there is a ****** on a street corner in a long white jacket
i have descended into a red velvet basement
i have kissed the new generation of buttocks, eyes & tender *******
there is a slow black river flowing under a soft gray bridge
and i have kissed the mist
mob of penguins hands out ecstasy
i slipped ******* into space needle
i cut a white line through puffy sky with a razor's edge
i rode a flaming bicycle through the center of your heart
1000 hands clap in simultaneous ******
i touched my finger to my forehead salute
i touched the hurricane with lighning bolt
i touched your revolution with intention
i touched your trembling hand with reassurance
i touched your shaking head with my soft wet heart

I picked him up on the highway because he really looked like he needed a ride
  he had never really even put out his thumb
But as he  climbed up into the cab of my pickup I could tell he was like a man dead inside
No light shining through his eyes as if there was no light down deep inside
I asked him where he was going to he said he didn't care one places the same as another..... all the same to him anymore
so I put the truck in gear and then just after a mile or two
I looked over to see he was asleep and slumped against the door

I lit the same cigarette that I'd been smoking the last three days
Turn the radio on low  and set it to the blues  to fit my mood
About three hundred miles of highway and suddenly I thought about my luck with strays
And a voice inside my head said " now you're getting a clue "
I tapped him on the shoulder but really just to verify
He never stirred an inch and no waking ruckus did he raise
I wondered as I took the next exit how long after getting in did he die

I found a deputy sheriff sitting a radar trap
And I told him what I had and how it came about
He stepped over to see for himself and I thought now here comes the crap
' But  as he turned back and stepped away from the trucks passenger door
He gave me a soulfull look  and asked where it was exactly that I had picked him up
Doesn't much matter really every body around knew the score.
" He was down at the bottom, long before any even had a chance to catch his fall!"
"BUT THERE WAS A TIME " the deputy said; as tears began flowing from his eyes,"   THAT MAN WAS A Tower and walked 10 feet tall"

Then stepping away  the deputy saying he needed to call the sheriff and coroner
I imagined a bit of that- probably -would  be to wipe eyes and compose himself.
He returned with a cup of coffee for me from a thermos named Big Marlene
He caught the smile I tried to suppress and knew,.
That's my wife's cooler and my daughter ...little Marlene.
She was 7 when she put that on there and said so NOONE would get us mixed up
You won't have no trouble here mister ( I said Dave) Okay Dave" We've all been expecting this for over 4 years now.

At one time he was our doctor and was a great doctor ,but he was one that could not be saved
it was the night the big parade pep rally and football playoffs ..one more game we would  clinched division ..everyone was so excited we could taste it
It was them on the way back from our victory over Hayes 10 cars were following honking their horns and making a grand return when that  bus  flipped..... rolling  over and into the river
It was Crazy. I was on duty so when I arrived on scene there was over 20 cars on the bridge  parked every which way, lights on lighting the bridge, dozen of people in the river- every where in the  the river ....we won the game and division  that nite ,but lost everything else to the river

I found Doc Wilson sitting on the bank talking to himself
Didn't know it then but he was not only wet cold and talking to himself ....he was dead .
We didn't know it for some time yet to come but  he was already dead ..just as dead as if someone had ...no as if he had put a bullet in his own head.

I don't think that the doc could even imagine what he could ever say to any of us.
And no way to know if he ever heard us as we tried over the years to get thru
We know it wasn't alcohol or drugs or excessive speed
But doc was driving so that was all the things he would need
Simply put it was an act of God and the sudden snap of tie rod ?

That's why I still carry the thermos all this time.
As I sat there listening ,I said all I could by nodding and shaking my head listening to the horrors of that night
When some triggering pain came over me and I knew I didn't want to hear
What he was getting ready to say

Now days every time I pass that exit ramp on the highway I hear those words
Yeah I lost both my wife and daughter that night ..I was on duty so they rode over on the team bus

A few hours later I was back on the hiway , only headed in the opposite direction
Yeah I was headed home and to my wife
No longer was business all that important to let it be the excuse
So it's possible to put off and avoid participation
I was a total **** to get mad and leave for a week while she gets to worry over it.

The deputy said all people that seem to be content to wallow within their own crap.....
......That just becomes weight
Should  remember what doc would say those times when he would and did .

" I am getting so tired of always carrying yesterday with me ...as I go on into tomorrow !".                         

Quote by" doc Wilson" Wilson  James Hall. Jr.

ARGUMENT.  Baile and Aillinn were lovers, but Aengus, the
Master of Love, wishing them to he happy in his own land
among the dead, told to each a story of the other's death, so
that their hearts were broken and they died.

I HARDLY hear the curlew cry,
1
About the time when Christ was born,
When the long wars for the White Horn
And the Brown Bull had not yet come,
Young Baile Honey Mouth, whom some
Called rather Baile Little-Land,
Rode out of Emain with a band
Of harpers and young men; and they
Imagined, as they struck the way
To many-pastured Muirthemne,
That all things fell out happily,
And there, for all that fools had said,
Baile and Aillinn would be wed.
They found an old man running there:
He had ragged long grass-coloured hair;
He had knees that stuck out of his hose;
He had puddle-water in his shoes;
He had half a cloak to keep him dry,
Although he had a squirrel's eye.
1
That runner said:  "I am from the south;
I run to Baile Honey-Mouth,
To tell him how the girl Aillinn
Rode from the country of her kin,
And old and young men rode with her:
For all that country had been astir
If anybody half as fair
Had chosen a husband anywhere
But where it could see her every day.
When they had ridden a little way
An old man caught the horse's head
With:  ""You must home again, and wed
With somebody in your own land.''
A young man cried and kissed her hand,
""O lady, wed with one of us'';
And when no face grew piteous
For any gentle thing she spake,
She fell and died of the heart-break.'
Because a lover's heart s worn out,
Being tumbled and blown about
By its own blind imagining,
And will believe that anything
That is bad enough to be true, is true,
Baile's heart was broken in two;
And he, being laid upon green boughs,
Was carried to the goodly house
Where the Hound of Uladh sat before
The brazen pillars of his door,
His face bowed low to weep the end
Of the harper's daughter and her friend
For athough years had passed away
He always wept them on that day,
For on that day they had been betrayed;
And now that Honey-Mouth is laid
Under a cairn of sleepy stone
Before his eyes, he has tears for none,
Although he is carrying stone, but two
For whom the cairn's but heaped anew.
1
Now had that old gaunt crafty one,
Gathering his cloak about him, mn
Where Aillinn rode with waiting-maids,
Who amid leafy lights and shades
Dreamed of the hands that would unlace
Their bodices in some dim place
When they had come to the matriage-bed,
And harpers, pacing with high head
As though their music were enough
To make the savage heart of love
Grow gentle without sorrowing,
Imagining and pondering
Heaven knows what calamity;
"Another's hurried off,' cried he,
"From heat and cold and wind and wave;
They have heaped the stones above his grave
In Muirthemne, and over it
In changeless Ogham letters writ --
Baile, that was of Rury's seed.
But the gods long ago decreed
No waiting-maid should ever spread
Baile and Aillinn's marriage-bed,
For they should clip and clip again
Where wild bees hive on the Great Plain.
Therefore it is but little news
That put this hurry in my shoes.'
Then seeing that he scarce had spoke
Before her love-worn heart had broke.
He ran and laughed until he came
To that high hill the herdsmen name
The Hill Seat of Laighen, because
Some god or king had made the laws
That held the land together there,
In old times among the clouds of the air.
That old man climbed; the day grew dim;
Two swans came flying up to him,
Linked by a gold chain each to each,
And with low murmuring laughing speech
Alighted on the windy grass.
They knew him:  his changed body was
Tall, proud and ruddy, and light wings
Were hovering over the harp-strings
That Edain, Midhir's wife, had wove
In the hid place, being crazed by love.
What shall I call them? fish that swim,
Scale rubbing scale where light is dim
By a broad water-lily leaf;
Or mice in the one wheaten sheaf
Forgotten at the threshing-place;
Or birds lost in the one clear space
Of morning light in a dim sky;
Or, it may be, the eyelids of one eye,
Or the door-pillars of one house,
Or two sweet blossoming apple-boughs
That have one shadow on the ground;
Or the two strings that made one sound
Where that wise harper's finger ran.
For this young girl and this young man
Have happiness without an end,
Because they have made so good a friend.
They know all wonders, for they pass
The towery gates of Gorias,
And Findrias and Falias,
And long-forgotten Murias,
Among the giant kings whose hoard,
Cauldron and spear and stone and sword,
Was robbed before earth gave the wheat;
Wandering from broken street to street
They come where some huge watcher is,
And tremble with their love and kiss.
They know undying things, for they
Wander where earth withers away,
Though nothing troubles the great streams
But light from the pale stars, and gleams
From the holy orchards, where there is none
But fruit that is of precious stone,
Or apples of the sun and moon.
What were our praise to them? They eat
Quiet's wild heart, like daily meat;
Who when night thickens are afloat
On dappled skins in a glass boat,
Far out under a windless sky;
While over them birds of Aengus fly,
And over the tiller and the prow,
And waving white wings to and fro
Awaken wanderings of light air
To stir their coverlet and their hair.
And poets found, old writers say,
A yew tree where his body lay;
But a wild apple hid the grass
With its sweet blossom where hers was,
And being in good heart, because
A better time had come again
After the deaths of many men,
And that long fighting at the ford,
They wrote on tablets of thin board,
Made of the apple and the yew,
All the love stories that they knew.
1

West of a mutilated day, wormwood salts are scattered for some wild-chinned Controllers on a high pinnacle with viva vox in the Mandrake, Vernarth's house of Orion:

Saint John the Apostle says the proverbial Psalm: “In the lofty Cage, Gregorian sylphs, with skillful gestures and mania for cheering, are graced for coming to the Way of the cheap and venerable souls that are made up of the bodies of the evil-born on their railing. , in quagmire of swallowing spittle where the cold winter is banished, to jump from the cold oriental, having to walk with the elbows, and with the daring screams of the Sylphs that shake themselves among the foggy and fleshy tangle with rags and fur cloths flying smoothly through the tops of the oak trees in smoke to purge for Vernarth! Gospel, gospel in the barn of the delicate humus was felt, and that it was refracted in the refined forest with philosophical sacred love. Lord, all of us who are because we are, are you Lord ..., all in my exercises of loving gaze, are channeled by the indexes of my thumb to the little finger at the bottom of the sea, and float again from the little finger to the bottom of the surface. Waving in the transience of the world and holding back, Father God thunder, this with laryngitis when he outlines himself with the vast earthly sight, he covers with his right hand, the phlegm of ***** that made him drive an empty tremor, in my lack of security he testified by singing thousands and millions of choirs at this auction. The first ring of the profile will be carried by Jesus light, rubbing his back with some eyelashes of a drunk beetle, while the beetle will collect water between its extensions that will wail real needs of every morning albi - rosaceous that will travel in a circle towards the auditory of the Last auctioned saying: "As I have not to be where I was and was ..., if at night my beloved morning row impulsively and goes against it so as not to stumble into the night ...". Each cut piece of the dermis will have to be auctioned, I had Faith and the screenplay, encapsulated and embedded in each hope of the ramshackle flock, the impiety-weary ogre needed to stow his empty viscera with the cloth of the celestial kingdom, which at auction was beginning to squeeze and vanish when regurgitating smoothies and disintegrated spaces of belonging of the devotees of Vernarth. The writing is signed with lupus, this Lucia emanated from the morning resentment of skin envy, and from the massif drenched in anarchy and city archeology, lying hesitantly ..., as if the forest gave it some indication of rebirth, under the shadow of twinkling doubt, from the high front where they were nuanced over the engendered banners of truth, elucidating the forbidden and true matrix.

Adelimpia, Vernarth's grandmother, was squatting cutting the drool from the dwarf tree that lost a forage, at around 6:30 p.m. on the 39.9th day of a supposed 14th month of another dimension, almost winding up in a tangled series of productive hesitations and rituals, taking her victorious chariot in Lent where the teacher without felt traction, weave sprinkles of forgiveness on her distributor, starting her shaft and not her running engine, she already knew herself as a commoner with the wake of a ship without knowing where to go. Those who did not see themselves more backward intrigued to be part of the central bar of the rocker of the nymphs in their stadium, with a yawning lip where no one was invited. Mega-watt snitches go to the sacristan, breaking speeds of intangible entities that abide by her law, as a sage vilified in her secular realm, even in nowhere, the atmospheric larynx hissed widening through the flakes of the auctioned field, Joshua leaping with her. Cranky black horse Equus, with his anthropomorphic hooves, accelerated with action that put him among the lost belongings of the plateau, whose east limited him to two half-quarters of each other, and two-thirds slowing the sunset from ruby to ruby, brightening in the shades of green and green. Vernarth  Bernardolipo's father swallowed crops, from whose movements were born out of place gestures of residence, parturient fairies appeared emerging at once, or perhaps not emerging, the afternoon crushes the unplayable sun, Hugh and Anne covered their supra orbital eye areas, more towards a hillside where thousands of repertoires were being knocked down, and copious tableware with caked sugar, which seemed to reduce the acoustics from the beginning in what seemed solidly to fade to postulate in new shades of the weary rubbed rainbow, like thousands of shades doing the times of zascandil  in a curled comb, re-sprouting certain storm deities in the natural bow of the wind entangled in each stratus, sprinkling on the hectares of Possessions, standard deeds, sales orders, mutual funds, bonds ... the coffers and the earthly decomposed. Before each onslaught, a highly dense fog arose, highly ignored, anti-critical, and more disparaging of amassing a high scarcity with a local, in his quintals of his last bread for the flock. Lashes that exceed the grammage, foliage from leaf to leaf, from today until tomorrow, in a traveling satyr of dry leaves, "The Sphincter of the World will need Purgative ...".

Marathon of poisonings,… Lord, you have looked me in the eye; with your boat I will follow you, to your privileged perspiring cinnamon dock with various vociferous songs. What fared more than seven zeros, now they will be eaten by rodents, Lord attend my prayers, the pink mast has been sailing at several knots from the north, and it is rapidly losing its polar location, between verbs never traveled or driven, I dared to show off that the path of the gospel in small distant fragments will abound in infinite space, only the one that predominates will glide over my forehead with an accumulation of everything seen and that today in this sale; where everyone you own and care for, like a baby in front of a dissimilar kinship of good adventure and progeny that will leave your hands. "  

Etréstles says: "Soft and mellifluous presumptions ..., where do I have to look if nothing is heard? What is proposed and permeates the law of possessing and not, perhaps the strap reaches an infinite house, where the sun breaks down ..., the spout of my minimal rebirth slowly turned it into my reoriented defined cell. My grandfather Joshua fertilizes the new sales every day with his hooves bandaged with hemp, the sebum stones since they were so are already spirited circles, the hand of the maker is being compared with his tactile sense, Kaitelka's lungs, full of phosphate residues and sulphated, for the first time they milk in medium drops on their udders, although saying and what they prefer to assert of a worthy Down! If it were not, for his regal model of cetacean ostentation, he would not be in the Horcondising taking from today, towards the end of the curtain in the regular blushes, to create the great detachment, so necessary for the pulsating plain and purge his master Vernarth . The night covers it with sulfur oceanic satin, with the spauto of its jet and a magical moving game. Everyone was distracted when she circled over the routines of well-magnetized charms. More than two subjects were deprived of their well-placed jaw, when the overtime ran not crossing in the entire field in which she lived. It was time to unmask the interveners, the boatswain of the alfalfa field had been eating almonds with oil from the sole of a Joshua bototo shoe, she folded her wings at halftime to take a modest breath, to resume weak paths, deprived of confidence and not. To know who they would obey and to whom they would yield the fruit of their old and stock market work in the garden. Chaos for them, light of Lights, for those affiliated with the ruler who is Joshua, who will live behind a makeshift Patagua tree, erecting  aquisus tents and the dogmas of tomorrow. The magnificent concessions in the Horcondising massif continued to fall precipitously; some rummaged through their accounting almanacs, distanced and squandered their exquisite profits. The stagecoach is moving away, and the barrels of water were scarce, the aroma and tastes of roasted beef comes out over the bushes, the stores sway in a naive wind of blooming daisies, the sales were coming against the owners themselves, the taste of the laughter degraded their own present absence, the paraphernalia of the little birds on the carpet of the mountain plateau were, they began to do mercy of the tip in the exposed beams, the hundred feet with calluses came down from the semi-incinerated poles. Nothing smelled of pride anymore, just the last shadow of Joshua's Chief Sheriff; Vinicius, who thinned out the spotlights of the semi-strongmen still trying to collect his heavy wealth, now that among clouds of heavy cargo they went to give him only one habit to try to fit his body, just to wear his outfit. They looked, looked and kept looking at his octogenarian tearful sapro- genito dream, where the first dream ends, and his exile begins. Vinicius, locks the door, and starts drinking mate tea; while screams of those bad jackals were heard fighting for their inherited evils, in manners of not conquering those who lose a dream of their patriarchal courting-love, under the shadow of the most powerful bush for the rest of their lives in groves. Crumbs come off the beards of Joshua, his galvanized knife cuts multiform slices, to feed everyone equally and continue the purge of Vernarth "

The most desolate deity came; he walked in full sun, shelled and unattached, full of elongated bridles and with haste in his eyes. But not in its strides, thousands of years passed, and it brushed with my lost zeal in the quarrels of the Argolica, in the salinized and rotten feces of Eurymedousa, with its snowy and tricolor feet, hooded with its goods! , therefore, unable to sustain its own air from its nasal socket, dropping it likes brave foam that fell in the fired distance. Bad cooked fruit, with the flavor of a sleeping cinnamon stick, mitigating in its kind balsam, frayed wind yielding 360 and so many more suns, before the last one that I carry on my limbs ends. The end of the End began, in the seven ends adorning my steps. The obscene deities came, with their rebuilding geo music, breaking endometriums of goddess’s mobs and their almost massacred Pillan Mapu, among thousands that were, thousands of nowhere they are ..., in a today already anesthetized. He lies in the stench of the corrugated floor, in the wooden handles and rods stacked on the floor gesturing; the god Pillan Mapuche, under a generic vault of sleep falls into lethargy on the faces, leaving his unintelligible hollow free; and its unbalanced environment, crossing the basaltic moraine that circulated one day from the placenta of the fatigued cemetery. Dreams in kilos everywhere of pressed ducks, with dense covering and grasses on the hooves of bucephalos, crucible, living trident and extraordinary flowers ***** in floating skirmish, with dosing globules, thirst that is born from the whiteness of the first day in confessional liberation, cell of white with a looted look, shields of osculation, like icy air that transpires his ninth life and that is born from his ninth death, splinted in the face of death that mutilates his fingers when crossing his genes of perfidious and monkish plot of a life bypass. I sing or I do not sing, I lack my throne from where I observe the glances with time and impudence, possessing everything behind the back of the macabre time in counter-steps of tender golden plague, in foreign skin growing on my right blanket, from so much passing lights with cracked night outings, walking towards me, between roads and between Monday nights with faces of long and sinuous unctuous branches, with great step and size. Now I have to draw the curtain, on light lying in the shadow of an opening scattered in warm beets. With sincerity ..., and mistake there is no will to germinate in them, I will be born without being with them, to be meaningless without them ..., and that it is above other absences, with great eloquent and numerical weight on absent.

They are still plastered, washed out and with the frizzy pigments of a parnassus Paradise, where it has been intervening over its bloodless headers. Joshua walks thousands of steps on with his Equus skull, like a meridian slipping off certain rods of decay. Thus they all floated in the cephalous porous airs, with great airs of Cain collapsing on Abel recomposed in reserves of a millennium that fell twisted and stunned, captivated by an ominous word. Sendal covered themselves in bandurrias that covered the melodious icebergs of exulting individuals and swollen with passion, with their rummaging and thunderous noises going along with their flowers to the sea dissipated. My paternal grandmother was delimited; she paraded from the openings with cough-covered mounds of the frozen volcano, growing reflective slits of dense gradation in the nervousness of the overhang and angry sighing heat, in all the vertiginous and venerable spirits numbed by the darkness of so many sorrows on their bluish heads. Eurymedousa, already ill-fated to continue in Rhodes, appeared on stilts and with agonizing lights and yielding to the crossbows of the centaurs gagged by the Beauties; they consisted of their seesaws before the agreement with the Master, who gave us her Hellenic manifestos, and no less to others. My uncle King Arthur carried news of the locked consonants of his string and with a riding crop for his steed, tangled in rows that tore his face into small abscesses on his face, which were superimposed on those capillaries of the sweat of Heaven. Blessed Lord, the knee had grafts of golden steel, the horns of the radio sol brego that were broken in its metaphysical pregnancy, and its food collector that had solid gold baths towards a tabernacle fussing through its mucous orifices of alfalfa with the a flavours of irradiated cattle . He paraded with his loving mount flying down his track and kept clueless, at times he ran so swiftly that he crossed evil omens with Joshua, he was seen as weak and white in insulting slanders, Tamayo; his friend, who was a Talamite native, followed him on horseback, his son rode the sheep every summer, passing wool of pure holy insignia of a healthy man.
Along the banks of the reeds, he came riding on a donkey, Edward my paternal uncle, the third of Adelimpia, came three steps before his donkey, and he counted three times before riding him with provisions for good waters, wrapped in an energetic fire of Saturday tobacco in his mouth in mourning, who lovingly watching over himself, looking at today towards a peak for his sheep, looking at them for a manger of borders and tiny hunching phrases of black song about legends of the offender, which tempted to show off invading their fields. He is to the right of his mother Adelimpia, and under the rib of his father Bernardolipo overflowing, giving sugar to the colt Dolly in the sunsets, bequeathing affection with syrup, and a thousand compliments in December of 9,900 AD, Joshua, I remained in shreds of pageantry and endless lives, I always said, my lady, here I bring you a peasant's soup in flower of primed twisted canvas, in this three-year period I must call them to dinner in past lands with sweet potatoes to eat and candlesticks of flying seeds, with eager candies of a crack and their thirsty mouths. Gentlemen, I am Edward, their son, I want to sleep in your arms, after escaping from my worst perfidious toothless bite that still hurts inside. After eating great cholesterols from all over the world, amidst the tools of my children I am, always putting a tobacco leaf caught in the scrawled pieces and in great coinciding strokes, in circles dancing to throw away the bad and broken places badly thought and done. When I get to the end I will cling to the Joshua habit and shout not to leave me alone in the middle of this world, without toasted flour, cheese and tobacco. I am not a malignant man, I am only like those of us who are far below, feeling footprints on my spine, and I do not tell my wife Molly, so that she does not lack chickpea flour for our children wrapped in regrets and ***** with hunger and light blue in goodness, like saints and media, but in the end with clear blue water in my glasses. I invite everyone to my table to dine on oceans and worlds of clear celestial light, because with this hand I break this piece; I am the Son of Adelimpia and the supplier. They brought me in anemone branches when the Lord's headache invaded him, when he felt nails in his hands, to the east of Eden, without steps or turgid edges and a rough runaway palfrey”

The Horcondising massif turned into a great mountain, Edward was in the limestone of some potters and followers of Joshua molding him, they began to bait the rope that merges the mountain range, with the valley at the foot of all the mapus, mud flowing from the monastic floods , here they polisonated in the stony atonement of each lamentable trunk. They say;… faramalla  demonion, would be with a Silfife facing the mass of the vital obstacle, with faded coffee fiber, smeared in wine and bread, with eternal vintage vine. Luccica, Vernarth's mother, tackles familiar corners, with anointed frames of fiction in irrational ergonomics…; in numerous steps that will reach your distinguished heart. An ocean of doubts has fallen due to the inheritance that has precarious injuries, of battered egos and scrubbed by undue ignorance. Mountain delusions and manias, which run through the fibrillated vigils of some soft ropes and their abundant bristles like the choppy of an echidna escaping as it tingles by my twisted temples ”. The Horcondising  tam tam modulates through its crater and its pale face of a perpetual cell. Towards the forgiveness of the primordial ones and the commiseration of the orb burying itself in creation, this sacred and over the pale Sudpichian region will rest, in the roots growling in capillaries of the carbonated earths and in its badly wounded footprints. Horcondising is in quarantine, the elevation of the constellations are hyperillusionible, they migrate Along with Albalalhue and Carnivorous, the succeeded nymph that extracts exudation from a flushed match in the palm of some ideas on rollers, higher up and on angular from other right angles. Toiling with her hands, and rubbing possessions with her mazote and her patronage full of rakes.

Etréstles says: “Beyond all metal of hatred of every god not heard, beyond all evil of timid hatred I have not heard. I hold the playful phrasing of Edenic song, which calls us in voices full of long journeys, especially on this day fading. Through the hollow, belts and picket rings breaking the timid lights of the last sunset.  Cardinals in envelopes of fragile strengths, mountains with borders and deposits in the last voluminous plagues on the mason's eye.  Binding themselves in a pile, with saffron nails in their ears, with moths that run through the unforgivable morphologies. Do not lose life, abandon all noisy fight in coalition with the uninhabited *** of coins, there are forty days left to say goodbye to the god Faramalla, who lies with closed tec, limps to his lost pupils, and the sky swirls over his day when nothing not fit for any drinkable air with light bulb. Horcodising loses millimeters within minutes and rising, towards harvests to harvests, they lose merged schedule of a time without a past, reviling themselves from a present of consanguineous evil with an abstinent future. Luccica; Vernarth's mother, she is a sylph dragged by the tempest moraines, being detached to a contemplation and intake of life. The membranes of the accordion burst, and between brittle passageways crying without union, succumb to the teachings of foolish fate, Luccica as a portion owes its origin to the sea, taking its physiognomic bark from a seal specimen of aqueous flattery, to frize it on a similar surface umlauts on the "u", with phosphorescent and indeclinable forges, making it a beautiful maternal nymph, like the beautiful female picking up a moon in her arms, clinging to a new hallucinatory satellite to engender. "Live and talk with your peer, her dazzling sneaks in and laughs at this prominent queen, to exhale on those who observe her."

End Ellipsis Chapter XXXI
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichian
Transversal Valley  the Ferments - Parapsychological Regression

© 2011 (by Jim Sularz)
(The true tale of Frank Eaton – “Pistol Pete”)

At the headwaters of the Red Woods branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of dry sunflowers flail.

In a grave, still stirs, is a father’s heart,
that beats now to avenge his death.
Six times, murdered by cold blooded killers,
six men branded for a son’s revenge ….

Rye whiskey and cards, they rode fast and hard,
the four Campseys and the Ferbers.
With malicious intent, they were all Hell bent
to commit a loving father’s ******.

When the gunsmoke had cleared, all their faces were seared,
in the bleeding soul of a grieving son.
Ain’t nothin’ worse, than a father’s curse,
to fill a boy with brimstone and Hell fire!

Young Eaton yearned and soon would learn,
the fine art of slinging lead.
Why, he could shoot the wings off a buzzin’ horsefly,
from twenty paces, lickety split!

Slightly crossed eyed, Frank had a hog-killin’ time,
at a Fort Gibson shootin’ match.
Upside down, straight-on and leanin’ backwards,
he out-shot every expert in pistol class.

By day’s end when the scores were tallied,
Frank meant to prove at that shootin’ meet.
That he would claim the name of the truest gun,
and they dubbed him - “Pistol Pete.”

In fact, Pistol Pete was half boy, half bloodhound,
a wild-cat with two 45’s strapped on.
In District Cooweescoowee - bar none,
he was the fastest shot around!

Pistol Pete knew his dreaded duty had now arrived,
to hunt down those who killed his Pa.
He vowed those varmints would never see,
a necktie party, a court of law.

Where a man is known by his buckskin totem,
in hallowed Cherokee land.
There, frontier justice and Native pride,
help deal a swift and heavy hand.

Pete was quick on the trail of a killer,
just south of Webber’s Falls.
Shannon Champsey was a cattle rustler,
a horse thief, and a scurvy dog!

Pete ponied up and held his shot,
to let Shannon first make a move.
The next time he’d blinked, would be Shannon’s last,
to Hell he’d make his home.

With snarlin’ teeth and spittin’ venom,
Pete struck fast like a rattlesnake.
Two bullets to the chest in rapid fire,
was Shannon’s last breath he’d partake.

Pete galloped away, hot on the next trail,
left Shannon there for a vulture's meal.
Notched his guns, below a moon chasing sun,
and one wound to his soul congealed.

There’s a saying out West, know by gunslingers best,
that’ll deep six you in a knotty pine casket.
One you should never forget, lest you end up stone dead,
“There’s always a man – just a shade faster.”

Doc Ferber was next to feel Pete’s hot lead,
“Fill your hand, you *******!”
With little remorse, Pete shot him clear off his horse,
left him gunned down in a shallow ditch.

After getting reports, Pete headed North,
to where John Ferber hunkered down.
A Missouri corner, in McDonald County,
filled with Bible thumpers in a sinner’s town.

Pete rode five hundred miles to shoot that snake,
with two notches, he welcomed a third.
He carried his cursed ball and chains,
to **** a man, he swore with words.

But John Ferber was plastered, and he didn’t quite master,
deuces wild, soiled doves and hard drinkin’.
Someone else would beat Pete, the day before they’d meet,
sending John slingin’ hash in Hell’s kitchen.

There’s a night rider without a father,
under a curse to settle a score.
In all, six murderous desperados,
Three men dead - now, three men more ….

Pistol Pete was now pushin’ seventeen,
just a young pup, but no tenderfoot.
With two men in the lead, he was quick on his steed,
to **** two brothers who killed his kin.

Pete rode up to their fence, with a friendly countenance,
spoke with Jonce Campsey, but asked for Jim.
“There’s a message from Doc, that you both need to hear,”
Pete readied his hands – both guns were cocked!

Pete continued in discourse, and got off his horse.
all the while in an act of pretense.
Jim came to the door and Pete read them the score,
and shot them both dead in self-defense.

With the help of the law, they verified Pete’s call,
then gathered any loot they found.
Laid Jim and Jonce out, in their rustic log house,
and burnt them both and the house to the ground.

Might have seemed kind of callous, but weren’t done in malice,
that those boys were burnt instead of swingin’.
They just sent them to Hell, sizzlin’ medium well,
besides, it “saved them a lot of diggin’.”

There was one man to go, he’d be the last to know,
that a hex is an awful thing.
That a young boy would grow, with a curse in tow,
to **** a man, was still a sin.

Pete garnered his will, with the best of his skills,
to take on the last of the Campsey brothers.
It would be three to one, Wiley and two paid guns,
Pete knew his odds were slim and he shuddered.

At nearly twenty-one, Pete knew he may have out-run,
his luck as the fastest gun.
This would be the ultimate test of his shootin’ finesse,
only a fool would stay to be outgunned.

But Pistol Pete weren’t no liver lilly,
and he loaded up his 45’s.
He rode into town with steely nerves,
maybe no one, would come out alive!

Pete knocked through that swingin’ bar-room door,
Wiley stood there with a possum eating grin.
He said, “Hey there kid, who the Hell are you?”
and Pete shouted, “Frank Eaton! You killed my kin!”

All four men drew quick, with guns a’ blazing,
Wiley got plugged first from two 45’s.
The bar-room crowd dispersed in a wild stampede,
everywhere, ricochetin’ slugs whizzed by!

When the shootin’ had stopped, there was just one man standin’
all four men got plugged, includin’ Pete.
But only a shot-up boy rode out of town that day,
and a Father’s curse, that played out complete –
was a bitter mistress to bury….

At the headwaters of the Red Woods Branch,
near a gentle ***** on a dusty trail.
On an iron gate, at the Twin Mounds cemetery,
a bouquet of morning glories flail.

In a grave, still deep, is a father’s heart,
that lays quiet in a peaceful sleep.
And six men dead, who now burn instead,
compliments of Pistol Pete!

Starlit lady read my strife
Tell me something of my life 
Tell me lady what's your theory
Draw a card to hear my query 

First I see a table setting 
Nine cups maybe at a wedding 
That oh so long ago had passed 
Since time went quickly, oh so fast

But those cups are upside down
Lady whispered with a frown
I see much effort has been sworn
A whisper of reward was torn 

Now there is a break in space 
Away from ruffles and the lace
Justice now prevails, the savior
Mental clarity in your favor 

Slashing at their every word
A queen you stand now with a sword
Standing tall and shining bright
Independent of their plight

Shackled in your mind I see
Five more cups scattered in glee
The past is clouding up your mind 
Those little thoughts you always find

And yet another sword shall lay 
Amung the cups in a display
Of a king so very fierce
Your body now his sword has pierced

Four fires lit, four branches broken 
Leaving wands now for a token 
Though broken wands matter not 
Apathy, my friend, cannot be fought.

She took a breath, her face contorted
Some issues you need rather sorted
Then I begged her to move on
Before night left and came the dawn

The queen has fallen from her throne *
Regret I now heard in her tone 
Eight swords have pierced her body so
She feels restricted and alone 

Though now I see a knight has rode
To the aid of your abode
To lay his sword down for your life
Offer An answer to your strife 

How I knew what she had meant
I slumped forward, my neck bent
Trying hard to hold back tears
Trying to hold back my fears

She did not know what he had said
How he got into my head
He is my friend, so very close 
He is the one I trust the most

He was kind and gentle in a way
Talking things I'd never meant to say 
He offered me a lovely future 
But without my love, it would be torture

Love me, not him!* He had pleaded
I told him not to be conceited
He told me it was not conceit 
But hung his head, in defeat

Think about your future, love
You're caged just like a palace dove
So long I want to see you soar
so long I need to hear you roar

You shine so brightly in my eyes 
To him, you're just another prize *
I love him not you, please understand
His heart then cracked inside my hand 

You're afraid,* the starlit lady spoke
Not of this knight, not of this bloke
But of title you'll inherit 
Drama queen that has no merit

She tapped her finger on the card
I know you think it's very hard 
The queen here tells me you are strong
Though you've picked up just a wand

So now a queen of sword no more
A knight of sword came to your door
A queen of wands is now your name 
A knight of wands is now your claim

The knight brings forward no solution
No ending and no resolution
Though this should be the very end
Conflict I see now is your friend

Starlit lady now has spoken 
I'd never felt so very broken 
*It doesn't seem you have a choice *
I could not seem to find my voice 

I picked the cards and set them straight 
Now all I had to do was wait
I found no answers to my plight
Nor a way to set it right

I put the deck into its case
And then I lifted up my face
To stare directly at the lady 
Who was now so quickly fading 

She faded back into my mind
I'd never felt so very blind
For the lady was replaced
By a reflection of my face

Sitting on the bench on a windy evening,
The bus schedule doesn’t seem right,
He hears neither smoke nor that funky horn,
He longs for that journey home.

This trip back home had to come,
He breathes a heavy sigh, exhausted,
The weary look and the blank face,
The ***** cap hides the grey lines,
The silver watch still shows the time,
Tonight, he goes home.

“Mama, she taught me all she can”
“She worked the fields and the mills”
His eyes lit up at the sound of the engine,
The bus comes around the corner,
Dusty windshield with a crack,
Tires that have rode a million miles,
That’s where he’s going today,
A million miles back home

He sits by the window,
A bag with his world in it,
A wallet with pennies for a ride,
A card for what he used to be,
An identity that never matched the world,
Lost and found, stamped on his forehead,
Sitting in the ‘Return to Sender’ pigeonhole

Days of joy seemed short-lived,
Nights by the road seemed cold,
The rain drenched and the sun burned,
He closes his eyes and wishes it would change,
Dreams of a cottage and a convertible,
How they seem to be at a distant

“Mama, I’m coming home”
“Home is where my head lays to sleep”
No more of loud bangs and broken walls
No more screams and cries of the broken-*****
“I’ve seen enough, Mama”
“Of this world and what it can be like”
The misery and disease,
The war and terror,
Decades of violence and they never seem to learn,
An eye for an eye makes this world go blind.

It’s hard to smile anymore,
Yet, he still tries to manage one every day,
No matter how difficult the day appears,
‘Cause he knew it would have been worse,
He would have been dead under all that rubble,
No pulse beating and no Sun to see shine tomorrow

He’s smiling although his heart aches,
He smiles although his cold inside,
“I’m smiling…and I’m coming home Mama”
“Back home, to your lovely bread and strawberry jam”
He nods of to sleep,
The dark and hardened lines visible on his face,
He longs for his journey back.

Vijaya Balan (2009)

I climb on a seafoam mattress, baby breath puke green and of the lyrics he scripts, they swim across your sea-like covers. He loves my lost mind as though the puzzle of me hummed to him as my thighs rode across his blanketed scene. I hated him and his laundry list of post-consumerism articles that he'd spout off one after the other. He checks me off like his last bought pair of socks and hung me from around his neck and so I bled like a wasted pen blemishes, down to the front seat of his pants. The stress of him rests in the nook of my shoulder blades and vibrates through to my chest. Blue dream and acidically-tinged hazes ripple against my reptilian skin and sheds me time and time again. I cannot grow old with you or young with you. We are alone an together, unmoving and polarizing. A few cool blue specks of light that never change but appear to mean to. We are in lust and stagnantly so, we will never grow. I climb on a sea of green and wade into the late night streamings, the abyss of you.

Hippity hippity hobo hopped a train in mobo, whilst mobo and toe-do flowdoed  down dits bitsy mountain. She-ha and he-haw hast rode bikes to sleetah where burritos were bandits and bandista's on barnyard fence. Smoky and choky were high on mangozee and tis they loved posies of the same tilling field. Geuber and Gruber maketh infants as scoopers whilst dust is their slooper,
Slippery dipsy dask.. . uncle tis and Mrs tas. Tadpole Bennie, neon jenny, Mike and shunny.. Bunnies of two..honey's of few. Crick-crackle pop the hobo didst hop, as I caught him, as he fell, he bumped  his head and yelled...( Hobo forever)
As I smiled to his passions...

His words left his mouth. 
And rode against the walls,
like beams of light, straddling and clinging the cold wood of the room
Trying to run as fast as they could away from him.
The stale air penetrated the door, and his words found their exit.
They soared across mountains,
passing through skin and bone
the words ebb with wind
and flow with cloud
and slowly mold themselves into
melodies, then symphonies
agreements, then arguments.
The gleam from a sleepy sun, gave the words something amazing
They gave them texture, they gave it breath.And now a simple three words had become
everything that mattered
They became a being.
hurting, then healing
whenever it chose.
And he never would have guessed
 that love would travel that far.

We want things to be easy
I look back on time and wonder
How could they be so strong
While we carry signs and grumble?

The world is a museum of invention
Yet we grow weaker each day
We have built our shelter
But our minds have gone astray

Once upon a time
A man looked to the West
He only needed freedom
And without he could never rest

His spirit arrived before him
With its silent call of courage
He never worried about time
In dust his dreams would forage

He didn’t know the words
Entitlement or welfare state
He had a horse and wagon
In the back rode his fate

He broke the hour glass
And kept moving on
No pause for help
Only his word to rely upon

No comfort in the cold
Or parsing words of nuance
Instead they tilled the land
And became men of renaissance

The pictures of old wise men
And words without a face
I wonder if they would laugh
At the state of the human race

A story teller of the past
Who lives on as we complain
An odd looking sort
By the name of Twain

Another painted a ceiling
While laying on his back
For years he toiled
With the artistry we lack

These are my heroes
Not a man screaming in the streets
Demanding more leisure
He is no better than the elites

They lived apart in distance and time
With years between shared utterances
They lived without going viral
Only hoping for history’s remembrances

As grown men show you their palms
Demanding them to be filled with coin
Every result to be guaranteed
The fruits of another to be purloined

Can you see what has happened?
Can you see the rising tide?
No man who makes demands
Can ever be denied

A politician’s waste
In the name of a good deed
Today we fired another
Tell me… where will it lead?

The escalator of despair
Was waiting with her normal nonchalance stare
Her teeth constantly in motion
Offering the tip of a landscape below
A place of not knowing, not a place one is keen to go

I stepped on her teeth with huge trepidation
Leaving behind what was once was a friendly station

I rode the escalators down to this place
Reading posters, signs of things that
Were going to take place
Theatre, drama, the musical of my life
A pantomime made of my own strive

I followed the tunnels deeper they fell
Marking out pathways and other people’s  roads to hell

I found myself on a platform
Cold and Bleak
I looked around me in the hope
Of finding someone to whom I could speak

But I found no map of the line I was attending
Instead just a blankness and huge hole, darkness and fright
That looked unending
Looking for direction, for the interchanges that my destination
Was depending.

I could hear the sound of the train approaching
I could feel vibrations and and see rats encroaching
Encroaching on my light now lost, glimpses of my life beginning to rot

Don’t dance over the yellow line they said, stand back
For the train approaching is just ahead
Its lights dancing on the tunnels walls
Announcing its arrival, big not small

The noise is deafening, screeching and loud
The voice of my own despair now hidden in its vacuous cloud

A smashing sound as it brakes through
The blackness into light speeding through
Hugging the platform really tight
Reducing space so as passengers can alight

Doors part open and people descend
On to a platform that appears to have no end
This is not a place to stand still
The body of people is a perfume despair wants to distill

So move down the platform and keep shuffling along
Belongings of your heart held tight moving to the  rhythm of the throng

So I enter the carriage quickly and sit
Next to a man clutching his pit
The pit that comes to close to me
Smells rank and ****** and full of hypocrisy


Off into a place that is forever dark
Momentary fireworks the only sparks
That give you a glimpse of another line
A line perhaps to happiness or somewhere else sublime

Out of nowhere a train caresses, moves so close
and  brings aboard  a message

For other people are traveling too
To places that were not on their list of ‘to do’’
Riding parallel down darkened tunnels
Moving to their own rhythm, humming their own song
Rocked by a train, speeding hastily along
Turning a corner and now that train is gone

So we are not alone on the darkest rides that we take
We are not alone on the escalators that we think I taking us to meet our fate
For we all have a choice an opportunity to ride
Alone or with travelers by our side

Since fifty-eight
the jaycees come
rounding up rattlers
in Sweetwater, folk from all over
for a weekend in March
when snakes leave the hibernaculum
and slide back up
into west Texas and the wind.

Mr. Herrera knew his Luis and I
rode the seven-thirty bus,
had cokes and potato chip sandwiches
with Mitchell and Thomas
after Sunday school,
shot jackrabbits that ate alfalfa
in the dairy pastures.

Dad said he reckoned,
so I took Mr. Herrera’s apron
and offer and brought my knife
that Luis sharpened to a razor
and shaved his forearm hairs with.  
Frank tried that once,
sliced himself like a tomato
when he slipped.

Snake shop’s a butchery,
down the main street
past the dairy mart
and primary school,
in the yellow open scrub.  
If buzzards had noses like dogs
they’d flock, smell that
snake blood from Mexico.

Rattlesnake skinning
is all stringy guts, soft skin,
pulled teeth and poison
squeezed out of gum sockets
like milk from an old cow’s ****.  
Fancy skins with eyeholes
and lips cost ten,
specialty of Mr. Herrera.
Headless strip plus rattle
just two dollars the foot.
Cut the belly lengthwise
and rip,
easy near the backbone
where it catches.  

Out-of-towners buy anything.
Wallets, boots, belts with snakeskin
sewed or tacked on,
lucky rattles, picture frames
for proof of their longest catch.  
God-fearing jaycees doing good
for our communities will eat
deep-fried snake meat,
like tough old chicken,
but good with black-eyed peas
and sweet tea on the side.  

The women even come
once the round-up is done,
the church women, the Jesus women
with belief
and pistachio pudding
with marshmallows,
like Mrs. Howard
who shrieked “Boyd!”
and lectured about hygiene
when she saw me in my apron
and ****** to my elbows,
menacing the street.  

The biggest round-up days
we worked late, past midnight.
Past the dairy mart hours,
so once the skins
were all peeled and stretched
and the sticky linoleum
hosed down some,
Luis and I walked back through town,
deserted, dark





except lights from Roscoe and Roby
and even big Abilene
miles away, shining
across the flat nothing,
coyotes yip yip yipping
somewhere near the lake farther north.

Luis showed me how to eat peanuts
shells and all
and let me try on his brother’s
high school letter jacket.  
Late night in Sweetwater is a nothing.  
The wind never stops blowing,
and there’s nobody else
on the ******* planet.

GOOD Father John O'Hart
In penal days rode out
To a Shoneen who had free lands
And his own snipe and trout.
In trust took he John's lands;
Sleiveens were all his race;
And he gave them as dowers to his daughters.
And they married beyond their place.
But Father John went up,
And Father John went down;
And he wore small holes in his Shoes,
And he wore large holes in his gown.
All loved him, only the shoneen,
Whom the devils have by the hair,
From the wives, and the cats, and the children,
To the birds in the white of the air.
The birds, for he opened their cages
As he went up and down;
And he said with a smile, "Have peace now';
And he went his way with a frown.
But if when anyone died
Came keeners hoarser than rooks,
He bade them give over their keening;
For he was a man of books.
And these were the works of John,
When, weeping score by score,
People came into Colooney;
For he'd died at ninety-four.
There was no human keening;
The birds from Knocknarea
And the world round Knocknashee
Came keening in that day.
The young birds and old birds
Came flying, heavy and sad;
Keening in from Tiraragh,
Keening from Ballinafad;
Keening from Inishmurray.
Nor stayed for bite or sup;
This way were all reproved
Who dig old customs up.

Once upon a time
There was a tiny baby girl
And her parents loved her
And they loved each other
And they dressed her all in pink
And hugged and kissed her all the time
And she had everything she wanted and more

Once upon a time
There was a little girl
With big brown eyes
That everyone admired
And her mother loved her
But her parents didn't love each other anymore
And her father went away
And didn't speak to her anymore.
That was the year she got a new daddy
One who didn't stay out drinking
Or yell at her mommy
And he loved her
And let her wear his cowboy hat.
And her mommy and her new daddy loved each other
And they told her she was going to be a big sister.

Once upon a time
There was a little girl
With hair all cut short
Even though she cried and cried
Because she liked her long hair
And that was the year that her baby brother was born
But he only lived for 2 weeks
And her parents still loved each other
But her mother was sad
And her father was angry
And she was lonely
So they got 2 cats
And her nightmares stopped
And they moved away.

Once upon a time
There was a girl
Just starting high school
And getting noticed for the first time
That was the year a boy on her swim team
Gave her a ride to practice
But took advantage of her before they got there
And she was too ashamed to admit she didn't want to
So she took the fall for it
And her mother slapped her when she found out
And she thought it would be a good idea
To slice herself open
And bleed her pain out
And she had to go to the hospital
Where they stitched her up
And sent her to a counselor
Who listened but didn't really care
And her parents still loved each other
But she started to wonder how much they really loved her
And she had a new little brother
Who adored her
And so she just focused on him
And her grades
So she could get away.

Once upon a time
There was a girl
On her own for the first time in her life
Determined to find herself in college
Determined to be the person she could never be back home
That was the year that she became desperate for love
Desperate for a reason to keep going
Because she was tired
And she gave herself away
Time and time again
Hoping maybe someone could love her
But no one could
And she got pregnant
And had to move back home to her parents
After the father of her child
Tried to pressure her into getting an abortion
Even after she told him she couldn't live with it
And she took a bottle of sleeping pills
So she wouldn't have to live without her baby
But she and her baby were both fine
And she had a tiny baby girl of her own
Who needed her completely
And she finally had a reason to keep going.

Once upon a time
There was a girl
Who fell in love
And he loved her too
And he bought her a ring
And promised to marry her
And love her daughter as his own
And that was the year she learned that people lie
And the man she loved hurt her
And screamed at her
And made her believe that it was her fault
But she loved him
So she stayed
And he decided he didn't want to marry her after all
And he tried to **** her when he caught her packing
So she took her daughter and left
Even though she still loved him.

Once upon a time
There was a girl
Who got kicked out of her house
And she had no job
And no place to live
And her parents watched her daughter for her during the week
So that she could get on her feet again
And her friend let her stay with her
But her daughter started to confuse her with her parents
And she noticed how much better off she was with them
And she began to wonder if she was losing her
That was the year she felt her reason to keep going
Start to slip away.
That was the year she did despicable things for money
So she could provide for her daughter
And she realized how alone she really was
And the knife became her best friend once again
And she turned to drugs and alcohol to numb the pain
And she realized that she had only ever been good for one thing
But that apparently she wasn't even enough at that.

Once upon a time
There was a girl
But she was really more of a shell
Completely empty inside
So she filled herself with pills and *****
Kissed the beautiful baby girl goodbye for the last time
As the baby girl rode off with her parents
And she went into her bedroom
And finally
She gave up.

I don't know the date, but I was seven or eight
When we moved from the Midwest plains
To the Cascade Range, where the foothills boast
Tall mountains, like Shuksan.

We found a home out there, amidst fresh mountain air,
Where pine forests never end,
In a western land, with a vista grand,
Where the clouds and the mountains blend.

Its deceptive skies fill your mind with lies.
The horizon seems to flow.
Your eyes can't tell the ocean's swell
From the clouds, or the mountain snow.

We traveled out west on my mother's quest
To leave our city life of ease.
She believed in her heart, that with a brand new start
She might heal her from her dread disease.

She sought cleaner air, because her lungs were frail,
With disease, which soon would **** her.
And we rode a train you will know by name;
It was the mighty Empire Builder.

The scenes I saw from the railroad car
Filled my heart with boyish wonder.
I saw wolves and elk and mountain goats,
As I rode those wheels of thunder.

I was nearly asleep as we reached a peak
At a place that's call Gold Basin.
But when our Porter spoke I became alert
To a marvelous revelation.

There's an eight-mile tunnel that goes through the heart
Of a mountain of solid stone,
Which he wanted me to witness for my own self;
It's a sight some have never known.

Porter came back around when we stopped at a town,
Where he said we would stay until nine.
So, should we leave the train, to hurry back again,
Or we'd Risk getting left behind.

I stayed on the train, seeing nothing gained,
With only ten minutes to roam.
There was mom and me, and my sister Sharee',
But My brother went off all alone!

Why Danny left the train is still not plain;
I guess he wanted to scout things out.
He was in a shop filled with souvenirs
When they gave the "All aboard!" shout.

But my brother, Dan, never heard a thing,
He was awed with rich emotion.
His mind was filled with strange new sights,
Not the sound of a train in motion.

When we saw him from from the dining car--
Mother called to pull the brake chain.
Some folks took bets that a boy of ten
Could never out-run a train.

Have you ever felt fear like a winter's chill
On a dog-day's summer night?
Have you lost all hope, knew you couldn't cope,
In the face of terrible fright?

Have your knees ever swayed in a rubbery way?
Have you paled, thinking all's in vain?
Then you'll know about the fright a boy felt that night,
When he raced to catch a train.

Danny nearly fell, but he ran quite well
As he sprinted for the gate
Of the train's caboose, where conductors roost.
They pulled him in like he had no weight.

I was proud that day when folks had to pay
Money lost, when they bet on the train.
Because my brother had won his race against time,
While I basked in the glow of his fame.

And I bask today in a similar way,
When my world gets out of kilter.
I remember how a boy once raced a train,
And beat the mighty Empire builder.

You’re sort of everything I could hope for
with a beard of decades and faded tattoos,
like you’ve seen too much sun and rode
a motorcycle too long.

I have this hearsay that says you were a
traveling man who traded your
friendship and your charisma.
(I know nothing firsthand.)

I was a girl once and thought you were
searching for something until I realized
no one ever actually said as much. Just that
you went from here to there and sometimes back.

I wish you could have been seldom rather
than absent. Or maybe rare but at least felt
the pull of my heart enough to pause.
I don’t remember the sound of your voice.

“Did I hesitate a moment? Did I stop and wonder why?
We were ordered to attack from some blunderer up high.
We were all, I think, afraid. Who wouldn’t be right then?
Those Russians were entrenched and had artillery with them.
We must have looked magnificent on our chargers riding high
As we rode for God and Country, we knew Death was standing by.
I saw my brother Henry die and more brave lads besides.
We dressed the line and galloped on, We who were about to die.
My horse was shot from under me and that threw me to the sod.
The battle sounded distant and my left arm felt quite odd.
Some Shrapnel cut my face and thigh, but I saw many worse.
Some men called for their mothers, others raged and cursed.
Our gallant charge was broken by effective cannon fire.
There were many horses riderless like the one that I acquired.
When I got back behind our lines, I thanked my equine friend.
Then I realized he’d been Henry’s mount when this travesty began.
I’m sure there will be an inquiry into how this was misplayed.
It is then I’ll tell my tale about our murdered light brigade.”

Children all see magic
You can see it in their eyes
Only little children see
Reindeer flying in the skies

A dragonfly, a lightning bug
No, a fairy ...can't you see
Through the eyes of a small child
What will be you know will be

Beneath the tallest mountains
In the glades and in the streams
There is magic that is hidden
And  magic makes the dreams

We know that wild ponies
Are all unicorns at rest
Their secret must stay hidden
And children hide it best

They're protected by the magic
By the fairies , just for one
The ponies live forever
Their job is never done

The magic shared by Santa
Is found on  fairy wings
It can be used when it's not Christmas
But, just for special things

A little girl name Sarah
Saw the fairies dance one night
She crept out her bedroom
To watch the fairy's  light

Everyone was sleeping
When little Sarah shut the door
She crossed the road in darkness
The girl was only four

She looked out at the darkness
Saw the fairies dancing 'round
Then into the woods she wandered
And she never made a sound

She walked toward the fairies
Always keeping them in sight
But the fairies didn't notice
As they danced away the night

She stopped, and watched them dancing
And she started dancing too
It was then it started snowing
What would Sarah do?

She turned back to the pathway
But, she was turned around
She tripped upon a tree root
And she tumbled to the ground

The fairies heard her falling
They all hid deep in the trees
Now, somewhere in the darkness
Sarah rose up on her knees

She looked around and wondered
Will I get back to my house?
The forest was dead quiet
You could not even hear a mouse

She cried and then remembered
What her parents always said
And if she didn't follow
She'd be home safe in her bed

Her parents said "Dear Sarah"
"When the fairies dance at night"
"Stay and watch them from the window"
"don't dare follow fairy light"

Sarah now grew tired
And soon she fell asleep
And into Sarah's resting head
Dreams did start to creep

She dreamed of Christmas Ponies
Her parents, winter snow
Santa Claus and puppies
And the direction she must go

She woke and looked about her
No tracks where fairies stepped
Grass and leaves, a blanket
were placed upon her while she slept

Standing right before her
As white as winter snow
Was a secret Christmas pony
Surrounded by a golden glow

He moved forward toward Sarah
Put his head down as she stood
She knew then that this pony
Would help her get home from this wood

She knew he was a Christmas Pony
Though his horn was not in sight
The fairies helped her climb aboard him
And walked them off into the night

The woods were lit by fairy magic
The trees glowed bright as if midday
The pony walked slow with Sarah riding
They met more ponies on the way

For near an hour they did venture
Until they reached the roadside wall
The pony stopped and she dismounted
The fairies helped, so she'd not fall

She climbed the wall and left the pony
The fairies and the woods behind
She went on in, and moved so silent
Not quite sure what she would find

The house was dark as Sarah entered
Her parents were still fast asleep
She knew that they would not believe her
So to her room, she did creep

In the morning, after breakfast
She went on out to have a look
All she saw was trees and grasses
And in the distance, the small brook

Time passed by, her secret hidden
She never told a single soul
But, every night she dreamed of ponies
And of the one she rode with eyes of coal

Christmas now was fast approaching
Every night she'd watch the wood
She never left and went out walking
She always stayed home like she should

On Christmas Eve as she was sleeping
A vision came into her head
Sarah woke, went to the window
Left the warmth of her nice bed

There outside, beside the road wall
Standing, watching in the night
She saw three transformed Christmas Ponies
Their horns were lit by fairy light

The fairies danced among the tree limbs
The ponies played and jumped around
They looked up where our Sarah smiled
Fairy dancing with no sound

A flash of light and they all vanished
The time had come for them to go
The fairies flew into the woodland
And left one pony, white as snow

Sarah looked down from her window
And watched the pony turn to leave
She knew the reason that she saw him
Was that deep down, she did believe

So, if you look for Christmas Ponies
You will find them if you look
Believe they're real and you will see them
They're everywhere...not just in  a book.

After the last bombing,
boys crowded me like vultures, trying to ****
the last good bit of me out and use it
to revive their own secret pride, make it a little sweeter.
They absorbed the sun-rays from my skin,
drank my kisses in like the final drop from the canteen.
But you showed up, a mirage in khakis and a clean shirt
with hair melted gold and a pressed button-down,
and I pulled you like an afterthought
through the membranes of protection
I made for myself. I caved.
I let myself fall through the reassurances, the promises
of never allowing myself to feel
that sentimental over a night spent sleeping,
your touch like little electric shocks tickling
my skin as you breathed relaxation into my ears
and memorized the ***** of my stomach into my hip.
I climbed through the covers and opened my mouth
as my heart bloomed over you. I guess,

I'm a little dried out. I guess,
since there hasn't been a single call,
that you've noticed how badly shaped I am and how
unsound my actions may be. But, baby,
I meant every thank you, every smile, every little
spotted kiss on your collarbone. And if I have to

I guess I can forget you. Tie myself to my footsteps
as I trace the cracks back to the sand you found me lying in
when you rode my hope like the sun
and proved that maybe the pain has only just begun.

This poem is a story about me. I'm writing it at 4:30 AM because I can't sleep and it's better than smoking cigarettes.

I'm 19. Male, half korean, half American mutt. For some reason, I have this photographic memory. I remember too things like they just happened yesterday. I get flashbacks to events I shouldn't remember. Things I shouldn't think about. Other memories never get past the tip of my tongue. I have PTSD with the dumbest triggers you could imagine. I live every day on the edge with pent-up feelings even though I tell people I do not feel. It's hard to make me laugh, and it's hard to make me cry, and I feel awfully lonely.

I remember elementary school. Age 5... I'll remember the first day I rode a school bus for the rest of my life. I think at least 8 kids asked me if I was Chinese on my walk to the back, and some disgustingly fat kid across the aisle was begging people for paper scraps to shoot spitballs at "the *****". The next 13 years weren't much easier than that day. As I grew up, I found it necessary to grow my wit. I disguised my sorry feelings behind clever jokes while people began to like me. I made some friends, but I felt so alone. I always felt like nobody liked me when it was probably only me that didn't like me.

Senior year of high school, I fell in love with a girl, and this is a really long story too except that I can sum it up that I just ruined her life and now she won't talk to me. But she was the sunrise to what had been a dark, dark life. She was my safety and my warmth. It wasn't about how cute she was or what she looked like. I fell in love with the person inside of her. We did some stupid things, disobeyed her parents. Her parents then damaged me for loving her... and I made mistakes I'll forever regret. I never meant to hurt her, but ... Everything I did to her - and what she's done to me, the guilt I put on myself before she ever left and the pain that she brought on me after she did... I cried to myself for 200 straight days and even though my friends have picked me up, it still makes me feel like the most pathetic being on this planet and I'm sure just like she knows now not to waste any her time on a waste of human life, that was nothing without her.

adolescent my sorrow made me taller.  I could fold my ears without effort into the backs of my knees when I sat the unchaired ground.  

when we walked, sister she rode a worried duck.  we stilled ourselves on many an odd bridge;  pray, such pairs, that below any bridge passes the conscious river of horsehead and mudhoof.      

it was hard to tell what came first;  the duck or its worry.  hard to tell its not broken neck from its broken.  

the minute my sister and I were orphaned seemed an hour.  our mothers dropped easily into the same bottomless pail.  when we walk now, we listen.  my unmatched sorrow parallel to her mother’s appetite.  

I tend the bad back of a gravestone.  a broken tooth in dust-bleached shortgrass.  sister’s run off, but corpse

there are faster things in the body’s riddle.

At the Empire's fringe
A woman and man
Traveled by night
over oceans of sand.

The woman, quite pregnant,
rode their sole beast of burden.
Her time; near at hand,
Her child's fate; uncertain

They saw a light in the distance
from a sheepherder's ranch
The couple was fearful
but saw it was  their best chance

an abandoned outbuilding
on the outskirts of the spread
It had a tin roof
and some straw for a bed.


The blankets they carried
Jose lay on the straw
He then helped down Maria
who could travel no more.

The empire has watchers
with guns and night scopes
on the watch for illegals
there to frustrate their hopes.

Maria was panting
Jose said” bear down!
The baby is coming
I can see it, the crown"

The watchers were coming
in their camouflage Jeep.
They pulled up near the ranch
to that garage they would creep

Looking in through a window
they saw the birth of the child
one of them swore
but the other just smiled.

The birth of that child
on American soil
would serve as an Anchor
for that man and his girl.

The couple thanked God
that their child had survived.
That the boy they named Jesus
in this new land would thrive.

back on the railroad
caught between the current
and the cold
how is it ol' Cassady died?
they say he rode the tracks
all the way to Avalon
say it was exposure
that got him in the end
secobarbital and second hand smoke
waiting on a wet sunrise
that never came
counting railroad ties
half way to infinity
hell of a way to go
the hero of two generations
hell of a way to go
not with a bang
--as they say--
no one there to hear the whimper
4am ticket to shambhala

Hank gave up the grief
weeks before he died
crippled and old
poor *******
Bukowski could
hardly walk
down those hallways
to hell
maybe Hem did it best
Ti Jean died from that almighty
weight on his shoulders
unhappy with a dead liver
and a dead spirit. yes,
Hem did it best it seems
him and Hunter
--football season is over--
felt the world
slipping out
quick as it came
so they both put a
quick one to the brain

all of my old friends
are dead now
one way tickets to Shangri-La
I see them
they all walk the tracks
but they don't wait up
they don't wait up

light one for me
Hank
I'll be there soon enough

Through the night,
rode the poorest knight,
o’er vale, o’er innocent glade
with thundering and beating heart,
that matched the quickened pace,
of the steeds nimble stride.

Tho’ the stormy gale opposes,
and the might of winters snowy,
blizzard, should keep him at bay,
he rises to the challenge
and crushes them ‘neath his heels,

When at times the spirit is low,
and normally a liquor does restore,
he hastens past the tavern,
to where his mount does drink and eat,
and makes fast the saddle,
in order to make advances on his merry
quest.

When the day he has been riding
for presents itself with fate and circumstance,
at its left and right,
and this poorest knight, tho’ stout of heart,
and a little bit stout of figure,
might be bequeathed with one
small gaze at Her.

He had ridden many miles in many days,
for what purpose he had no knowledge,
although, now that fate has blessed him
with the cause of his lengthy travels, and quest,
he might smile, and become the richest knight,
that other might envy, and wonder at,
indeed this is what did happen.

the village, town, and city,
all were amazed that this poor
nobleman did acquire someone
such as her, whose looks were
stunning at the least, and were
nigh short of some divine providence,
and making.
That when he rode through town,
with her arms wrapped around him,
the down did gawp, and wonder how,
that he did prove them wrong, and
hadn’t a care for their rude gawping
faces.

He and She,
carried on unto the sunset,
whereupon not a soul saw them
again, nor needed to,
they knew where to find them,
they were happy, and needed not to
be bothered by the troubled
villagers, and issues.

The poor knight,
is now living as a king,
though not wealthy of riches,
or prominence, or land,
but of the true happiness,
only love can bring.

I rode out the storm
the sun shines brightly today
I can almost reach the rainbow
not so far away

On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.

I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.

Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.

Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.

He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.

A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.

Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.

Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.

The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.

Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.

His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.

Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.

They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.

They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.

Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.

We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."

He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.

I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.