We have let go of our frantic lust
for the shiny metal in the Sacramento hills.
It was hard for my grandfather,
in coming west on horse and with wagon,
dragging a family across the pimpled skin
of the young land, to help John Sutter
build his new empire.
He then found that his dream of good land
for ranching was subverted with easy gold.

Grandfather’s first home on the bank of the river:
a tule hut, or grass hut, left behind by
Mi-wuk Indians, who wandered with
the elk and circulated with the
wonderment of passing stars;
no regard for what shined beneath them.

It’s in the luring poems and the stories that the
old California adventure comes back to us.
No one longer builds much with grass,
and cannot so easily pick out fortunes
by following the earth’s deep cracks.

Some would walk away from jobs and cities,
bulging packs strapped on shoulders,
and head up through the openings
and narrowings of the valleys,
and into the foothills of the Sierras.
Camp beside ****** trout holes
and dip into the riffled water
at the edge of perfect green mirrors:
to find what is precious and become
free from the cycle of the frantic lust.

It’s shattering,
the splintering Crunch
of greasy potato chips
between my greedy molars:
chips that taste like stale smoke
and the salty yellow Crunch
of the Mylar bag
that holds them closer
than a health-crazed mother holds her child.

It’s drowning my senses out,
the accountant-firm Crunch
of black coffee characters
beneath my crippled fingertips:
keystrokes that sigh like short fuses
and the riffled paper Crunch
of the overpriced notebook
that was sold to protect
them against non-quantum uncertainties.

It’s pointless,
the mortar and pestle Crunch
of sundried willpower
before my monolithic day-planner:
obligations that loom like thunderclouds
and the omni-present Crunch
of the rigid ticking deadline,
that has concocted its scheme
to unravel my pleasant net of silky procrastination.

I am trying to pick up a thin unforgiving object
with my over-sized,
disjointed creaking hands- again.
Plastered smooth,
flatly white and plain,
sharply contrasting the oaken ornate table beneath.
A pointed creation - filled from within by an impossibly pulled pin
n' covered simply
in slim thinly soft skin.
I want to tear it off
but my hands ache and cry out- soundless.
Time hasn't meaning anymore,
when you are gone and I am old.
Twice folded around inside,
the cocoon is layers of pressed arrested rough hewn life,
wanton against my finger tips,
that are bloated and gnarled with corroded bone
all angles
and absurdity.
Aged pages will be riffled raw by my papery epidermis,
squirming in earnest and fear of your leering senile words.
I want to tear it off but it holds like glue
And-
as I remember, you are beautiful
sold into sleep, bought in too deep
with twitching, itching delicious skin,
between golden strands that at times stand stiff with tension
caught hot underneath our bodies.

I choose not to remember as you are now
alone
in a crone crowded home.

The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout.
Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.
Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,
and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again.

The itsy bitsy spider riffled his cobweb off his legs.
Ripples of candor light hit the spider's neck.
Outside his nest was a rainbow glowing dark out,
and the itsy bitsy spider went up the water sprout.

The itsy bitsy spider left his home hungry for light.
Down came the night, cold and stark, miles from bright.
All sounds were of the insects that were preyed on silently,
and the itsy bitsy spider was lost to be

minutes to hours to years to some time in between

The itsy bitsy spider looked inside for a reason
Searching anxiously for himself, up to the ceiling of his prison
Careless and calculated he strikes his absence for any food
Water is relentless and pools up beyond his tiny boots

The itsy bitsy spider didn't long for a place to call his own
A shadow fills up his cup and the empty fills whatever's known
And Beyond all the drugs and alcohol and blood is hope
Sitting naively not making a sound to wake the sleeping rope

The itsy bitsy spider looked at his reflection
The scars were brought on some greedy loan, some false election
They didn't heal and his cold blood was still unborn
His body was broken, limbs disfigured and legs torn

but months of therapy self-reflection and positivity made his kind of whole

The itsy bitsy spider left his home hungry for beauty.
Down came the storm, forced the spider under a leaf
Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,
and the itsy bitsy spid....

The statement comes to mind frequently .......
And that is ......
"There is one thing that Elohim could not do  ......
He could not make a mistake.."
My response is that ,
"He could ,but he couldn't ,
And He did .......
When He created woman......
His mistake was .....
(Forgive me my Lord for saying this")
He didn't make enough of them! "
Heartfelt......
Felt like it was going to stop .....
(My heart that is)
She touched me ,
All my ......
Previous engagements got ..
trifled,
As I riffled through my
Coolest Lp's.......
Little scuured,
Cause she keeps  flipping her hair and looking at me weird,
Like I don't know if she's gonna  cry or something wrong with me?
Her smile, mischievous,
Her eyes pouty ,
Sleepy .
Wanting?
Needing?
                something? ......
Seems like yesterday she was calling me names and making fun of me.....
I'm looking around sorta
Half feeling like a young king while secretly looking  for Allen funt,
And the candid camera team.
And now for some reason
I'm impersonating
007 the great  Sean Connery.
The world fell away into the abyss........
I dimmed the lights ,
Every motion I made
ended with me running my fingers through my featherd hair and striking a pose     ......
Her voice had a distinct metallic like static as  if my brain fixated on each grain of sound
I remember a high pitched crackling silence after she
Crinkled her nose
giggled and said comeer.....
Gesturing me with her finger.....
I carefully lowered the needle  ...
Onto the spinning record.....
Lover boy ,
"Take me to the top"
What's a poor boy to do ?
Is this some form of witchcraft?
I'm not in control,.
Yet ....
Then again ..
I feel like
I am ...... Or ..
I feel like maybe she is causing me ,
Or allowing  me,
Or letting me,
feel like I am.....
What kind of Vudu did she do
To me
She sat up half way
Until or face almost touched ....
Rested on one elbow
On my pillow    ...
No less
I saw glistening in her eyes .....
She looked deeply into mine .
I realized this girl I've crushed on for sooooooooooo long .  .
Was mine ....
After some time
I came to realize ....
She wasn't mine at all ....
I was hers ......
Her fragrance was intoxicating ...
I was spellbound and levitating into culpable bliss   .......
Tilting her head her eyes closed ...
She reached toward my face ....
I flinched ....... She smiled and said ...... It's ok ........
Her lips ... So soft ...... Hit wet
With mine ...
I closed my eyes and ....
Then


FIN............
I knew ,
The Epiphone ,
Instantly , I could see ,
No more mystery
My future became ancient history


I know why the female hero
Is called the Heroine!
My first addiction,
Tell me have you seen her?
caviler .......... I exist on a regimen
Of crow and "told you so"
My love life looms luminescent
So far away and distant as I
Lay awake and ..........
Reminisce
I tell myself I know
I know

I put  myself in this paradigm

I picked out this choker
Betrothed myself to Karma ....
Haven't seen the light of day,
Trying to find myself ,
With all this time to wallow
After chasing that sweet first high
Ohhhh my my
My whole life ......
I guarantee with a violent passion if ......
No when I'm let free
Finished my sentence ..... And my love light shines again ....
I'm gonna be the best the world has ever seen
You'll see  ..........
Im just sayin Karma!.
Geese loosen up on the leash
Your choking me!

To travel light

I wish some shoes regulated
Themselves a and a suit always clean
(a film was made) also, underwear that
Didn’t need to be changed
How easy it will have been to travel.
A tiny holdall for shaving cream blades
Moreover, a toothbrush; come to think of it
No need to shave when travelling and
The toothbrush could be stuck in the suits
Breast pocket, hands-free taking pictures
Of wild elephants or polar bears.
Free to have your belonging riffled through
By a uniformed officer.
Travel in a plane have my polluted name
Written in the sky, drink a whisky-on the rocks
Also, trying to relax, aware your wife is
Travelling with five big suitcases.