Leather seating, closure in these moments
while we’re on the longest of this drive,
Maps stuffed in the glove compartment; where
shall we go on this long road?

Not giving hearts, but giving you my word,
in a blue chassis ride, skipping gears to get to five.
Going down hill, and I’ll put it down into glide.

I’m not as neutral, to express my eyes, reflecting
all the pretty mirrors of your body.
Lap sitting, holding onto my steering wheel,
hand on a rear; wipers set on low. And I’ll kiss you
one last time, as if the last becomes the first.

Blue Nissan, tell me if you’ve even been in a
ride like this before? When your empty pockets are
full, and you’re driving a car you could never afford.

I promised myself, not to do the wrongs I do to
myself to someone I love.
To not go on stealing hearts, as if this world
doesn’t have too many bandits.

My hands are vowed to only rest their desires
on you. These lips are a secret only to know
your ears.

This love I can only gladly give to my God,
You, and His people.

Death isn’t an end to us, but just a new beginning
we can only get to one by one.
So keep my seat warm up in Heaven, and I’ll keep
yours too if it’s me to go before you.

Whether sickness is chasing my lungs,
cancers diagnosed on my list of problems,
Let’s just be running towards the days of life you
and I both still have.

And like this drive,
with no rush to our final destination,
But enjoyment of all we’ll experience on this
road of life.

Steven my boy,

We coasted into a medieval pub in the middle of nowhere in wildest Devon to encounter the place in uproarious bedlam. A dozen country madams had been imbibing in the pre wedding wine and were in great form roaring with laughter and bursting out of their lacy cotton frocks. Bunting adorned the pub, Union Jack was aflutter everywhere and a full size cut out of HM the Queen welcomed visitors into the front door. Cucumber sandwiches and a heady fruit punch were available to all and sundry and the din was absolutely riotous……THE ROYAL WEDDING WAS UNDERWAY ON THE GIANT TV ON THE BAR WALL….and we were joining in the mood of things by sinking a bevy of Bushmills Irish whiskies neat!

Now…. this is a major event in the UK.

Everybody loves Prince Harry, he is the terrible tearaway of the Royal family, he has been caught ******* sheila’s in all sorts of weird circumstance. Now the dear boy is to be married to a beauty from the USA….besotted he is with her, fair dripping with love and adoration…..and the whole country loves little Megan Markle for making him so.

The British are famous for their pageantry and pomp….everything is timed to the second and must be absolutely….just so. Well….Nobody told the most Reverend Michael Curry this…. and he launched into the most wonderful full spirited Halleluiah sermon about the joyous “Wonder of Love”. He went on and on for a full 14 minutes, and as he proceeded on, the British stiff upper lips became more and more rigidly uncomfortable with this radical departure from protocol. Her Majesty the Queen stood aghast and locked her beady blue eyes in a riveting, steely glare, directed furiously at the good Reverend….to no avail, on he went with his magic sermon to a beautiful rousing ******….and an absolute stony silence in the cavernous interior of that vaulting, magnificent cathedral. Prince Harry and his lovely bride, (whose wedding the day was all about), were delighted with Curry’s performance….as was Prince William, heir to the Throne, who wore a fascinating **** eating grin all over his face for the entire performance.

Says a lot, my friend, about the refreshing values of tomorrows Royalty.

We rolled out of that country pub three parts cut to the wind, dunno how we made it to our next destination, but we had one hellava good time at that Royal Wedding!

The weft and the weave of our appreciation fluctuated wildly with each day of travel through this magnificent and ancient land, Great Britain.

There was soft brilliant summer air which hovered over the undulating green patchwork of the Cotswolds whilst we dined on delicious roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, from an elevated position in a medieval country inn..... So magnificent as to make you want to weep with the beauty of it all….and the quaint thatched farmhouse with the second story multi paned windows, which I understood, had been there, in that spot, since the twelfth century. Our accommodation, sleeping beneath oaken beams within thick stone walls, once a pen for swine, now a domiciled overnight bed and pillow of luxury with white cotton sheets for weary Kiwi travellers.

The sadness of the Cornish west coast, which bore testimony to tragedy for the hard working tin miners of the 1800s. A sharp decrease in the international tin price in 1911 destituted whole populations who walked away from their life’s work and fled to the New World in search of the promise of a future. Forlorn brick ruins adorned stark rocky outcrops right along the coastline and inland for miles. Lonely brick chimneys silhouetted against sharp vertical cliffs and the ever crashing crescendo of the pounding waves of the cold Atlantic ocean.

No parking in Padstow….absolutely NIL! You parked your car miles away in the designated carpark at an overnight cost….and with your bags in tow, you walked to your digs. Now known as Padstein, this beautiful place is now populated with eight Rick Stein restaurants and shops dotted here and there.

We had a huge feed of piping hot fish and chips together with handles of cold ale down at his harbour side fish and chip restaurant near the wharfs…place was packed with people, you had to queue at the door for a table, no reservations accepted….Just great!

Clovelly was different, almost precipitous. This ancient fishing village plummeted down impossibly steep cliffs….a very rough, winding cobbled stone walkway, which must have taken years to build by hand, the only way down to the huge rock breakwater which harboured the fishing boats Against the Atlantic storms. And in a quaint little cottagey place, perched on the edge of a cliff, we had yet another beautiful Devonshire tea in delicate, white China cups...with tasty hot scones, piles of strawberry jam and a huge *** of thick clotted cream…Yum! Too ****** steep to struggle back up the hill so we spent ten quid and rode all the way up the switch back beneath the olive canvass canopy of an old Land Rover…..money well spent!

Creaking floorboards and near vertical, winding staircases and massive rock walls seemed to be common characteristics of all the lovely old lodging houses we were accommodated in. Sarah, our lovely daughter in law, arranged an excellent itinerary for us to travel around the SW coast staying in the most picturesque of places which seeped with antiquity and character. We zooped around the narrow lanes, between the hedgerows in our sharp little VW golf hire car And, with Sarah at the helm, we never got lost or missed a beat…..Fantastic effort, thank you so much Sarah and Solomon on behalf of your grateful In laws, Janet and Marshal, who loved every single moment of it all!

Memories of a lifetime.

Wanted to tell the world about your excitement, Janet, on visiting Stoke on Trent.

This town is famous the world over for it’s pottery. The pottery industry has flourished here since the middle ages and this is evidenced by the antiquity of the kilns and huge brick chimneys littered around the ancient factories. Stoke on Trent is an industrial town and it’s narrow, winding streets and congested run down buildings bear testimony to past good times and bad.

We visited “Burleigh”.

Darling Janet has collected Burleigh pottery for as long as I have known her, that is almost 40 years. She loves Burleigh and uses it as a showcase for the décor of our home.

When Janet first walked into the ancient wooden portals of the Burleigh show room she floated around on a cloud of wonder, she made darting little runs to each new discovery, making ooh’s and aah’s, eyes shining brightly….. I trailed quietly some distance behind, being very aware that I must not in any way imperil this particular precious bubble.

We amassed a beautiful collection of plates, dishes, bowls and jugs for purchase and retired to the pottery’s canal side bistro,( to come back to earth), and enjoy a ploughman’s lunch and a *** of hot English breakfast tea.

We returned to Stoke on Trent later in the trip for another bash at Burleigh and some other beautiful pottery makers wares…..Our suit cases were well filled with fragile treasures for the trip home to NZ…..and darling Janet had realised one of her dearest life’s ambitions fulfilled.

One of the great things about Britain was the British people, we found them willing to go out of their way to be helpful to a fault…… and, with the exception of BMW people, we found them all to be great drivers. The little hedgerow, single lane, winding roads that connect all rural areas, would be a perpetual source of carnage were it not for the fact that British drivers are largely courteous and reserved in their driving.

We hired a spacious ,powerful Nissan in Dover and acquired a friend, an invaluable friend actually, her name was “Tripsy” at least that’s what we called her. Tripsy guided us around all the byways and highways of Britain, we couldn’t have done without her. I had a few heated discussions with her, I admit….much to Janet’s great hilarity…but Tripsy won out every time and I quickly learned to keep my big mouth shut.

By pure accident we ended up in Cumbria, up north of the Roman city of York….at a little place in the dales called “Middleton on Teesdale”….an absolutely beautiful place snuggled deep in the valleys beneath the huge, heather clad uplands. Here we scored the last available bed in town at a gem of a hotel called the “Brunswick”. Being a Bank Holiday weekend everything, everywhere was booked out. The Brunswick surpassed ordinary comfort…it was superlative, so much so that, in an itinerary pushed for time….we stayed TWO nights and took the opportunity to scout around the surrounding, beautiful countryside. In fact we skirted right out to the western coastline and as far north as the Scottish border. Middleton on Teesdale provided us with that late holiday siesta break that we so desperately needed at that time…an exhausting business on a couple of old Kiwis, this holiday stuff!

One of the great priorities on getting back to London was to shop at “Liberty”. Great joy was had selecting some ornate upholstering material from the huge range of superb cloth available in Liberty’s speciality range.

The whole organisation of Liberty’s huge store and the magnificent quality of goods offered was quite daunting. Janet & I spent quite some time in that magnificent place…..and Janet has a plan to select a stylish period chair when we get back to NZ and create a masterpiece by covering it with the ***** bought from Liberty.

In York, beautiful ancient, York. A garrison town for the Romans, walled and once defended against the marauding Picts and Scots…is now preserved as a delightful and functional, modern city whilst retaining the grandeur, majesty and presence of its magnificent past.

Whilst exploring in York, Janet and I found ourselves mixing with the multitude in the narrow medieval streets paved with ancient rock cobbles and lined with beautifully preserved Tudor structures resplendent in whitewash panel and weathered, black timber brace. With dusk falling, we were drawn to wild violins and the sound of stamping feet….an emanation from within the doors of an old, burgundy coloured pub…. “The Three Legged Mare”.

Fortified, with a glass of Bushmills in hand, we joined the multitude of stomping, singing people. Rousing to the percussion of the Irish drum, the wild violin and the deep resonance of the cello, guitars and accordion…..The beautiful sound of tenor voices harmonising to the magic of a lilting Irish lament.

We stayed there for an hour or two, enchanted by the spontaneity of it all, the sheer native talent of the expatriates celebrating their heritage and their culture in what was really, a beautiful evening of colour, music and Ireland.

Onward, across the moors, we revelled in the great outcrops of metamorphic rock, the expanses of flat heather covering the tops which would, in the chill of Autumn, become a spectacular swath of vivid mauve floral carpet. On these lonely tracts of narrow road, winding through the washes and the escarpments, the motorbike boys wheeled by us in screaming pursuit of each other, beautiful machines heeling over at impossible angles on the corners, seemingly suicidal yet careening on at breakneck pace, laughing the danger off with the utter abandon of the creed of the road warrior. Descending in to the rolling hills of the cultivated land, the latticework of, old as Methuselah, massive dry built stone fences patterning the contours in a checker board of ancient pastoral order. The glorious soft greens of early summer deciduous forest, the yellow fields of mustard flower moving in the breeze and above, the bluest of skies with contrails of ever present high flung jets winging to distant places.

Britain has a flavour. Antiquity is evidenced everywhere, there is a sense of old, restrained pride. A richness of spirit and a depth of character right throughout the populace. Britain has confidence in itself, its future, its continuity. The people are pleasant, resilient and thoroughly likeable. They laugh a lot and are very easy to admire.

With its culture, its wonderful history, its great Monarchy and its haunting, ever present beauty, everywhere you care to look….The Britain of today is, indeed, a class act.

We both loved it here Steven…and we will return.

M.

Hamilton, New Zealand

21 June 2018

You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture

Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower

A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature

Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air

I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui

I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire

At the mailbox, again:
“Who loves me, baby?”
Well, let’s see: there’s a flyer from Mercury Insurance,
Reminding me that most middle-income customers
Save an average of $4 million smackaroons when they switch too.
The Penny Saver USA.com is here,
Thank God, almighty!
So now I know that Thomas Roofing & Paving
Is having a special on 20-year leak-free flat roofs;
"All work guaranteed & insured.
No job too big or small.
Free estimates/Emergency services/License # I8U-69."
And thank you, Jesus,
For another $4.99 Farmer Boys 3-Egg Breakfast
Combo with Coffee coupon, and that
Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready, $5.00 cheese or pepperoni,
Mae-West-“why-don’t-you-come up and see me sometime?”—mailer. And, of course, another technology Siren’s song:
Verizon FiOS delivers entertainment this big,
Dish me up some dish NETWORK, $19.99 a month . . .
Are you ******* me?
For 12 ******* months?
AT&T;: whack me off on 120 channels.
DIRECTV.com - DIRECTV® Official Site‎
Worry-free 99.9%  . . . cue Joe E. Brown,
"Some Like It Hot“ Osgood:
"Well, nobody’s perfect!"
Time Warner/Sprint/T-Mobile;
And ******* Leather, Polk Street, San Francisco.
******* leather?
Must be for my neighbor: that ***** ****!
And here’s the weekly 8-page color fold-out from Stater Bros:
Lowering prices every day, large cantaloupes
(Jessica Lange, are you back?)
10 for $10.00, 32 oz. Gatorade
Or 24 oz Propel in 30 assorted varieties @ 79 cents
+ CRV: California Redemption Value?
Nice euphemistic cover-up for a TAX.
Nice, nice, very nice, CA elected state officials;
Nicely done, Sacramento.
Everywhere else in the country you get real money—
A fixed number of pennies, nickels, or dimes—
For your plastic bottles and aluminum cans.
But in California, the licensed recyclers
Get to pull the market price out of their *** each morning.
California Redemption Value?
What ******* genius government kleptocrat thought that one up? Conspiracy Alert: who gets all that CRV money?
And what are they doing with it?
Feeling plain, Jane?
Marinello Schools of Beauty, want you,
Offer you hands-on training in cosmetology,
Skin care esthetics, manicuring and vaginal deodorizing—
Just kidding, Babaloo.
Food tip for the Third World:
Never try to write poetry on an empty stomach.
Sizzler 6 oz juicy & succulent.
RENEGADE DEAL:
El Pollo Loco guacamole chicken sandwich,
Coupon free, small drink and small chips,
When you purchase a guacamole or jalapeno sandwich,
includes pepper jack cheese and a southwest sauce.
Gardenas sandia con semilla, 7 lbs 99 cents.
GARDENAS: “en precios, servicio y calidad, nadie nos iguaia.”
Bud Gordon’s Quality NISSAN:
One at this price after a $1500 factory rebate.
TERMINIX: get them before they get you!
The Kingdom Animalia, Phylum Arthropoda, Class Insecta
Bug up my *** again.
And a form letter from the VA
Asking me to please update my whereabouts.
And a form letter from the VA asking me
To please update my whereabouts.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Bite me, Mr. Frost!

An outing, at last.
I am going for a walk around the inside of my gates.
I live in one of those gated over-55 lunatic asylums.
There are gates. It is gated. Get it?
GATED! We feel safe here.
Probably a good thing at our age:
Self-imposed institutionalization,
Putting oneself in an asylum to ferment and die.
The fact that so many of us
Need it so bad at only 55
Says something itself about the current state of
Baby Boomer metal-fatigue.
I am now standing at the far end of the golf course.
I wait at the far end of the 18th Hole.
A ball bounces past my head and
Rolls off past the green into the far rough.
The 18th Hole is perched atop a small plateau,
Out of sight, far above the horizon for anyone teeing off.
I am Puck, invisible and impish.
I pluck the ball up.
I scamper to the green.
I pop the ball into the hole.
Which is better than popping a hole in the ball,
Surely, kind of a drag,
As we were once fond of saying.
Deflated Ball.
Deflator Maus.
OPERA can be ****.
Bodice-ripping corsets, whorehouses and naked ******!
Hardly what you might expect from
A night with the Welsh National Opera,
But they found their way into this production of "Die Fledermaus."
Ripe language, contemporary jokes and
Toilet humor thrown in, adding immensely
To the pleasures of Strauss’s operetta.
"Die Fledermaus," or The Bat’s Revenge,
Is all about drunkenness and adultery.
Despite being written in the 1870s,
It remains equally pertinent to today’s pub culture of excess.
Daring; Colorful; ****: PGA golf.
I steal a golf ball on the far end of the 18th Hole.
I pick up the Titleist and stick it in the hole
(Steady Jessica, not yours.
I hide behind your bush.
(Cue up PSA, First Lady Bird Johnson’s 1960s
Nationwide Beautification Campaign:
“I want everyone in America to plant a tree,
A sherrrr-rub, or a booosh.”)
The golfer now searching frantically:
Why is the cup always the last place they look?
Then, wham, bam, he looks:
A legend is born.
A hole in one,
His name forever immortalized
On a plaque over the bar, the proverbial 19th Hole.

As you know, I speak for all mediocrities,
Safe in my 55+ gated-community.
I go next to the Club House,
"The Lodge" as it’s called.
Each afternoon, the usual suspects
Claiming first come/first serve tiered mini-theater seats
Where Netflix matinee gems are screened.
It is two minutes to DVD show time.
I walk to the front of the room.
I stare at my audience.
I count the house slowly,
Making meaningful eye contact with each wrinkled face.
I cup my hands behind my back and speak:
“I assume you are all here for my lecture on Kierkegaard.”
No one reacts.
I turn to leave but do a double-take and smile.
One old woman in the top right corner of the amphitheater laughs, Perhaps the one other human being within the gates
Who has also smoked a joint today.
For an instant, I am overwhelmed with paranoia,
Perhaps I’ve gone too far over the line:
No longer “oh-he’s-a-character;”
I am now “that creep is ******* nuts.”
Is it time for someone to approach my family,
My next of kin, my “who-to-contact-in-event-of-emergency” number? Who will make the call on behalf of the HOA—
The Homeowner’s Association—
The Tsars, the Duma, the Supreme Soviet in these parts?
They are the power inside the gates;
Those who determine the state’s enemies,
Who govern its community norms.
Power within the gates.
Law within the asylum.
Little Hitlers one and all.
Hopefully they reach my sister first.
She’s been briefed.
KEY POINT IN THE NARRATIVE:
The new narrative is non-linear.
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We grow more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen;
We become more intimate with a legion . . .
Did someone say a legion? SPQR:
Am I having some sort of genetic-linguistic seizure here?
Am I channeling Benito Mussolini again?
Il Duce speaks to me from the grave,
Still blowing smoke up my Hopi-Jew-*** ***,
Filling in my insecurities,
Plugging the holes in my character
With delusions of classical Roman grandeur, glory and empire. Hmmmm? Quite an appetizing pitch for the average *****,
A message so completely, so ethnocentrically slick,
Olive oily, and so seductive.
A non-Italian would have thought
American Legion or Legionnaire’s disease,
Or The Foreign Legion, The French Foreign Legion.
The French: a virulent, promiscuous people.
Do you want fries with that, Simone?
No, I don’t get out much.
Only an occasional brisk walk around the asylum,
In and around the golf course, around but inside the gates. (LINKS) Bill Gates. Daryl Gates. Billy Bathgate’s Gates? Ghiberti’s Gates? The Hot Gates? Thermopylae? 300 Spartans/700 Thespians:
“The noun causing idiots to think of
Two girls sloppily eating each other’s mighty vaginas,
When they hear mention of someone being an actor.” http://www.urbandictionary.com
Not even close.
No, I rarely venture out.
This is Hemetucky.
There are methamphetamine-stoked
Teenage zombies at the gate.
Note to costume control:
Perhaps camouflage clothing is the safe choice?
No loud red Hawaiian.
No garish Indonesian batik.
Fleet of feet are these Hemet tweakers,
These cranked up Riverside County teenage barbarians,
These Huns & Visigoths,
These amped up, ravenous jackals.
And why stop there?
These Vandals & Vandellas.
A Motown flashback:
“Nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide.”
With or without Martha—
They remain dangerously lethal.
Yes, let it be camo clothes for me.
Those **** heads may be young.
They may be fast.
They may be able to run me down
On a dry grass dog-legged fairway savannah,
Tearing the meat from my carcass.
But the sons-a-******* have to see me first.
Besides, we know who are real friends are.
Hooray for our media peeps!
We become more intimate with a legion
Of television personalities on 125 different channels.
Most of these we know by name and context.
We know their families, their friends,
Their histories, their tragedies,
Their favored hyperbole and manner of speech.
Sometimes we establish intimacy with celebrities
Strictly on the basis of universal body language.
At times–in the absence of any other
Empathetic facility of identification–
We connect on instinct alone.
Instinct: perhaps animal at its core,
An animal kingdom affinity group,
Connecting on a bio-linguistic level,
Particularly when the Korean, or Spanish,
Mandarin, or Arabic,
Japanese, or even Hebrew language version is broadcast.
All languages cryptically alien,
A dense boundary, a barrio border wall,
Undecipherable, impenetrable concrete.
But we’ve never spoken to our neighbors,
Nor do we know their names.
Celebrities are the neighbors we know best;
Although the intimacy is an illusion,
Permission to invade their privacy presumed,
Tacit in the relationship between celebrities and their fans.
I am an independent contractor now,
An outside consultant to the NSA.
Try as I might I cannot crack the enigma,
Kim Kardashian remains far beyond my code-breaking prowess.
I repeat myself:
We can no longer sustain a narrative understanding of ourselves;
We are each an individual stream of consciousness,
All of us random, non-linear and disconnected.
We are more and more disconnected from others.
We may be neighbors in space and time,
But we remain deprived of any significant human contact;
Any spiritually significant human contact.
Our social circle narrows to what can fit in The Telescreen; we become more intimate with a legion . . .
Back to you, David Ulin:
“Sometime late last year—I don’t remember when, exactly—I noticed I was having trouble sitting down to read. That’s a problem if you do what I do, but it’s an even bigger problem if you’re the kind of person I am. Since I discovered reading, I have always been surrounded by stacks of books. I read my way through camp, school, nights, and weekends; when my girlfriend and I backpacked through Europe after college graduation, I had to buy a suitcase to accommodate the books I picked up along the way.”
Thank you, David L. Ulin.
I cannot help myself.
I grow more eccentric each day.
My eyeballs glued to that flat screen!

Cosmo Kramer: "The bus is outta control.
So I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat,
I get behind the wheel, and now I’m driving the bus."
Jerry: "Wow!"
George Costanza: "You’re Batman."
Cosmo Kramer: "Yeah, yeah, I am Batman.
Then the mugger, he comes to and he starts choking me.
So I’m fighting him off with one hand,
And I kept driving the bus with the other, ya know.
Then I managed to open up the door,
And I kicked him out the door, ya know,
With my foot, ya know, at the next stop."
Jerry: "You kept making all the stops?"
Cosmo Kramer: "Well, people kept ringing the bell!"
(Share this moment with a stranger.)

I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.
Boom Chaka Laka. Boom Chaka Laka.
Boom Chaka Laka. BOOM!
Isn’t it time Salieri tempted Constanze–
Frau Mozart–with a plateful of Capezzoli di Venere:
“******* of Venus.”
You had me at hello, Kidman.
I know you too well, Nicole.
I knew you from before,
Way before Tom’s Oprah couch freak show.
Listen to me, Nicole:
We are face to face
With the most profound question in American literature:
"What is the grass?
The flag of my surrender?
The flag of my disposition?"
I resort to Socratic maxims: Know yourself;
The un-****** life is not worth living.
Is it stress? Is it lack of conviction?
Everything Jeff Lebowski neither wants nor needs in his life?
I watched you *** in "Eyes Wide Shut," Nicole.
Now I know you with my eyes and your legs wide open.
Thank you, Sidney Pollack.
Sidney knew.
Sidney dealt us cards
From his Hollywood Tarot deck.
We are intimate, Nicole.
I watched you squat.

In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.

Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less  pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?

As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.

Body

Two bodies,
in a bed,
on a quilt in a field,
in the backseat of an '88 Nissan Pathfinder.

Two bodies,
touching,
squeezing,
caressing,
biting.

Blood,
pooling under the skin,
rushing to the brain,
rushing to the genitals,
sticky/hot.

****** candy,
the curve of lips around a lollipop,
the drinking of whiskey from the bottle,
the burning sensation of MDMA insufflation.

Clothes strewn across your mother's kitchen,
ice cubes traced down spines, *******, *******.
Oral *** with ice cubes in the mouth.



Frequent ******* and a sense of unwellbeing, if you'll allow me this one usage of an unword (I can't help myself)

She rolled her brand new electric car.
Well she was aiming to turn over a new leaf.

At twilight
At dusk
At sunset
That very moment in time was set
Twas Nissan 14
when his glory was seen
and will remain
til time indefinite

A few years ago
I fell in love
Racing 60 mph down a 45 zone
Clutching the seat and the door
Of a 98 nissan sentra
Hoping to get the hell out of that car
Because i couldn't stand him anymore
His reckless turned me on though
In a way that opening that car door
Seemed like an exit strategy
I didn't need to take after all
The darkness that encased the car around us
Seemed like the perfect mood setting
For the thrill we both wanted
And for me what i needed
Love didn't understand that
My fear for speed
Resembled my fear for life
Life always seemed to flash by to fast
Like it always had some place to be
And i wanted to remain still
I wanted to take a picture
Because i knew it would last longer
Instead of it always changing
And rearranging itself
Love drove me through the streets
many countless nights
Expanding my perspective
Reversing my sense of direction
A feeling of protection
That i didn't have before
Love gave me reasons
To speed through life
To not be scared
To every once in a while
Let go of the handle
That i strictly held onto
Love became my life
And i thank god
Each and every day
That i didn't take
That exit strategy
That i sped away into the night
And lived an actual life.

innuendo sushi is usher asking Sienese disowns shown plops aside ask dud
                    NCOs debs downwind UBS mayo Iowa. Laos Nissan seis *** so enemies Sandusky snails used iOS somehow Owen haikus eye owl ensues diss worsens skinned unique.
     ushers witted hub woman's newish naval cavity sis wish lend USB

[rage typing doesn't work with auto correct]

As real as Monopoly Money....

I'm on Mediterranean Ave, buying sleeping gas, and a bulletproof vest to rob Community Chest. Inside info from Dimples. Cut her out of the money by putting 2 in her temple. Off to the projects, the Marvin Gardens. Special discounts when buying guns by the carton. The back up getaway is on Pacific Ave. Her brother will drop me off, I'll plant a bomb in his taxi-cab. Rob them, he'll drop me at the Waterworks, his car blows. I'll swim a half a mile to Reading Railroad. Give *** Jack some chump change, $500 for the caboose on the train. Low profile as we go through the ave's; Vermont, Oriental, Kentucky, and also Virginia Ave. Robin hood theory, throw out bundles of cash. We can't Stop, we'll be taking a Chance. Getting locked up in the Jailhouse, 25 with an L ****!

Jump off @ St. James church, to stash my firearm. "What if it's closed", I'll crack the burglar alarm. Walk in, see the priest, and for our sins we confess. For the rest of this mission, we'll need to he blessed. With this economy messed up, pockets they lack. Time doesn't pay the crime, they've added a Luxury Tax, to avoid the Electric Company where people get fried Jack. Walk down Indiana and blend with the panhandlers, to No. Carolina, where I'll steal us a Pathfinder(Nissan). Then we'll go, it's a quarter after 4 we got to get to the B&O.; Listen for the Jamaican yelling bloodclot. He'll extract the rest of the plan from his dreadlocks. Park Pl. will take us straight to the train station. Hide all your valuables, it's headquarters for freebasing. "What about the cops watching from the Free Parking Lot"? We'll sneak up the back street called Tennessee, and dress up like some ladies, to hide our identity. "Ooooh that's smooth and just might work, to make it to Conneticut in heels and a skirt". Get on the Shortline to Advance to New York, and lay low at St. Charles Pl., on Ventnor and Illinois.

We're at St. Charles Pl. getting undressed from the lady clothes, and the rest of the plan to pull a hit on the Parker Bros. Rifles issued at target practice, to get what we wanted. When we Pass Go, they'll pay us $200. To rent a room on the Boardwalk Hotel Top floor, to shoot the Parker Bros. as they walk out the front door. We'll lean out the window and have them centered. Since the scope is telescopic, we can see where the bullet entered. BOOYAH, the scope is off, so we missed their heads. Broke down the weapons, while we was running downstairs. Stole their Rolls Royce in front of the crowd. Still in pursuit of the Brother's for laughing aloud.......GAME OVER!

How many poetry books = 1 Nissan Pathfinder exhaust
      system.
How many bluebirds? Money is how we thank people for
      what makes them special
How we express our love and gratitude.

Weight and moods, up and down, with weather and outcome
      of meetings.
I am so sick of humanity, people. Wouldn't I prefer
      chickadees?
Then I get home, that is the comfortable tree hole I've been
      longing for.

Aaron pitches and plays piano. Zach likes lacrosse and math.
The mound was soft, sand, with a hole big enough for an urn
      or to hide a plover
But Aaron pitched carefully anyway, slow strikes and the
      opposing team scored.

What would God's work be? Meaningless question. Today's
      schedule:
Write fund raising letters, conserve small farms. Local food,
      local jobs. Don't transport food coast to coast. Save fuel,
      less CO2.
In my opinion the dislocations resulting from climate change
      and global warming will be within man's adaptive capacity.
      On the other hand.
Also, green industry will open a vast employment market, a
      job for every grackle, crow.

The good life, unsustainable, we're poisoning our children
      although my children are not so poisoned. They're bald.
      Unusually bald. Good looking bald. Future of man bald.
      Happy bald.
Bald eagle. Nesting, mating near Karen Sheldon's, a
      conservationist, philanthropist, on the river, whose
      husband recently died. During romantic dinner on a
      second honeymoon in Paris, so I've heard.
That's Jake's spirit come home as an eagle, Karen said. Isn't
      that great, I said, and the she-eagle he's nesting with!
--I'm gonna **** that *****.

Compare Captain Carpenter and In a Prominent Bar in
      Secaucus One Day. In each case the hero's (heroine's)
      body declining
Under life's duress. Anything located in Secaucus, NJ could
      not be considered prominent, could it?
In the end, clack clack takes all. Hard to end a poem better
      than that. Clack clack the crow's beak, upper and lower
      mandibles meeting. From hunger, or it just does. Crows
      clack clack to communicate.
Whitman's greatest poem is Out of the Cradle . . . also
      involving communicating birds, in what is initially an
      embarrassingly emotional display. All that italicized
      moaning and yearning. Get away.
Then, clack clack, he turns on you. Death lisping, straight into
      your eyes. Suddenly you realize you should have taken
      him seriously, been paying attention.

In the meantime, traffic, corn, new exhaust system, ask for
      money, save farms, poor people, sun on garden, whole
      wide world, wars, stars.
I gave up long ago on a quiet world. Now going deaf. Then it
      will be quiet, too quiet.
No more birding by ear. "No more *******." I mean really . . .
      I was moved as anyone by Hall's honest poem about Jane
      dying and I guess ******* can be music to someone's
      melody, stand for living, but not me.
No more birding would have had more meaning. I'd rather
      bird than ****. No more *******, no more worry, no more
      war.

Which is why I'm gonna **** that ***** is so funny, such a
      life-affirming comeback.
At first I worried Karen really believed the eagle is her
      husband. Maybe she does,
But that punch line makes her the kind of woman I want to
      know.

I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
                                          driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.  

I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
                                      McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.  
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.  
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
                                      used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
                                                                ­                     the end of the street.  

The sweet smell of cigar smoke.  The ice cold splash of the garden hose.  The pop of a bubble.  The sting of soap in the eye.  Dreams by The Cranberries.  As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys.  A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging.  The deer in the backyard looking for corn.  The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.

My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened.  I cannot ask him.  
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)  
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.  
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.  
                            Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.  
                                                     Co­vered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.  

There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
                                     I think I was before the trauma.  
We are two different people.  A yin and a yang.  A day and a night.  
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.  
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.

I get so lost some days
I feel like I am rubbernecking lightning
Just waiting for the flash

And life is a Nissan brake-checking your awe

People say you can tell how close the storm is
By counting seconds between lightning and thunder
If you can see it
It is always close enough

I don't mean to romanticize everything
But it's what I do

The clouds look like scabs
In front of some bolts
Before they mesh back into the smooth blackness

I wish I healed that fast

After My Little Black Dog Died of Melanoma.
After the Lumps on Her Small Brittle Body Slowly
Burned to a Pile of Ash in the Vet’s Office.  After My Step-Father
Drove in His Ostentatious Truck to Pick Up Her Remains.  After I Cried
in My Dorm Room and Tried Not to Wake My Roommate.  
Realization that My Loss Does Not Make Me Different.  There Are
Graveyards That Span For Miles and They Are Filled With More
Dead Bodies Than I Have Ever Seen.  There Are Hundreds of
Thousands of Children in the Foster Care System That Have
Never Met Their Parents or Maybe They Did and it Just Didn’t Work Out.
Kids Who Might Have Lived With Their Terminally Ill Parent(s) For Years
Not Just Days.  Kids Who Never Sat in the Opened Up Trunk of Their
Mother’s Black Nissan Pathfinder at the Drive-In Movies.  Kids Who Lived Too Far From Their Too Old Grandparents or Who Lived Too Far From Their Too Dead Grandparents.  Kids Who Were Never Told Not to Throw Snowballs Because There Might be Big Chunks of Ice in Them.  Kids Who
Never Had a Childhood Dog to Cry Over.  Kids Who
Don’t Like to Read Because They Were Never Read
Bedtime Stories When They Were Younger.  Kids Whose
Mothers Never Called Them Tweetie or Pumpkin or Honey or ***.  
Kids That Were Not Told to Just Go to the Bathroom When
Their Tummies Hurt Instead of the Health Room.  Kids Who Never
Listened to the Spice Girls’ Album Spice World on Cassette on the
Way to the Store.  Kids Who Never Got a Peach Drink Out of a Vending Machine at the Pick’N’Save on 27th  Street and Still Don’t Know
Exactly What 50¢ Peach Drink Their Mother Bought For Them.  
There Are Thousands of Dogs Euthanized Each Day Because of
How Sick They Are or Because They Were at a Shelter For Far Too Long
or Because They Are a Pitbull or a Rottweiler or Some Other
Irrationally Feared and Disliked Dog Breed.  We Didn’t Euthanize My
Stage-Four-Cancer-Stricken Dog or Even Get Her Treatment Beyond
Pain Medicine Because We Were Selfish.  We Do a Lot of Things Because
We Are Selfish.  We Waited Five Days to Pull the Plug on My Vegetable
Mother Because We Were Waiting For a Miracle That We Knew Would
Never Happen Because She Stopped Breathing the Moment the
Aneurysm Burst.  My Sister is Getting Married in June and My
Grandfather is Going to Walk Her Down the Aisle in My Mother’s
Place.  My Grandparents Had to Move In With My Sister After My
Grandmother Fell Down Too Many Times and Didn’t Take Her Health
Problems Serious Enough.  There Are Repercussions For Thinking
You Are Safe When You Are Really Not.

Mars on March I crave *** from the start

fecundity  stay reminding me its fertility  the green grass grows next to the misty sea,

               can you make things clear to me?

The seven Gothic spells on how to communicate in this hell , my satanic realm.

Perception , distortion  the problem is you have seconds to prove you're not boring    



      I would rather remain focused.

1
where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before


had a coffee at the center
caught up with some friends
watched a movie
and bought some stuff for home
and now I can’t find my car
though I’ve searched past 10 minutes



where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before


no, that’s not mine
that’s a Mercedes;
that one’s too shiny;
and maybe it’s this one
- no, mate,
we won’t go any nearer
this car is too clean
mine will look like
it’s not been washed since Noah



where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before


2
well, yes, help me look out...
it’s an old Nissan
blue faded into white;
no, nobody ‘ll steal that
and the only people
who’d give it a second look
will be the traffic police
who’d wave as if to say:
Pull over, Sir;
let’s have a look at
your rego and front tyres


now, where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before


well, ****,
I’m sure it hasn’t moved
it’s not that sort with smart technology
self-park, self-drive or with sensors;
it’s like an old useless dog
completely lost without its master


where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before


now that we’ve looked
about 30 minutes or more
I’m not sure if this is the right level;
Oh, did I stop at Yellow Level
or Blue or Green or Pink?
was it level 1 or 2 or 3 or 9?
it’s completely out of my mind



where did I park my car?
I’m sure I left it here
on this level
just hours before


ah, there it is
that old boneshaker;
thanks mate, for helping me look
You were saying you want a lift –
yes, come - I'll drop you…no trouble…
yes, it’s just on the way…
Hey…Where you going?
What? Don’t want a lift?
You’d rather walk home?
Hey, what’s wrong with my car?
OK, suit yourself…
at least I found my faithful car…


where did I park my car?
it was Level 5, Yellow Sector
Lot 125
all the while
and that beauty was here each second
an old helpless dog, waiting for its master

Lol Failure

Too much time to change your mind on the way down. Plus your scared of heights

Bandages and shoe laces stop that ****. hide it with tattoos on the wrist

Too violent, big mess, GSW fail now a vegetable and someone's burden

A lynching? Quit it! KKK gets no favors

Peace and quiet in the car, garage door closed. Then your favorite song comes on. Took too long after all. Don't you drive a prius?

Like you don't know how to swim. Sharks don't live in lakes

Nissan, lexus, most new GMC all have auto detection braking. Get back on the side walk dummy.

Too high of a tolerance you druggy and every Corner has an ER. Now your on the list with diarrhea

Police knows the world is watching they'll pepper spray before they draw now. Now your blind and got your *** whipped with a. Night stick

Honey? Bears? Really?

Circuit breakers homie! Now you have soggy toast.
Smile and shovel the pastries maybe you'll get lucky and cholesterol will stop ya.

Insensitive? Yes,but none the less,
Guess That's my LOL Failure.
-Xin-

Just jumping in.
Everything comes to a halt.
The first few moments don't seem as bad.
Depending on length.
The line of cars.
In a sea of metal
Something wow happens.
Metal crashes into metal.
Causally passing by.
Everyone is okay.
Making sure to see what happened
They drop speed.
The police attempt to make it through to the scene.
Little to no debris.
No never-mind to the expensive cars brought to a halt.
The Mercedes Benz, the Porsche out of place slow moving along.
A Black Nissan Sentra with two kids playing in the backseat.
The other side is free to go as they please.
Compared to most places this is nothing.
Try New York. Atlanta. Texas to name a few.
You just jump in, moving from point A to B.
Life is admittedly too short to walk a great distance.
A two car pileup a few miles ahead.
Bumper to bumper no one gives space to breathe.
A Cadillac honks in frustration.
The Black Nissan honks back in attempt to get over.
Inching closer to maneuver it's way in front.
After everyone takes a glance at the pileup.
Traffic is back to normal.
The two kids continue to play like nothings happened

Engine died
The car is in the shop
It's been a week, still not fixed -
cannot afford a payment, so have to wait

Meantime, driving my brother's twenty-two year old antique -
a collectible - Nissan Sentra

Over forty miles an hour it starts to shake
and grumble under the strain,
so we go according to how it feels on
a given day

It's like driving a stick shift -
deep concentration, manual thrusts.
Hope no rain; sunroof leaks -
have to wear my rain gear

So quiet, yet so LOUD -
no radio ...
The sounds of the moving machine
keeps me wide awake, alert.
I can hear it squeak and groan.
Feel every pebble and crack on the pavement

No complaints - it's reliable, durable
Takes me where I need to go

Built of real steel -
very old - reliable

cold night in palo fierro

they say the world is ending
and it's twenty past
at home on the east coast
but i'm tucked away on the pacific
taking a quick walk
down the street
afraid to stay in the cold
too long
too cold
while that clock keeps ticking
i see something in the brush
a cat perhaps
a coyote
lord death himself
but he's gone before
i will ever know
and the breath hangs
in front of my face
before it disappears
as well
and the brake lights
of some passing
nissan altima
disappear
and so it seems it
all disappears
the world is ending they say
hope it's by fire
could really use it
in this binding cold
out on the west coast
time tick ticking toward some
inevitability
always stepping forward
to meet us
whether tomorrow
or two million tomorrows
what does it matter
they say the world is ending
not with a bang but
with a whimper
not with a bang but
with a whimper
the devils sang while
the angels whispered
the bodies hang while
the souls flickered
not with a bang but
with a whimper

that end won't come
quick enough

There are days where we meet up
To walk under cool crisp skies
Made up of indigoes, lilacs and light crimsons
Sunnier afternoons. Skimming to and fro
The slates of English Street. The plains of Sprucefield
Sprawling in front of us. Boulevards of Cookstown
That stretch far and wide, skirted with shops
Owned by unloved mannequins. We journey further
In our red Nissan Silvia, with the roll-down windows
With a pile of yellowed copies of the Beano in the back.
Mine, of course. I like to read. You taught me to.
Blur upon blur, we share whispers with each other
The alphabet, songs. I can count to ten, on my own. I did it once
In Marks & Spencer. Everyone was proud.
Taking our bag of tricks with us, we sup from place to place
Chicken nugget Happy Meals. Crumbs of a german biscuit.
Half of a sausage roll at the Trian. Twilight falls, the blurs
Become darker, curiouser. Soon I am home. The day is done.

There are other days where we meet up
Under a slightly greyer tinge. I laugh
I can’t change that, I tell you. The weather sometimes.
Less skimming, less journeying. Sometimes I’ll say
Remember that red Silvia? All the places we used to go?
But there’s no answer. The whispers have gone.

I couldn’t do for my mother what I did for my dog
By Samuel L Temple

Trip One
The phone rang soft, as it is want to do
answering it I found the quiet voice
of my dear mother. It was November
and a chill not only filled the air, but
also my very being shook with the new
information I was being given.
2013, yet another way
for me to hate Thanksgiving had begun.
It was only a few days after we
discovered my old lab had cancer too.

Falling to my knees I wept, but only
for a moment, I realized my wife
and I had already been researching
a cure. A brand new life was unfolding.
We had both the material and the
know-how to produce a new cancer cure.
His name was Rick Simpson and he was our
hero. Youtube and websites gave the news
and we watched eager and with bated breath.

Being an outdoor grower gives one the
access needed to produce large amounts,
being part of a co-op gave me the
ability to outsource all my needs.
A plan was made by the skin of my teeth,
and we set out trying to save mother
from the scourge that kills indiscriminate.
At the same time our old black lab, Jimmy
was losing weight and growing foot tumors;
we were embarking on a two-front fight.

It was chilly that late Fall afternoon
As we loaded the old Nissan pick-up
And headed down south to California
We left meds for the dog with our sonny
and loaded pounds, sealed, into blue crates,
filled the tank and bought some food for the trip
and said a silent prayer as we began
this epic journey to save moms life.
The sun shone through the clouds and I felt warmth
…would be a while before I felt again.

It was over two full mountain passes
when the fuel filter popped, leaving us stuck,
in Medford…a little cash but no car
my dear Auntie was the call we made first
and she, as always, wanted to help us
so she wired some dollars and we got
ourselves a rental Avenger that day
the journey recommenced and South we went
stopping briefly by the Bay for a friend
who donated pounds to the cause at hand

For another thousand miles we rode
one arm stretched South, and the other behind
we avenger-ed our way to the badlands
near Goat mountain, butted against a base
we found a small white oasis of love
inside, a frail, sickly, cancerous mom
wrapped in a blanket all smiles and pain
my dear sweet mother extended her hand
skin draped skeleton with liver spots bright
and hazel eyes shining with love for me

Small talk subsided and so we began
to encourage mother to look beyond
fifteen years, Narcotics Anonymous
and all the kool-aid she could ever drink
had so corrupted her processes that
she was unsure about starting a new cure
I tentatively brought out the product
handed one gelatin capsule over
and I watched her swallow pure cannabis
extracted with grain alcohol en masse'

Pounds of marijuana stuffed into pills…
“More than one whole gram ingested daily
and don’t you ever, ever miss a dose
you think you must take chemotherapy
so please just smoke after the appointments
be sure to get so much rest and don’t stop
try to eat and be a little active,
but rest is key to healing…and mother
these instructions are not for fun, you see
I honestly believe this can cure you”

We visited through the weekend and left
heading up the interstate to Oregon
hopeful and tired, we held hands and talked
inconsequential nothings passed chapped lips
as both of us rode home deep in new thoughts
thinking back to the grey shade of her skin
and the light that still shown strong in her eyes
I began to feel a pride in what
we were trying to do, and for her faith
that my mother placed in me that cool day.

Trip Two

I sat at the edge of my bed, thinking
we were about to take a winter drive
I had rented a nice 2012
Chevy Malibu, but there was no beach
only the forethought of desert sand dunes
and the ole military base fence line
mom’s pet coyotes would be at the trough
and her beautiful pits would be lounging
all I could do was softly pray for her
whispering under my breathe, let me see.

In vast style and comfort we headed
south again. Stopping at the Bay, again
getting product from my friend, yes, again
and driving down the I-5, cruise control.
Fast food and the ever watchful radar
were the order of the trip as miles
disappeared and the ribbon of road crept
beneath tires stretched to infinity
soon the Tehachapi’s gave way to sand
rocky desert with Joshua tree stands

The coolness of early winter did blow
sending particulates and shivers down
the arms and legs of my wife as we sat.
Looking at the small white cottage, hoping.
She came to the door with twenty more pounds
and the smile I remembered from my youth
she spoke of lower counts and feeling good
and increased appetite and acceptance
fifteen years, narcotics anonymous
and finally she could see for herself.

Marijuana had more to offer than her
than just ‘high’ to hide from reality
it was medicine, possibly the best
the world could offer. It blends perfectly,
with the endocannabinoid system
boosting the body’s ability for
fighting off cancer and disease. And now
there was a real chance at saving her.
Tears were shed as we all hugged and smiled,
kisses and proclamations of success.

We packed slowly that morning, feeling worn
Fifteen hundred miles lay before us
With Monday work looming after a long
Sunday drive. It was in Barstow that I
decided I wanted to show Tina,
Reno… so we took the 395
north, the Serria-Nevada’s loomed large.
Working within the constraints of time, we
seemed to be right on schedule, Reno
by four, and at home eight hours later,
it was about that time I noticed the
snow level was getting closer each mile.

It was in the early evening when first
they came; little specks of snow, delicate.
Softly falling on my clean windshield
This moment matched the snow along the road
reached our car, a sinking feeling began.
We drove easily over the first pass
Just a shade over 7000 feet high,
the snow,  falling faster, I heard a sob.
Glancing over I saw my wife huddled,
face to the car door, crying quietly.

Creeping in like a child wanting one
More drink

driving down the street
weaving through cars
and people and cars and people
the **** AC is broken
and the heat is oppressive
melting through reality
down to white lines
on asphalt
and all roads lead toward madness
windows down
the whole world
drags
and *****
in the summertime
some *******
speaks salvation through
tin can speakers
unexpected absolution
nineteen ninety-nine
for a limited time
and the heat makes it Christ
through the static
and the birds don’t sing
it's so **** hot
or maybe they just
want Christ too
the red nissan ahead
billowing with bumper stickers
and *******
brakes too fast
all these ******* people
all these ******* roads
and all roads lead toward madness
the whole world is in on it
sweating and spitting
suckling away at our high octane
addiction
3.69 a gallon
can you feel the buzz
Christ has left the airwaves
and now its life insurance
a happy guarantee
once your gone at least you’ll be
worth something
but probably nothing
on these roads toward madness
the trees bend under the weight
of the sun
stars explode
and no one notices
except the dead
staring forever upwards
and i’m almost there
almost there
men in black ties
woman with car seated children
screaming their own obscenities to the universe
kids blasting music to erase
their own depraved silence
the list of offenses
goes on and on
everyone on the road
got to be somewhere
got to do something
or else nowhere
nothing
with the sun bearing down
closer closer closer
burning our throats
tick ticking towards
that sold out salvation
act now or you’ll miss
1-800-holy-ghost
tick tick tick
the line is busy
the cars arent moving
the heat has gutted my soul
tick tick tick
the dead see it and maybe
the birds see it
but no one else sees it
tick tick tick
as we strugggle inches
down the street
so hot
so incredibly hot
stars explode
all roads lead toward madness
and its hot
Christ is gone again
all roads lead
Christ is gone
toward madness
gone.


tuez-les tous, dieu reconnaitra les siens

while taking coffee
in a particular place
******* on chocolate torte
slightly melted,
the lord of the manor,
reading.

grew a headache
from the stuff, too much
sweet , too much
information, all too true
to pattern.

so we dtrove home, and
got on with it.

nissan huts.

sbm

I saw my grandfather today,
He's been dead seven years.
His smell still lingers,
On his old jacket
that hangs in my mother's closet.
Sometimes, I take it
and breathe him in.

His voice, coarse in his
last few fighting days,
used to ring deeply.
I hear him sometimes,
whispers from the air.

I saw my grandfather today.
He was driving,
The same green Nissan
The one my mother now owns.
He had his favorite blue cap on
It hangs in my room,
one in a sea of many
that adorn my
dead-limbed coat hanger.

I saw him,
Same wide starry-eyed grin.
He used to smile like that
when he was racking
up a game of eight-ball
mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Skilled hands
that knew the game
And never lost.

He was there,
same "old spice and everything nice"
scent.
It reminds me of the summers
days winding into hours
I spent them all in the
cool, fan-whipped air
of his game room.
Our sanctuary.

Maybe you know
your own sorrow
when a loved one goes.
Maybe. You know
how memories feel
now that we are hollow
and alone.

8/8/16

i thought i lost this at the psych unit  
and now i wear it so i don't forget where i'm going and why i'm going there
so i'm not strung along the day-to-day of the metro suburbs in the nation's capital
where it's all hustle, bustle, or get out of my way
red line of blue line? silver or green?
somewhere in the masses
i am part of the chaos blurring past corporal company buildings and stockholders
the metallic blue nissan in a sea of teslas, porsches, BMWs
i won't throw around the cliché to "grow where i'm planted" but supposedly this is where i'm supposed to be for now
with no one left to impress but a fantasy
it's crazy what our minds will entertain
a year ago i was wandering on a godforsaken island and now i waste the days folding silverware
it's okay
and so am i

I
Squat, under a Viney-Maple,
    bursting with orange…
        the Fall Chanterelle.

        **II
Pine needles mound;
    perfect little rolling hills
         cover the forest floor,
Chanterelles are coming!

        III
Her eyes shine bright,
     the excitement of the hunt.
          Chanterelles!

        IV
Five buttons in the bottom of the bucket…

        V
Quick movement out of the corner
    of my eye;
       squirrels like Chanterelles too.

        VI
Buzzing becomes the only reality
   as another bees nest has been disturbed…
    There are many perils
        involved with Chanterelles.

        VII
Closed eyes bring forth
   images of fields,
     orange and extended,
        as there are more Chanterelles in this patch
            than anyone has ever seen.
A cold sweat follows.

        VIII
A blackbird sits high
   on a Fir limb,
      lookin’ like a muthafucker in the club,
          below him, a Chanterelle.

        IX
The scrambled eggs smell divine
     when one cooks them with a fresh Fall Chanterelle.

        X
I throw a steak knife
    with a barbeque brush duct taped
      to the handle
          into an old bucket I drilled holes in the bottom of
                and toss it into the back of my 1984 Nissan 4x4.
                          Today I find Chanterelles.

        XI
The smell of musk fills the air.
     A giant pile of bear ****
          next to a Chanterelle.

        XII
Three sets of tracks lead into the undergrowth,
     cut butts jut up from the floor,
         someone already found
               these Chanterelles.

        XIII
Stopping by a dear friends,
    I leave with them my treasure…
      three pounds of fresh
        Fall Chanterelles.