A bicycle is the most efficient transportation machine.  A little input and I’m gliding, moving a useful measurable distance but more than that. I like going fast enough so the wind in my ears is louder than my thoughts.  On a tough day I like riding until I can be grateful again; sometimes that takes a couple hours but every ride is a good ride.

My youth’s independence was a banana seat Huffy pulled from an under-appreciated pile of rust in the back of St. Vincent’s Thrift Shop.  No school bus meant riding to school, the first 45 minutes of every day in all weather. Afternoons were exploring detours; summers were expeditions to the city limits, sometimes beyond.  I needed an upgrade for high school; I found a spotless antique 3 speed Raleigh, the cultural English workhorse collecting dust in an unlikely garage for $50.

I kept it through two foster homes. The first one kept me busy with farm chores, but the second was back in town. There, I had the bike back, and as an aside, they had a phenomenally sophisticated wall sized sound system: reel-to-reel and amazing headphones. I would forget myself in records: Sgt. Peppers, Genesis, Yes, etc, and another favorite. Just a guitar and piano instrumental album with a simple melody called Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter. Something about that one song in particular I heard faint glimmerings of contentment that was denied to me.  I would replay it to cling to this hint of a simple happiness I didn’t understand; that if it was in the song, it was somewhere deep in me.
Without a car for 10 years, one used 10-speed or another got me to various eccentric jobs.  

Fast forward to the life-changer, after a divorce. Needing to reconnect with myself, I searched for a decent bike. I found it hanging dusty in the back of a cluttered boutique shop smelling of tire rubber, quiet with racers’ confidence. They had a Lemond thoroughbred on consignment, assembled custom 5 years earlier to race. It was slightly outdated, but a dent on the top tube put it out to pasture. It was steel though, so rideable enough for me.  My entire $300 savings and it was mine. Then I discovered the special pedals needed special shoes, so another month saving for those.  I wasn’t going to wear those silly spiderman outfits, until I started to ride more than 10 miles and my **** demanded it.  And those pockets in the back of the shirt were handy.  I met a friend who taught me how to draft: my skinny wheel a few inches behind the bike in front at 20 mph, to save precious energy in the slipstream. Truly dangerous, vulnerable, and effectively blinded; but he pointed at the ground with various hand signals to warn of upcoming road hazards. I was touched by this wordless language of trust and camaraderie. This innate concern is essential to the sport, even among competitors, so it seems to attract quality people I liked.  My new life expanded with friends.

I discovered biking exercise could stabilize the life-long effects of brain injury, lost some weight, grew stronger, and started setting goals.  First longer group rides, then a century (100 miles in one ride), then mountain biking: epic fun in nature, unadulterated happiness.  Then novice racing, then the next category up with a team, then a triathlon.  It became an admitted obsession but I won a pair of socks or bike parts every now and then.  Eventually tattooed two bike chains around my ankle, one twisted and the other broken.  I loved the lifestyle, and had truly reinvented and rediscovered myself.

A 500 mile ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles with fellow wounded veterans helped dissipate the old shame from the military.  I had joined the ride to raise money for a good cause.  I respected the program and knew personally that cycling had changed my life.  They turned out to be inspiring, helping me more than I could have helped them.  Some had only just started riding a bike for only a few weeks, some were amputees fit with special-made adapters on regular bikes, some had no legs using hand cycles.  They all joined on to the task of riding 500 miles. No one whined, and helping each other finish the day was the only goal.  While riding with them, I began to open up about my experience.  I found a few others who also had TBI, and we could laugh about similar mishaps.  The other veterans didn’t judge me about anything, like when I was injured, the nature of my disability, how much I did or didn’t accomplish. I had signed up just like them, had to recover back to a functioning life just like them.  It was the first time in my life that whole chapter in my life was accepted; I wasn't odd, and they helped close the shame on that old chapter.  (Thank you, R2R.)  The next year I took a 1500 mile self-supported bike trip through western mountain ranges with my husband and soulmate, whom I had met mt. biking.

There was one late Spring day, finally warm after a long winter, when I just wanted to ride for a few hours by myself.  No speedometer or training intervals, just enjoy the park road winding under the trees. I had downloaded some new music on the IPod, a sampler from the library.  I felt happy.  Life is Good.  Rounding a bend by the river, coasting through sunbeams sparkling the park’s peaceful road, my earphones unexpectedly played Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter.  I hadn’t heard that simple guitar tune in three decades.  My God, time suddenly disappeared.  I was right back in the forgotten foster home, listening for the faint silver threads of the contentment I was feeling at this very moment on the bike.  The full force of this sudden connection, the wholeness of the life and unity of myself in one epiphany, brought me to tears. I found myself pouring my heart into praying hang in there, girl, hang in there, you’ll find it and I felt my younger self hearing echoes of birds singing in new green leaves.

She's thoroughbred hunger
From her double shift mom to her deadbeat dad

She tiptoes through junkyard junglegyms
Collecting alleyway beach glass

She learned to swindle
Haggled survival with the big guy
Big sisters traded on corners

She was one
Karma mustve forgotten
While doing rounds

She's got an invincible soul
Stitched of disappointments
Wrapped in sorrow
Hope as a bow

He's thoroughbred gluttony
From mommas limelight jewels to daddy's sin-shined shoes

He learned to swindle
To thrive
Wall street walk on the 99%

Politician promises
To impermanent faces

Costly trips
To extravagant places

Mixing up "enough"
With "more"

Looking for happiness
In a store

Though it seems to me
Whats made of life
Is what makes life worth living for

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses -  he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast;
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won't say die —
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop  - lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump,
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Were mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull  -
It well might make the boldest hold their breath;
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timbers in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely; he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges - but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reed -beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Oh there once was a swagman camped in the  billabong,
  Under the shade of a Coolabah tree;
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling
  "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,
  Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee;
And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker-bag,
  "You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Down came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
  Down came policemen — one, two, and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
  You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with we."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the waterhole,
  Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree;
And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the billabong
  "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me

"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say?
"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?"

The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"

Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.

And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.

And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!

Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.

But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.

"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.

If I had last words they would be…
Well… I mean… I see in those streams of invectives
I see especially people who drink, eat, sleep,
who make all human functions
Which are quite rather ******
And I shall say that they’re heavy
It never stopped being heavy
I noticed
I’ve read so many verses and particularly
verses from the 17th century
Verses, so-called courteous verses
I found 3 or 4 good ones in thousands of them
There’s little lightness in man
He’s heavy... isn’t he
And nowadays he’s extraordinary in heaviness
Since automobiles, alcohol, ambition, politics make him heavy
Even heavier
It’s mostly like that, he’s extremely heavy
Maybe one day shall we see a mind rebellion against the weight
But it isn’t for tomorrow
For now... we’re heavy
So I’d say indeed
If I had to die
I’d say
Man is heavy
That’s all
Oh! They were mean but...
Because they were heavy
They were heavy
They were heavy… jealous of a certain lightness
Jealous... jealous like a woman who wears a clothing burlap
instead of another who wears lace
Like someone who owns a workhorse
instead of a thoroughbred
Jealous...
Jealous of being heavy... that’s all
Crippled...
They weigh... they're crippled
Heaviness makes them *******
Therefore we can beware of them
They’re ready to do anything
Oh sure
They’re ready to do anything
And to activate heaviness
They drink, aren’t they
So when they drink, they turn into sledgehammers
It’s frightening, isn’t it
Sledgehammers without control
Yes, they’re especially like this
They activate... increase their weight
Instead of making themselves lighter
Oh! They’re not in Ariel’s side
They’re more like Caliban
More and more

You make yourself easy to be seen..
    by someone like me.
The only  thing I would think you would  find
  as surprising

Is why it has taken this  long
for a beautiful Thoroughbred in Spirit
such as you
to finally be seen
for exactly who it is that you are

Free from assessment or judgement,
I would venture so far to say  
that the greater  central part
of who it is that you are,  
is (sadly so)  tremendously lonely.

Again, not a judgement  at all,
but an assessment of life in general.
A lover like me would be perfect,
but I am  (as you could guess)
spiritually volatile in how deeply I push--

..Even within the normal  give and take
of everyday things. Sometimes  even
one well placed  word  can bring one
off-center and into  (and towards)
an even deeper part  of their own journey.

Most gorgeously-luscious
Thoroughbreds such as yourself
usually  pick less 'challenging' partners
in order to have a somewhat more
'stable' home life..

..But sadly with that also,  develops
a relationship where the deeper,
   more exctasy-based and driven
      parts  of  you

   are left with no choice
   but to become, dormant..

in order to protect the 'beautiful-luscious'
within you from slipping into despair

--Until one day,
what you have been avoiding
   (longing for)  most,
shows his *******.. unorthodoxically-untethered,
brazen attitude (and perfectly clear eyesight)

   and suddenly you become seen.

There is absolutely no way
with some one like me  that you..
(within all of your Wondreous,
   Deep-feeling Glory)
would not eventually be seen.

I urge you to take  every single
part of it all,  in..
(the very thing you were "built" to do)..
Even if in doing so, you were almost
continually brought right up  to
(and so very often, "over")  the edge

Gifted fingers, helping the body  find
its own form of release,
when the pressings of Spirit,  mixed
with the deeply-Penetrating View  that
Love carries within every single  part
  of itself..
..Those gracious fingers are not 'up to no good'..
   but instead..
(by the very Deeply-Understanding
nature of Love itself)..  
  both they..  and the  whole
  beautiful process of Release..

      is deemed, Holy.

The physical human body  becomes
pushed way too far  within its limited
ability to contain,  the Wholly
uncontainable Ectsatic Pulsings
  of Love's true Agenda.

Perfection knows that and says
      (so do I)..

     "How could she not?"

Be gracious to yourself, girl.
You have wanted to live
within the Beautiful Realms,  
worthy of your calling.

   Welcome Home ❤

Wake up to reality
Seems like I’ve got an affinity
For playing with your center of gravity
Can I paint your mental walls red?
Hop on a plane just to find myself in your bed
Possible....
Some might even say probable
But only if you bow down
To worship my invisible crown
Misled, misread but still a thoroughbred
Undeniably ready to be ridden
There are no misgivings
You want vivd?
Tie me up in ribbons
Enjoy my only submission

© 2014 Peach

I
GRANDFATHER sang it under the gallows:
" Hear, gentlemen, ladies, and all mankind:
Money is good and a girl might be better.
But good strong blows are delights to the mind.'
There, standing on the catt,
He sang it from his heart.
Those fanatics all that we do would undo;
Down the fanatic, down the clown;
Down, down, hammer them down,
Down to the tune of O'Donnell Abu.
"A girl I had, but she followed another,
Money I had, and it went in the night,
Strong drink I had, and it brought me to sorrow,
But a good strong cause and blows are delight.'
All there caught up the tune:
"On, on, my darling man'.
Those fanatics all that we do would undo;
Down the fanatic, down the clown;
Down, down, hammer them down,
Down to the tune of O'Donnell Abu.
"Money is good and a girl might be better,
No matter what happens and who takes the fall,
But a good strong cause' -- the rope gave a **** there,
No more sang he, for his throat was too small;
But he kicked before he died,
He did it out of pride.
Those fanatics all that we do would undo;
Down the fanatic, down the clown;
Down, down, hammer them down,
Down to the tune of O'Donnell Abu.

II
Justify all those renowned generations;
They left their bodies to fatten the wolves,
They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,
Fled to far countries, or sheltered themselves
In cavem, crevice, hole,
Defending Ireland's soul.
"Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman,
"They killed my goose and a cat.
Drown, drown in the water-but,
<1Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
Justify all those renowned generations,
Justify all that have sunk in their blood,
Justify all that have died on the scaffold,
Justify all that have fled, that have stood,
Stood or have marched the night long
Singing, singing a song.
"Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
"They killed my goose and a cat.
Drown, drown in the water-****,
Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
Fail, and that history turns into *******,
All that great past to a trouble of fools;
Those that come after shall mock at O'Donnell,
Mock at the memory of both O'Neills,
Mock Emmet, mock Parnell:
All the renown that fell.
"Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman,
"They killed my goose and a cat.
Drown, drown in the water-****,
Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.

III
The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain,
The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord,
Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred,
Troy backed its Helen; Troy died and adored;
Great nations blossom above;
A slave bows down to a slave.
Who'd care to dig em,' said the old, old man,
"Those six feet marked in chalk?
Much I talk, more I walk;
Time I were buried,' said the old, old man.
When nations are empty up there at the top,
When order has weakened or faction is strong,
Time for us all to pick out a good tune,
Take to the roads and go marching along.
March, march -- How does it run? --
O any old words to a tune.
"Who'd care to dig 'em,' said the old, old man,
'Those six feet marked in chalk?
Much I talk, more I walk;
Time I were buried,' said the old, old man.
Soldiers take pride in saluting their Captain,
Where are the captains that govetn mankind?
What happens a tree that has nothing within it?
O marching wind, O a blast of the wind.
Marching, marching along.
March, march, lift up the song:
"Who'd care to dig 'em,' said the old, old man.
"Those six feet marked in chalk?
Much I talk, more I walk;
Time I were buried,' said the old, old man.

filed in
the most deviant chambers
of my memory bank
is a
summer of bliss
in a
breezy city
of blue lakes,
buxom blondes
and *****,
near the baltic sea

eva's skin-tight
****** white jeans
were the envy
of my roving eye

"hi"
she replied
to my
transparent thought

and I
bought her
a screwdriver
with a twist
of jive

we sat poolside
chatting about this
and that

and after the
5th *****
driver that is,
we both knew
'twas time for
some intercontinental
love-making

she was curious
and excited
to sample the coffee
in my african skin

and her talented
slavic tongue
stirred me gently
from
gdansk
all the way down
to krakow

I took eva
for a long
wild ride over
the serengeti
on my faithful thoroughbred
johnson

together
we climbed
the rugged hills of lust
to passion's prurient peak,
a blissful journey
that left us
gasping
breathlessly

we embraced
under a fountain of rapture
as words
hung dry
in our throats

we would wear them later...

~ P
(7/21/2013)

REMEMBER all those renowned generations,
They left their bodies to fatten the wolves,
They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,
Fled to far countries, or sheltered themselves
In cavern, crevice, or hole,
Defending Ireland's soul.
Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
All that is finished, let it fade.
Remember all those renowned generations,
Remember all that have sunk in their blood,
Remember all that have died on the scaffold,
Remember all that have fled, that have stood,
Stood, took death like a tune
On an old,tambourine.
Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
And all that's finished, let it fade.
Fail, and that history turns into *******,
All that great past to a trouble of fools;
Those that come after shall mock at O'Donnell,
Mock at the memory of both O'Neills,
Mock Emmet, mock Parnell,
All the renown that fell.
Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
but time amends old wrong,
And all that's finished, let it fade.
The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain,
The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord,
Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred,,
Troy backed its Helen; Troy died and adored;
Great nations blossom above;
A slave bows down to a slave.
What marches through the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot,
And no man knows what treads the grass.
We know what rascal might has defiled,
The lofty innocence that it has slain,
Were we not born in the peasant's cot
Where men forgive if the belly gain?
More dread the life that we live,
How can the mind forgive?
What marches down the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot,
And no man knows what treads the grass.
What if there's nothing up there at the top?
Where are the captains that govern mankind?
What tears down a tree that has nothing within it?
A blast of the wind, O a marching wind,
March wind, and any old tune.
March, march, and how does it run?
What marches down the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot,
And no man knows what treads the grass.

III
Grandfather sang it under the gallows:
"Hear, gentlemen, ladies, and all mankind:
Money is good and a girl might be better,
But good strong blows are delights to the mind.'
There, standing on the cart,
He sang it from his heart.
1
"A girl I had, but she followed another,
Money I had, and it went in the night,
Strong drink I had, and it brought me to sorrow,
But a good strong cause and blows are delight.'
All there caught up the tune:
"Oh, on, my darling man.'
1
Robbers had taken his old tambourine.
"Money is good and a girl might be better,
No matter what happens and who takes the fall,
But a good strong cause' -- the rope gave a **** there,
No more sang he, for his throat was too small;
But he kicked before he died,
He did it out of pride.
1

With the ever increasing tempo
of time sprinting forward,
like a thoroughbred gone frantic down the course,
the years of yesterday
dress in both the most alluring colours
and the most heart-rending sorrows.

Thank you for visiting this page.
Please press 5 on your keyboard
to proceed.
Thank you for pressing 5.
That was just to ensure you are alert and active
and doing something instead
of falling asleep as you read this poem.
Press 4.
Press 2.
And 6. And 8. And 9.
See, that keeps you awake.
As we were saying:
Welcome.
And to read the poem
please press 8.
Did you?
No, you didn’t!
We didn’t even feel a thing!
Please note
your reading and responses may be recorded
by a mind-reader and
your feelings as you read
this poem will be e-captured
by a soul-reader.
If you do not wish to be recorded
please press 9.
And 10.
And 2534.
And 6. And 8.
Now, please be informed you’ll still be recorded anyway
for training purposes
as this ****** poet here has no idea what poetry is.
Press 7 for fun.
And now press 229 for distraction.
Good. Your pressing skills have improved since we started.
Now, you may read the poem:
“Jack and Jill
went up the hill
and Jack came running back to mummy:
‘Mummy! Mummy!’
said Jack
‘Jill pulled my pants down
and poured ice-cold water
on either side
of my bottom!’”


When you finish reading
please press 23567876549807975987
and just for the heck of it
press 8.
Wow, that feels nice.
Thank you.
Now, that you have read the poem
and pressed a few numbers like a thoroughbred idiot
we are processing our reading
of your responses
as you read the poem.
Please hold on; this may take a few seconds;
you may hug the computer screen while you wait;
and please minimize that **** page immediately.
And for the fun of it,
we suggest you press 13.
And here is the result of your reading this idiotic poem
as revealed by our recordings of your responses and feelings:
You blady isdizot! You &&&%%$$^# !!!!!
You hate this poem! You think this is 67757####!
Get out of here, you nicmo9088768!
Never ever come back here to this page!


Now if you like – you may press 9…
Now you may hang up and return to that **** page you minimized.
Please call again – no, not at the **** page
but here at the Idiot Writes Idiot Poems Page…
Thank you. Please press 5 before you hang up.
Oh, that feels so good…could you press – hey!
Come back here!

like a hot-wheel guided by
a holy hand above, he makes
impossible feats as if the car
creates the road, his free hand
is just as busy making
fanatic gestures to guide
scrambled linguistics
or it rests out the window
seeking a courtship
with the wind
clasping the door handle, wide-eyed
the passenger rides safely adjacent to Fear,
but at every turn Momentum carries Fear deep into the heart
where its is pumped via veins, icing the body
with awe inspiring visions.
Visions controlled by the last true
American Driver.
He drives like only a thief
can, poised by paranoia, pure thrill
achieved only through the drive, race or
getaway.

in a past life,
Neal was a great Outlaw
outrunning potbelly sheriffs
to plump on the saddle to rival
the great horsemen of their day
he’d chase trains down,
taming and taunting them
with speed and skill.
or
perhaps
he was a horse himself.
a terrific thoroughbred
bluegrass fed.
tritting
   trotting
his way to a Triple Crown.
trainers fed him Benzedrine
to gage the beast. they feared
he would run through the finish line
and straight across the country
like a maniacal madman
looking for the last
true road

my mind runs faster
than that racehorse, Thoroughbred -
He holds the record in the Guinness Book of Records for fastest horse racing.


Mine is held for
mind racing

when you're sitting on a coast, in the middle of the jungle, waves crashing in front of you... Is it possible to break the record?
Or must it still be held?

She rides a thoroughbred perfectly like a man does,
that in no way makes her look less than a lass,
how does the horse feel, being in this rough and tumble dance
see the reason for his pride, it's deeper than what one thinks,
she makes him feel loved, he obeys every word of command,
not a mistress and slave, two beings benign, in sync
right then, my heart dictates,"Make this lovely Cavalry woman
your own", as the crowning moment dawns,
I wave to Esther, from among the motley crowd.
Still in gallop her eyes caught my eyes from that far,
what makes her look at me straight, later I would ask,
"Being the first, near the finishing line, the crowd was just a haze,
to my watery eyes, colors seemed blurred, but you stood out
the crowed simply cheered, but you! you were in such an awe."

Luscious red,
Breaks me into some sweat,
Oh, no, she's not a threat,
More than...she's a hot, **** thoroughbred.

Some things come naturally,
like breathing or crying;
they are embedded into us.
Other traits we seem to
acquire over time --
like a carefully raised
Thoroughbred, being taught
to clear the steepest jumps.

Some things come naturally,
like sleeping or eating;
we're born with the urges.
But others will fall
into cyclical habits slowly --
like a filly taking
her first shaking step,
I place a pen to paper.

A wind cold and bitter blows in from the west
and stirs up old storms in you.  May we suggest
one cure for the lonely most highly regard -
a tour of the local relation-shipyard.

Our newer relation-ships being built daily
can catch the wind nicely, their sails snapping gaily.
But others we've built have met rougher sailing;
our flagship line shows up a few of our failings.

The first liner christened, the R.S. Obsession,
sank during a storm in the Sea of Depression.
The Intimate's hull you'll see later today
aground on the shoals of Old Fantasy Bay.

The pilot of Dreamboat just plain lost his sense;
ran full speed ahead through the Reef of Defense.
Only one came back whole, the relation-ship Reason;
she's in dry-dock now after only one season.

We're taking the trouble to change her design
and model her after our new Friendship line.
Our new Friendships are (if you'll pardon the gloating)
the match of any relation-ship floating.

We've shaken her down and worked her way up
to running through trials for the Real Lover's Cup.
Though she'll take on a gale yet be pushed by a breeze,
we're not really sure how she'll handle those seas.

Whatever the outcome, we'll learn even more
and strive to build better than ever before.
Cleaner, more streamlined, a true thoroughbred;
let form follow function, with no figurehead.

The storms are subsiding, the wind's dying down;
you're welcome whenever you're this side of town.
And what's more, you're welcome whenever you're ready
to work on this Friendship we've started already.

I walked down for my daily meal,
probably spinach salad
and yesterdays pork in a soup
and flesh on the brain stopped me
dead in my pace
when I saw this striated sack of bones

a greyhound, kept thin as ribs
by the genes she was bred to express
collapsed on the end of chain, tail-tucked
dead weight where once was thoroughbred speed

built for speed, life on the fast-track
chasing a mechanical sheep
a lure she’ll never catch
kept hungry
for the good chance she’d run faster

winning some beer-belly’s bets
but at least she was given a wage—
a crate, and all the food she’d need
to stay thin.  when genes turned her
speed to the slip and sag of age
one ******* was human enough

instead of a quick slug pulling out her brain
through a new hole and pinning it to the dirt
behind the trailers, Beer-bellied *******
let her retire to an old-dog’s  crate
plastic walls and one gate

Isn’t she beautiful??
I raise my gaze from the hound’s caramel eye
and find the thing clutching the chain,
grinning like hooks pulling cheeks
far too wide, with too much skin on her thighs,
a squat pile of woman bred on fatty beef and pecan pies

We rescued her, she’s our mascot!
and she hands me a flyer:
EDUCATION INTERNSHIPS
PUT YOUR LIFE ON THE *FAST-TRACK!!

Don't you understand?

--The back-pasture fences, lay down
Opening up to more back-pasture, grasses
u n c o n t a in e d,
by fences,  laid down..

     only to be surrounded  in the distance
                 by more, back-pasture grasses..

And yes.. my beautiful Beloved--

       with its fences  also, laid down

You are a Thoroughbred, love.
Within your  gorgeous succulence
lies the open-field,  

of  beautifully-unending grasses,
  succulent.

Your Levi's beat all I have seen
Your ancestors had some good genes
I love your good roots
Your fine attributes
From your head to your toes and between

It's all very clear to me
You're certified, high pedigree
It so plainly shows
There's some blue blood I know
I hope that you'll share it with me

LADY, IT'S ALL IN YOUR GENES
YOU MAKE MY RED CORPUSCLES DREAM
SINCE YOU CAME BY
OUR CHEMISTRY'S SO HIGH
LADY, IT'S ALL IN YOUR GENES

Your figure is full thoroughbred
You could raise up a man that was dead
I want to be part
Of your love from the start
I can't get you out of my head

He remembers his son's young eyes,
    clear and brown as marbles,
And when laughter made the boy's face
    light up with joy.
He remembers his step, like a
    thoroughbred's, galloping
    through the dust,
And his enormous kites soaring
    into the unknown.
A boy in cowboy boots,
    exploring the jungle.
A boy enchanted with frogs
    and the graceful flight of birds.
                           *                                                                
His father tries to find him now
    in this other jungle,
    sinking into the quicksand
    of another world,
And he still remembers those eyes -
    still young, still clear
    and brown as marbles.

Better duck the Stuka dive bombers
if you want to still paint like Rothko.
I can no more steal your last breath
than exhibit prostrate in your sky,
we all have our crosses to bear
but I am confidently on a fool's errant
searching another thoroughbred obligation
with my paraplastic factory vision,
currently stranded in Haifa
night goggles on!

You see, I’m in this
“relationship”
lets call her
“Kelowna”
for the sake of this story.

I go to visit Kelowna quite often.
Obviously, she is
Tall
Blonde
Skinny
and Stereotypical.
Do you have I type?
Because I sure do,
and Kelowna fits
the mold
I’ve molded
through
past loves
& thoroughbred
narcissism.

Kelowna’s personality?
Well, you see I can’t completely
indulge in that topic
for I only know what I choose
to believe, and what
Kelowna chooses not to tell me.  

I know she owns a cell phone
But, I don’t know her number.
But if I ever snuck my way in
to her address book - file me
under: Weird, *******, Dude.

For Kelowna - this girl is a starry eyed wild child
and my wild is too deeply rooted in weird
to perform the necessary High-speed boat maneuvers,
I’m assuming she is a fan of due to
my ruthless profiling of her.

Kelowna
is my great white buffalo
my blue French horn
my infinite fraction
the heartbreaker soul shaker
my mended heart
has been looking for…

all over Kelowna.



Luckily, there is this other woman.
For the sake of the story
lets call her
“Christina”
Actually Christina is her name.

Christina is that girl,
Who has always been there for me
When the going gets rough
When the money gets tight
When the heart first breaks.

Christina is a small town girl,
with Night Black hair that you can see stars in.
She has capturing lake blue eyes. She smiles
And always says hello
to strangers she doesn’t recognize.
She is pure, clean, and a
personal treasure of mine,
who will always be her own .  

I couldn’t tell you if Kelowna and Christina are friends,
because I have lost complete control of this metaphor.
But for the sake of the story, they are,
and although they live in different places
they remain courteous to each other
and curious of each others lives.

Christina has always loved me for who I am.
Embracing my flaws as though they are achievements
Worthy of being song lyrics, screamed on long roadtrips
for the mountains and the sky to nod in agreement.
Christina is so **** cool,
that I can even ask her to say kind words
About me to Kelowna.
And though she might not, she is always cool
And supportive with me asking.

I can see myself visiting Kelowna soon in the future.
And with what spare change I have I will make
Every attempt to wine and dine, and impress her
Every need.
For she is only what I want.

The funny thing is, that I don’t need the change.
I don’t need the dinner or the wine.
I need clear skies and the transitional period
from day to nighttime.
I need the sun, and the stars.
I need shallow water and a deep breath.
But for the sake of this story,
I expect everything to stay exactly the same.

And when I sing my song
with windows down
as I leave Kelowna
for my home town,
Christina will be there to comfort me.

**With starry nights and silent statements.

My motor skills are failing
The pen wobbles in my hand
and fights the flow
I'm making co2 deposits
and having oxygen withdrawals
Hazy thoughts like incense smoke
expand my skull and coat my brain in
a diaphanous fog
My heart is a thoroughbred
careering for it's life
Pleas tease my tongue
behind clenched teeth
as my eyes brew storms never to
cascade
Moisture develops in my shivering
palms
though my throat has become
a desolate desert scape

You hate me with love,
And yet, and yet
It seems the heavy is the latter.
But how can I tell when you wear green
In a forest of pines.
The see-through skies,
confined by miners' windbag,
leads a thoroughbred
to a puddle
of muddy sand.
Do you, darling,
Understand?

There is a spark.
All circuits switch to on board.
Awareness & knowing floods your system.
You are now awake.
Shards of lighted pain infiltrate your mind and body.
Nervous system is raw
Joints ache to be flattened, to be healed.
Mind screams to be soothed;to be tended.
Your heartbeat storms like a thoroughbred in a race you never wanted to enter.
That sweet comfort,that you are so mad for.
That agreeable bliss, you held so high,it will not be found,it is not there.
With insides trembling and all help gone - You ask yourself,
“Is this the life that I must carry on?”

Bruised and bloodied, I kneel on the cold concrete,
rusty reds and deep blues compliment me nicely,
they're like gifts of fine jewelry, showing you love me,
along with these metallic chains that hold me to you,
a thoroughbred in captivity.
Don't you know that I cannot feel the pain,
that all of this is because I love you?
Oh wait; No I don't.
With wild eyes, pupils dilated, the bindings break,
shattering piece by lovely piece;
I rise above, stare you down, whip them onto your back;
Oh how the tables (you're now tied to) have turned,
you should have known dear,
with too much training and molding, one gets smart,
catching on to little games, little weaknesses,
becoming much stronger than ever intended.
Eyes burn red with the chaotic power,
a sadistic laugh echos through your mind,
though, you'll learn to love it, little one,
they always do;
And you're no different.

I read with passing interest
The death of the
Field Marshal’s son--
Manfred Rommel--
Gone at 84.
His father—The Field Marshal,
Had been given a choice:
Commit suicide or
Face a rigged trial
Charged with conspiring to ****
******.
If he chose the trial, they said,
They could not promise
That his family would be
SAFE.
The father,
Der Feldmarschall,
Bit into a cyanide pill
And died quickly.
It was Oct. 14, 1944.

Thanks to the sacrifice,
Manfred got to grow up to be
A three-term mayor of Stuttgart,
Where Daimler-Benz makes cars.
Manfred Rommel:
A postwar liberal Deutschland voice,
Supporting immigrants and Jews.
At 84,
Deader than
A dreadnaught.

Makes you wonder?
A fate worst--wurst--
Something worse than
Death?
Really the moment of truth
For any honorable man,
Self-defined by nature,
Molded by nurture.
Family:
The fountain & source
The tribe you belong to.
Family:  everything you are
When you get right down to
Where one’s loyalties
Supposedly lie.

Of course, you opt for suicide.
Wouldn’t anyone?
We are born into a net.
We must bravely defend the network.
Facing insurmountable odds,
Our duty is to hold on
Without hope, without rescue,
Like that Roman centurion
Whose bones,
Later excavated at that front door in Pompeii,
Steadfast & true,
That Roman soldier--
Vesuvius exploding,
A hard rain falling down upon him--
Died at his post because
They forgot to relieve him.
That is duty.
That is greatness.
That is thoroughbred pedigree.
An honorable end:
The one thing that
Cannot be taken from a man.
Unless, of course,
The times they are Orwellian,
And once again,
This time with feeling:
*“Do it to Julia.
Do it to Julia!”

A thoroughbred voice.
A stellar career.
A beautiful woman
singing songs sweet and clear.

Must I mention the millions
that flowed to her coffers.
Whitney could have enjoyed
what this world has to offer.

Then she married a punk,
not the least bit refined.
She drank a bit much
she did a few “lines”

A broken down voice;
missed notes and miss dates.
A fate like Monroe’s-
Cut off young by the fates.

The engine: Long and black
And sleek as she could be
She shook the earth in her approach
As her heraldry.

An atmosphere of steam and smoke
Expanding in her wake
The Queen-of-the-Rails speeds on
An arrival soon to make.

Massive is her presence
Enormity her design
Power is her excess
This Queen is so refined

Once she ruled with majesty
When o’er the rails she flew
But … now, this one last time,
The railway bids: “Adieu”.

Slowly when she comes to stop
We see she’s thoroughbred
When water, steel and hard, black coal
Within her there are wed.

Her regal-ness resplendent
In fittings’ shining bright
Commanding our respect
O’er the rails of her last flight.

Now sitting at the siding
She’s puffing rhythmic breath
The museum’s destination
Of her life commits its’ theft.

Photographs will mimic
Her image of today
But missing from those photos:
Glories of Yesterday

When o’er the steel she thundered
Demanding from all who saw
Respect for Her grand power
Which held them all in awe.

But Glory, she found, was fleeting
When “progress” came to call
Her future then was set in stone
In the writing on the wall.

Now we hear the brake release …
Her throttle then is moved …
She inches down the shiny track
Where the land with steel is grooved

Then as she gains her speed
And whistles out her “yell”
An announcement for all to hear:
“I know I’ve served you well!”

She’s journeyed through the ages
And a boy – an old man now -
Watches as she fades away -
He waves, then shouts out: “Ciao!”

But in his mind is yesteryear
With his dog there by his side
Watching near the railroad tracks
Where the Queen-of-the-Rails did ride.

And long from now whenever
He says: “Remember when …”
In those times of reverie,
She’ll come alive … again.