through
Jung, by Anthony Stevens, via Hoopla brought to me by LAPL)

libraries with online audiobooks,
isn't that closer to perfect? Imagine
knowing CG Jung's dad was Achilles Jung,
epic, knowing that
back when only real, material-real, rich folk,

(they could not have known, but we can, on a smart phone)

of any sort of the many there were in the co-fusion's aftermath

much of the world may agree with things once hidden in tomes
being eaten by mindless worms, now

no known thing is secret, by right

truth makes free and it's a system.

dynamic
free true free true free

We ident-ify it or id

what ever I and d


these ids (letter i and letter d as a pre
fix identifying us, u'n'me but only I am re-alified,
set to iseate

(is-e-ate is individuation for an idea, this or that, which may be verbalized
prior to re-alization)

t' be for a while, as long as you wish, t'
be fixed ideas in the minds of all

minds culturally touched
by this particular
point of
been
as
in been there done that.

Time is nothing at all
like mortals think
ing no no nothing is re

alone is rare. For us, my pieces of the unum,

we are here as ever.
ever is our role.

guides are made
however, we have noticed a scarcity of read writers
aware of pin points of light expanding

on the walls of his nursery window, nur turer, real mmmmm

screen
really must we be limited forever is ly lying as in

acting positive while being negative and being

entangled
in your self for ever, never for now,

you don't know how.

do you?
ex
per
ienced, per se, are ye?

be yond. yes. be

yond. practice makes perfect, bact to the top

erie canalic real

tote that veil, hide that barge
camptown lasies sang some songs

wrong, as did the ******* minstrels
and gamblers and bedroll
cowboys and hobos
and plain bums,
like us.

You were curious. Does yellow mean anything
to you?
Murrillo, with y's for ll, maybe? ¿ se?

--- un told stories ---

none remain, in re al ity, if we agree

nothing is ever impossible, even
for sapiens sapiens, how much
more, the us in the unum

previously pluribus,
scatter-brained,
that is.
id est, at its best. Muse.

Homeostatic balance,
hot to cool, cold to warm

round and round
twisted in the middle
by Van Allen's belt, or Orion's?

I never asked. I could,
right now I COULD WISH SO BAD THA I'D

not notice allcaps from the teenage wasteland,
(mea culpa, I bury all my misses there, take one, free)
as I,
the grown up number two, I mean,
I was saying I could stop this flow, interefer, dam it

I could ask Google and follow ath
the real thing either real or
otherwise, yet

wise, still.

How well will we be? Should we not

agree, un agree disperse the mob?

become a one, with a mind
we may share, at will,

reason, count, measure, make, see, seek how, find how, learn how

now,
why are you a ware of me while I am
ware of you.

An unread, unspoken spell. What the hell, right?
What the chaos, entropy, dis
integrate
wash away, mud to dust to twisting spirtis seen dancing

dust, this highest part of the dust of the earth,
time will tell, the physician must heal himself.

---
the art of letting things
haps
hap
pen, pen or ready-writer mode,
we can do this, but we must

be leaving the ality re all o'this reality.

And it has been fun, un done
fun is never the final goal.

be yond that. Search okeh. It was
intentended in tension-ality

to be the key we
as u me mist

when we
lied about being
experienced in the comunicito, (wee ity bity)
do you know of
the transfiguration, I was asked that

southside of Sunset at Laurel Canyon, by
that TV kung fu cowboy guy's dad,
Carradine, the old man,
from scary movies,
circa 1960.

that was fun. it happened. nobody noticed,
but me and the elder Carradine.

Real, as best as my memory just
ifies me right there,
that day, there
is where

this point was proven to be
memorable, a point
of a pin, 'pon whose head
merry messengers make nothing of
darkness, shadow, thin light.

Member be, re member
we see you saw
re all ity-ness is fun, if you find time to do it.

Typical assumptions of a man born in his time
and so
cial class. Social, is that a joke?

Follow me, don't be ignorant of a fine refined use,
right use of ordinariable words which have
born the burden of the ages

patiently, awaiting meaning,
on your scale,
the me as sure of the other in the unem,
the measure of a man, any
old man, still standing

under all the knowing Eve ever knows,
hope and time and all this took.
The price of knowing,
is the knowing, learning is easy

At home by right of being, we are such
beings, in a word, two if you reason there is
measurable ratio twixt
iiii in and am out, yamiyam ah yeh

we do. Allatimenolie, my will. The inside
the numinosity of being

me and you in the midst of all we may imagine real,

no, hell, yesses, hell is still a joke you never want to play.
ax Mr. Boo, he was my guide in Bangkok

read the reports, they are more,
nevermind, let's not let the

lie live here. the the right man thinking this thought
at this time, right

Each magi's knowing is the only knowing he can share,
without playing I pious fraud and naming it
legion, re
legion ligated to ob la dee and dah?

Joke, jest, foolish jest. Not my best but better'n
never imagi-ing  bein' good at all.
Good for nothing but
being possible
ly
good to the sense-if-ative troglodytes

with one lit window on reality. It's funny. POV. Seriously

lighten up
you putin me

beyond your grasp… winsome, alas

for Daniel “Chappie” James, General USAF            
and for the 332d Fighter Group
Being black in America
was the Original Catch,
so no one was surprised
by 22:
The segregated airstrips,
separate camps.
They did the jobs
they’d been trained to do.

Black ground crews kept them in the air;
black flight surgeons kept them alive;
the whole Group removed their headgear
when another pilot died.

They were known by their names:
“Ace” and “Lucky,”
“Sky-hawk Johnny,” “Mr. Death.”
And by their positions and planes.
Red Leader to Yellow Wing-man,
do you copy?

If you could find a fresh egg
you bought it and hid it
in your dopp-kit or your boot
until you could eat it alone.
On the night before a mission
you gave a buddy
your hiding-places
as solemnly
as a man dictating
his will.
There’s a chocolate bar
in my Bible;
my whiskey bottle
is inside my bedroll.

In beat-up Flying Tigers
that had seen action in Burma,
they shot down three German jets.
They were the only outfit
in the American Air Corps
to sink a destroyer
with fighter planes.
Fighter planes with names
like “By Request.”
Sometimes the radios
didn’t even work.

They called themselves
“Hell from Heaven.”
This Spookwaffe.
My father’s old friends.

It was always
maximum effort:
A whole squadron
of brother-men
raced across the tarmac
and mounted their planes.

            My tent-mate was a guy named Starks.
            The funny thing about me and Starks
            was that my air mattress leaked,
            and Starks’ didn’t.
            Every time we went up,
            I gave my mattress to Starks
            and put his on my cot.

            One day we were strafing a train.
            Strafing’s bad news:
            you have to fly so low and slow
            you’re a pretty clear target.
            My other wing-man and I
            exhausted our ammunition and got out.
            I recognized Starks
            by his red tail
            and his rudder’s trim-tabs.
            He couldn’t pull up his nose.
            He dived into the train
            and bought the farm.

            I found his chocolate,
            three eggs, and a full fifth
            of his hoarded-up whiskey.
            I used his mattress
            for the rest of my tour.

            It still bothers me, sometimes:
            I was sleeping
            on his breath.

"Good Horse"

I'm looking for a good horse
Who can run all day long
Who'll take me to a new town
Where they haven't heard my song

I'll saddle up a new rig
A woolen blanket underneath
And 'll lace up my good boots
And head out through the trees

I'll ride ‘til I find a place
Where the music never ends
And
Between the morning sun and evening moon
I'll find me some new friends

I'll lay out my bedroll
And get the fire burning
Lay my weary body down
And let my dreams start churning

Maybe then I'll have a home
Somewhere soft and quiet and warm
Fruit trees and a rippling pond
That'll keep me safe in the storm

Yes,

I'm looking for a good horse
Who won't seem to mind
If we never stop the riding
Never hold what we're looking to find

As covid-19 transforms
Question arise
What before and now
Sustained or deflected

If table tennis
at the senior center sustained
What is where it was?
Does it’s absence leave a hole
in the cup of my soul?
What is a cup ?
What is a sieve?
We’re all these things that
occupied my time merely deflections?
Ways of avoiding life’s sorrows, loses,
shadow side?

What happens on Sunday afternoon
if the Dallas Cowboys are out on the range
and not in the stadium?
Will millions of people drink dark beer
And stare at blank screen?
Perhaps something will call them
out of an NFL trance!
Finding themselves out on the range
with the Dallas Cowboy players
All of them sitting around a fire pit
Singing, “ Ghost Riders in the Sky”

No longer deflecting
Watching the sunset
Their  horse, bedroll, saddle,
campfire embers glow,
A lone cow ambles on the horizon
Awake, alive, sustained
Grateful the NFL season cancelled

It is a lazy, restful time
here in the forest glade.
The sun is departing, the stars arriving
and the trees are a darkening jade.

An air of buzzing, drowsing stillness
invades the meadow, lends weight to my head
as I settle down, bedroll, backpack
and strains of music are seemingly played.

A deep, cool, dark pool is here
mirror clear, reflections of skies,
as peace fills my mind, my soul
and sleep gently touches my eyes.

I know not whether I was awake, or in dream
or how much time has passed,
when I felt the magic of this place
camped there, upon the grass

No sounds, no crickets? (The Music!)
As the Moon awakens the pool, so bright.
Why this anticipation, premonition,
this magical feeling, this ghost haunted night?

Then, a Siamese cat enters the meandow-
silver grey, regal composure, flowing lines.
And somehow I know - I see intelligence
and wit, and power, as she looks into my eyes.

How does she speak without speaking?
But somehow, she communicates goodwill, and cheer.
"Stay quiet, childe of man." she says.
"Be still - you are but a guest here."

Then a parade of feline musicians
wandered in singing from the right
I shake my head bedazzled, Am I dreaming, or mad?
Why me - here to witness this eldritch sight?

A Troupe of dancing, cavorting gnomes
made their appearance upon a rocky stage.
And following them: silver clad, haughty elves
accompanied by a wizened old mage.

Now, many strange but noble presences made manifest
on that starlit night in June.
And I witnessed and heard sweet music, high magic, secrets
until dawn, with the passing of the Moon.

And the high bred Queen of Cat Folk
smiled with warmth, and left.
Left me shaking with these visions,
and nodding, I finally slept

I return often to these stately woods, seeking
but never finding the sacred pool, so bright.
It makes me sad, very sad to think
that it was but a dream, a peculiar night.

But somethings, at the edge of sleep,
soft music slowly beckons and calls.
And I know with every fibre of my being
that I will again visit these magical sylvan halls.