The Camp Cooky’s singin again outa tune,
  about turnin 60 today around noon

"What good is there in it?" I hear him say,
  and it got me to thinkin . . . seein it was his birthday

It seems bein 60’s got two spins to that tale,
  one frittered and wrinkled, the other covered in shale

The one who’s 60 if truth be told,
  is still younger than all those 61—to real old

In the campfire’s crackle of light I can see,
  how everyone younger, is likely dumber than me

So if my hands struggle with the knots and riggin fer sure,
  the knowin and the tellin to those younger’s worth more

Havin outlived many a cow horse, while lovin them all,
  the awnry and skitterish, the short and the tall

The summers ridin drag, and the worst winters mendin fence,
  with a slicker full a holes, and that ol dog with no sense

And while the cuttin and the brandin seems boring to some,
  it’s the importance of their nature and gettin things done

When the hats and the spurs and even the saddles are all gone,
  and the sun sinks over that last mountain, like in Dusty’s ol song

I’ll remember the good times, lettin go of the bad,
  and think back on the pards and the ladies I’ve had

Because just like for Cooky, it happened last year to me,
  and turnin 60 seemed ranker than any bronc could ever be

But like that new Visalia saddle the boss man said was now mine,
  I've found somethin that’s different, somethin gentler and kind

The speed and the strength ain’t been traded for free,
  and somethin woke up that I guess was sleepin in me

And as I yell to the wrangler “Cut me one gentle and nice”
  without loosin too much pride I ask, “Can you help Ol Jim
  cinch his riggin real tight”

Then once more in the dark I ride off in search of the herd,
  singin that one favorite cow song every real hand has heard

And as I inch up on the lead steer whisperin mellow and low,
  “Yippee ki yay, Ol Fella; you ready to go”

For maybe one last time we push North thru the dark,
  the sun still two hours off to the right of our mark

While in the distance a wolf howls, as that lead steer catches my
  eye, and in that instant I know I’m still needed—a long ways
  from g’bye

(Dewey Montana: Circa 1990) Read In Elko Nevada, 1993

If you are lacking capital,
You won't show on the map at all,

You wont show on radar as little green blips,
If your bank account can't furnish means for a tip,
In a Washington  lobby, to fund a campaign, so
Now the youth have a future, in sutures and maimed,

By a financial beast, that just cannot be tamed, and
It's fed by the folks who are riggin' the game,
A small, opulent group of the fiscal insane,
The ones who observe them have given them names,

They're the "oligarchs," they're the "robber barons"
They're the "plutocrats," and they don't like sharin'
You can speak of reform, but they'll tell you to spare 'em, as
You watch, in bewilderment, grimaced and glarin,' as

They profit off health care, off oil stocks, and banks, and
Control public discourse, with PR  think tanks, cause
They own all the media, feedin ya lies, that
Are dressed up as facts,  in a clever  disguise, so

At propaganda, "take a proper gander," then
Stand and unite, as change demanders!

No...more...bickerin,
your eyes flickering you're nickering
your nit pickin' lost it quick as the Dickens
My tracks a hell of a kickin'
you're just the next feckin victim,
of the flow bound Hurricane of sense and rhythm,
The Sensemilla Sensei Kempei of verbal Kempo's home,
Like Alladin and Saladin mixed with a Party Boobytrap a Paladin of Palindrome...
The Storm rider glider blasts you through the  other side of the Thunderdome
My - Spitfire drips Ire as ******* ***** fire Surprise in your eyes quick blast from the past from a .50 Cal Microphone-
Fiend in me soul under control you failed your roll,
will check failed-I check wills,its a Checkmate mate you-best quill your will and will to build some soul
Its a dill of pickle you're in - you're a nickle worth of Nickleback stickleback sticklebricking best Lego
I let go last, I'm the Legolas of the fast pass in the underpass stick you fast now you're stuck fast I buck fast at your glass of Buckfast
the Truculent, ever vigilant-words are Succulent got you diggin' in
diggin' out a liddle bit of Lidl in a stolen digger,move quicker stop the friggin' in the riggin' little Pigpen Pigeons time to drop the bridge in...

Only the dead see the end and its peace
So I keep it like Middle East priests on the beat
No retreat, I delete any cottonmouth’s tweet
With that Northern aggression white phosphorous heat
The Taino elite sickle slash and burn grass
Social class bashin’ sarin gas critical mass
I got caskets on deck for your company’s tech
Cause these money machines elect more college debt
So forget it, don’t sweat it, I got you kids diggin’
The vibe that I’m givin’ off riggin’ your system
With victimless crimes and cold warrior rhymes
Blowin’ mines deep inside of your blood diamond minds
Lucy Sky, Apple pie, with a hint of My Lai
From an all seeing why where the who  goes to die?

Don’t. call me a poet for my words have yet to form .
Don’t you call me a friend for my friendships art like the weather .
Don’t call me kind as my kindness knows you best ,for  the love in you’re eyes knows no rest .

For you’re thoughts are my ruin gin palaces of a decedent death .
My ruin ?
My ruin is to see you’re tears falling like rain drops ,
like thunder clouds in June .

Don’t call me you’re lover for our love cries out in the night ,
a cold venear of beauty and grace,
where darkness finds no light .

Yet here we stand alone ,
together in June .

Oh Lincoln is flooded with you’re tears ,
and I’m put out by you’re fears .

Ballasts. have swept by you in open seas ,
Men held to you’re riggin ,
have been brought to their knees .


And when you said I love you I mounted my horse and
Galloped away .
Call me what you might ,
a King a prince a fool ,
but to love you forever knows no bounds ,
no words ,
no rules .

It’s simple out here
Not a care in the world
And the people subsist
On a lack of concern
For the first world successes
We think make it turn
So I learn to free presses
To truth unreported
And spray paint white privileges
Fortunes extorted
By fathers who founded
For-prophet empires
With whip-crackin’
Sword slashin’
Baptism fires
And miles of wires
To spread the transmission
The culture shockwave
Brain controlling submission
To try before buy it
To quiet the riot
Deny it, then feed us
That Maduro diet
Rewind it, play back
Stories always the same
Claimants staking the land
And then riggin’ the game
To in their favor write
A more masterful class
As our future remains
In the chains of the past

And winter gave it’s stormy blast ,
where’s sales were lost to their riggin masts ,
and souls were cast down upon the waves ,
never to be see. Or saved .

But as the sailor gripped his mast
his fingers now a mix of blood and grit  ,
for days without water or food  he went

Before the freezing waters lapped around his waste ,
and all he could hear were the cry’s of his men ,
begging for mercy before another wave swilled then again .

Forty days and nothing to drink ,
Forty days of rotting meat
Forty days a sailor ,
and all without Ezmerelda .

And they all  missed their wives and ******
or ***** who used to tie them
to the floor ,
but above all the women they loved the more ,
there was no one like Ezmerelda

And now the waters are all around ,
and our sailors fingers bleed as frost.bight  cuts off his fingers and toes ,
but all he ever thinks of his days with Ezmerelder .


and still he sings ,
Forty days with nothing to drink ,
Forty days of rotting meat
before the waters took him down

I sailed from tranquil waters to where the waters swell ,
with no compass to guide me .
alone in my sufferings for i knew them well .

For   my masts and riggin were being battered With every fleeting breath ,
from mast to stern I wandered this clipper ,
as my eyes sort no rest .

Then the sun lost its gaze as I drifted further out to sea ,
but  all I could see was a tempest within my soul ,
abating me .

O howling winds and shadows that hath taken me to this night ,
the stars spread out vast and broad were their sight .
with no rudder or compass I’m lost as the stars shone O .

Then I heard a voice much clearer than before ,
a one I loved so dearly ,
down below .
One like I had always heard before .
for my captain with helm knew where I had trod ,
his arms stretched out towards me not far from where I stood.
for This war within me and battles some I have fought and won ,
rage on within me to the glory of the setting sun .



For the seas are now  like mill ponds stretching out to distant lands,
and peaceful the silence against the prevailing shore ,
in this forever changing land .
For just  for now they are still ,
will they still haunt me to my grave ,
the mill ponds of silence or the forever rushing waves ?