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vircapio gale Aug 2012
ok, so this is the upswell
of wheeling free without wheels--
you taste the unknown on the wind
and endless vigor vibrates in your bones.

sidewalks, dumpsters, fields for beds,
star-gaze drowsy thinkings, underfed

but overzealous of an openness we'd never seen, we'd never see again! the planet turning magical in unexpected
ways of wanderjest--
consummate rest of freedom undenied, joyful celebrants of every day!

the strangers sudden friends stop
to gather in the journey up 'til then--
tales of kindness or of danger
sharing in some facet part

integral, shining, random and forgot--
we each diverge in thanks
or so it's been with me
despite mass fear of ****** sprees
we help each other's spirit's free

some begin and end with sore feet soothed,
the destination moved;
others with a steath-pipe harshly clean:
ember throat-smack numbs the breath
and giddy paranoia settles in
as 'the white house' sailing by perverse
-ly urban planning plotted bums who smile missing ob
-ligatory chili dogs in crowded bl
-are full to frighten morning parking lot we pitched
our tent and woke to soaking feet and sleeping bags submerged in runoff corner-lake

another time we simply waited at a truck stop,
piles of the rigs just running ready there
and one for us, he said he'd bring us north,
and more, he told us of his brothels,
his debt-collecting days, the cokehead legs he shot
for honesty, he said, and sang us poems (he wrote)
of foreign women loved, some with pictures,
pickled eggs and cooler-hotdogs stale,
my first menthol cigarette: inhale and fall
into an understanding outlaws have
of skipping all the weigh-stations, of
friendship gleaned by chance, ephemerality
in strength of truth to last:
he took our picture on the exit ramp,
gave us hugs and left us waiting there,
more than just an ex-**** trucker,
hired gun for pushing coke, but a human
sentimental in a context undefined
like justice in the sense of kindness to rewind

the rain... a joyful merciless accord
of being in the storm of open-ended
waywards torn in being home and on the road
life untenable in farther reaches worn of ages never understood

but standing in a trailer whipped with highway gusts of water-gratitude
though slipping in the bouncing hay and horse manure fertileness
we joke eternal swinging backpacks soaked and knocking spin on balance play

meeting lovers simply known as such
for nights or only one, talking into dawn
at random campus dormroom sheltering
when sober, high, tempted into impulse act
afraid or pleasant easy unknown facts
just passing by she offered for the night
his first intoxicant beyond the ***
surrounded puffing passing groaning
in the rooms above below i'm listening
smirking at the undeserving joy i swallow in her eager kiss
to throb the floating line of destiny in endless acts of freedom's light

though a ride can be a head-ache too...
piled beer cans on the floor,
clanking with each swerving,
the driver even stopping for a ****,
thankful? to be riding, not walking,
but observing when we're there, the ground, this time, i bend to kiss

Sam was the most generous:
he brought me to his home, his father took me sailing, swimming with the family
serving food on lakehouse dock and later
reading with the kids, dinner bonding
then such sleeping    deep    peace
and in the morning, after breakfast
on my way with lunchbag tastes of kindness never lost

there are many more
tucked away in word-gifts, also
blueberries to pick along the roadside, more
than i'd ever seen or thought to see
cows to sleep by, horses randy for an audience to claim the pasture for

the offer is a type of gift you question to refuse,
not to lose your wits
some are quiet, kind,
most are liberal in ways they couldn't ever elsewhere be:
snapshot saints in momentary boons of spontaneity and love.
some cross lines.
so, grateful i'm ok, but never worried otherwise. i run the 'risk' it's called,
and run it still: i ask the random for assistance,
in upturned eyes discern the weather
as in ancient times the host and guest stood cultural across
in making kin of unnamed walking in,
gifting company for company along the way
trusting always in the limned choices traveled, with a existential grin
Fred Schrott Jun 2014
A drive-by piercing with a lemon going haywire
Some day-old sushi seen floating in a milk shake
Biplanes soaring on a river made of goldfish
Hamsters running like a maggot being stepped on
T-Birds flying on a highway made of spike strips
A sleeper hold keeping pleasure from the culprit
High-speed boats with Bond at the Olympics
A Cheshire cat that is famous for his slow wit
A hands-free call using carrots as a pitchfork
Motel 6 giving buckets full of sunshine
A loser shakes when he’s calling for a train wreck
Two horned-toad dogs seek pleasure from a princess
Pineapples dance on a table made of tall grass
Swimming pools run like the nostrils of a cokehead
Lawnmowers chase televisions made of chocolate
A headrest pops like a package full of mayonnaise
Full moon falling like a stock that’s made of pennies
Some ring-toss games using members as a target
Horse-drawn buggies have turtles for a driver
Captain Crunch cracks three teeth with his product
Unicorn strippers charge nothing for a snow cone
A fig tree shoots his rifle like a marksman
Time-lapse photos lend credence to a journey
A night jog leading to the starting of a win streak
Cotton ***** fighting like the heart of a palm tree
Rabbit holes filled with a rocket made of red glare
Alien red giants just as sure as I am breathing
A high-speed rail system travels without leaving
Lamborghinis resting on a bed of melting ice cream
Then there’s a cuckoo clock riding on a white mink
I saw a cowboy yesterday atop a pile of hay
Leaches lurking everywhere really like to play
Red newspaper taxis burn at the pole in June
Hearts of gold at harvest time, hear my drum in tune
Playing in the band was my only decent goal
Rake, a shovel, and a pick dig working with a ***        
Prince without a pauper will rise from down below
Hot tamales drop like hail the radar never showed
Squids sign a new record deal using their own ink
Octomom wants it all; such ***** I’ve never seen
From, The Transitive Nightfall Of Diamonds, due out 8/14 from iUniverse books
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
I’m having a hippy drippy day
A great day to snuggle up inside
A drizzling rain and skies are gray.
I’ll call some friends to come and play.
I’ll cook up some muffins and popcorn
And chill off a gallon of cheap jug wine
Get out my guitar and my old ukulele
This day is going to work out just fine.

Rotten Ray and Pity Patty will come
The first to arrive as they always are.
Cokehead Bobby will ride with them
Because he never has a working car.
Dan will bring his Alice B. brownies
And whatever squeeze he has today.
Eldon Day will come since Dan’s here
As usual pretending he is not gay.

The music will start in right away
Four or five guitars and bongo drums.
There may be more instruments later
It depends on if Dial-A-Party comes.
While that is not a professional company,
It’s what we call it when we all meet
One calls another and soon we see
Small groups of people on the street.

Especially on rainy days, it turns out
We all love this kind of gathering
Depending on who is off that day
And how big a storm we’re weathering.
But joy and music is the rule of the day.
We laugh and get ****** and sing,
Some drizzily hippy drippy happy fun;
A gathering of close friends means everything.
Homunculus Mar 2015
Nobody reads this ****... so I'm just gonna start typing. Why not? Freudian automatic writing is an old psychological gold standard, though I guess we can't really be sure how useful it is to analysis these days. Oh well, perhaps some illuminating nugget of insight into the complex inner workings of the human psyche will emerge from a later re-visitation of the text laid down here. Probably not... yeah, Freud was a strange one anyhow, he wanted to bone his mom, you know. He also loved *******. He once botched a neurological operation because he was too high, and then the patient came to him in a dream and blamed him. Of course, being the smelly old narcissistic cokehead that he was, he read some sort of esoteric meaning into the dream sequence and ignored his subconscious attempt at intervention. In light of this, it's probably worth asking if Freud is the type of person we really want interpreting our dreams... I always liked Jung better, anyway. That collective unconscious is some heavy ****, man. The thought that there are disembodied essences of character traits called archetypes, living in a panpsychic mental manifold, of which your mind is a small adumbration makes some pretty awesome dinner table conversations... until your dad hijacks the conversation and directs it back to sports.

On that note... why are sports so popular? Baseball is boring as ****, and boxing and football are barbaric. I always figured it had something to do with the human desire to act out our violent impulses, and the social constraints restricting us from doing so. Seems that with contact sports, people get to sublimate those urges by living them vicariously through the athletes. I wonder if revolution would come if we abolished sports. Lord knows, the people would need another hobby in light of that void in their leisure time. Maybe it would be political science, and we would finally realize how backward our government has become... nah, probably not. If sports were abolished, we would just go back to reality TV. ****, there's another rant... **** this, I'm leaving.
b Nov 2017
I never once kept the door closed,
Despite everything that would make you think otherwise.
My arms tremble at the thought
Of pulling all this weight again.
But I was ready.
The things you do for love
Or what you thought love was.

Nothing says emotional stability like dollar store sleeping pills.
Inertia for a brain
I let it all pile up
Until I'm buried in snow like a cokehead fever dream.

I fell asleep on the high road
Waiting for you to run me over.

— The End —