Bradley, don't climb, the boy's mother says as she pries him off the bronze left shoulder of Sam Walton. She dusts the boy's coat. *Wait here a second. She begins digging in her purse. Her grey, sweatpants'd husband holds a point-n-shoot digital camera. The wind is inconveniencing him. The fog is inconveniencing him. Sorry, sweetie. I'm looking for a tissue. Every word his wife says shatters like glass.  He's been on the road too long. Of all the places, why make a pilgrim's stop at Kingfisher, Oklahoma?

It's the 7th of December. A day FDR said would live in infamy. It's also my birthday (thanks for setting the stage, Roosevelt). And here I am. Making my own pilgrim's stop at a subpar statue marking the birthplace of Mr. Sam Walton with no one for company but a green thermos and these tourists.

While his mother is distracted, the boy tears at yellowed grass. He pretends to feed the blades to Sam Walton's open-mouthed and unexplained canine. The husband sighs.

Ah! I found them, the mother reassures. Grimacing, as though shards of her words have lodged in the far corners of his brain, the husband asks,

Are we ready?

Not bad. The tiny bubbles from the champagne firecracker on my tongue as I lower the green thermos. Reminders of spilt coffee dot its sides like the little, overlooked  coastal islands of New England. Reaching? I know. But I'm learning to take notice of things, Sam. Patience.

I got into town before the liquor store opened. I vultured behind steering column. After a glance, a longhaired shopkeep with an oak cask belly shook his head in disdain for my entire generation. Turned the key. Flipped the sign from closed to open. Not to appear eager, I waited for a commercial break on the radio. I walked through. A bell chimed. Thirsty, son? the shopkeep asked.

I always am at the sound of a bell, I responded.

Let me get this off real quick, the mother says to Sam Walton as she wipes dry, white bird **** off a deep-cut wrinkle in his bronze forehead. Can't take a picture with you looking like that. The mother turns around. Offers an unsteady, white flag smile to her husband. Looks down at her boy. Bradley, stop playing with the grass. I mean it. Drop it. Stand by Mommy. We're going to take a picture.

Why?

Whiskey modge podged with ***** with wine with gin. Champagne. Champagne. Confused? lines joyously sparked from the edges of the shopkeep's eyes and lightning'd down his cheeks. Making him seem pleasant for the first time. Proud, even. I've organized the drinks by country of origin. Notice the flags?

What does France's flag look like?

France is over here. Looking for a wine? Perhaps a rich cognac? He led me down a densely packed aisle. Little ratings cards jutted out underneath each bottle.

Champagne, actually.

I see. I see. Is something ending or something beginning?

Both.

The boy places his hand on the dog's head. Pretends to ruffle its frozen fur.

Ready?

Ready.

Click. A flash goes off. Automatic.

Now can we leave? the boys pleads.

Why are you being so antsy?

It's just another stupid statue. I'm tired of this stupid trip. I just want to go home.

Today's my birthday. I lowered the champagne as I poured it into the green thermos. I kept watch for shoppers and cart crewmen in the parking lot. No one seemed to notice the transfer. The shopkeep ended up selling me an American bubbly. Silent Girl. I liked the artwork. A large-breasted woman with puckered lips stared down the sights of a .44 pointed directly at the drinker. Black and white. Refreshing to see someone so up-front.

The mother opened one of the rear doors on the family's Tahoe. No, you don't get a toy. Brats don't get toys. Brats get quiet time. She slammed the door.

Just you and me, Sam. A drink. Sorry, I didn't bring another cup. I lean in close. Trace the wrinkles of his forehead, where the sculptor stuck his knife deep. As I do, my own wrinkles become more apparent.

You know I heard a minister talking about you a week ago. I remove my hand from Sam's face. Take another drink. Apparently, your last words are his claim to fame. He said your nurse divulged them to him. You should see him. Each church he visits, he opens with, 'Anyone know what Sam Walton's last words were?' He doesn't ease into it or anything.

'Sam Walton's last words were actually, I blew it.' Can you believe that? 'I blew it.' Don't worry, Sam. I didn't buy it. That answer is for the customer. Not for truth. People love to think at the end of your successful trajectory, you'd just Solomon out. Fizzle. 'Vanity! Vanity!' I'd like to think there you lied in your hospital bed. In your private room. 7th Floor. Curtains open. Blue sky free of blackbirds. Your family around you. And your mouth tasting like metal. Like blood. The gears of your existence grinding to an end. And I bet you hated everyone in that room. Your wife wiping spittle off your mouth with a red handkerchief. You pushing her arthritic claws away. I bet one of your grandkids was at the end of the bed. His hair unwashed for two days. Uncombed for six months. A tall cow suckling your success. And I bet that clumsy hair was blocking the television. You told him to move.

When he moved, something horrendous was on. A soap opera. Something frustratingly ironic. General Hospital. Hit the red button. Called in the nurse. And your last words, 'Change the channel.' She put it on a Cowboys game. You watched Aikman throw an interception. Closed your eyelids. Changed the channel.

It's the 7th of December, Sam. It's my birthday. A milestone, Sam. So, there's cause for change. I told you the same ambition in you coursed through me. That I too, had sat in the back booth of diners alone -- conspiring. And while you're eternal bronze, while you're family photos, I'm mortal to a fault. But allowed to change my mind. I don't want to be ambitious, Sam. That's what I came to say. I'm not coming back to wail at this wall. Legacy, you taught me, is not in my hands. Even if I make a helluva go at it on this sphere, I run the risk of getting turned into half a statue with an idiot dog sidekick. You can dam a river, but ultimately rivers don't give a ****. They flow where they please.

That's the end. The beginning is that I can go anywhere from here. That's worth celebrating. I tilt the green thermos and let champagne run down Sam Walton's still face. This river runs onward. Without fear of legacy, of memory. I'm going to love, Sam. I'm going to love fully. Onward. While you stay put. A stupid statue.

Sam Walton is silent. Quiet time.

On the west side of Starlite Dr.,
just inside of Kingfisher -- before the welcome sign,
stood a Wal-Mart.

Underneath dim lot lamps,
dry oil caked the cracked pavement.
Crickets hopped over cricket corpses.
Two employees took turns lighting new cigarettes
with the still-hot embers of old cigarettes.
There were six sedans, two pickups, and three semi-trucks
outside the store.

2 a.m.
Parked car.
I noticed an effulgent memorial on the fringe.
Subject unclear from a distance,
but statue certain;
gleam of bronze certain.
Followed the black chain-framed path
to a lemon brick-backed display:

Sam Walton
Hometown Kingfisher

And there you stood, Sam.
With a bobble of a bronze head,
gorilla arms, and some charcoal
canine frozen mid-pant to your side--
Beams of light shining into your carved eyes,
yellowed grass at your feet.

And I wonder,
Did you feel cruel?
Beginning as a Five and Dime,
then turning into the great killer of Five and Dimes.
Sitting at a table telling all your friends, they could watch you eat.

Too forward, too soon.
You being dead and all.

To be fair, I've got that ambition too, Sam.
The kind that leaves you lonely.
The kind that leaves you in the back booth of a diner.
The kind that makes the dunces conspire.
Yeah, there are very few differences between you and me.

Those being
I'm not a cartoon statue,
crickets aren't crawling on my face,
big-bellied tourists don't pose and snap photos at my place,
I'm mortal, and you're the other one.

Looked around.
Stood in front of you.
Stared in the direction your obsidian eyes stared.

You overlooked the traffic.
And though Target gets all the hot, middle-aged women
and fiery college kids,
you get the pleasure of watching real folks leave.
The tobacco chewers,
the moms of six,
the grease monkeys,
the third grade teachers;
the grandparents
all simmer and meld by traffic stop.

It seems fitting for you, Sam.
Watching over us,
your consumers.

Hey, it’s ten o’clock,
Time for another snort,
The Elixir: Clan MacGregor
“Blended Scotch Whisky,”
Spelled without the e,
“Imported from Scotland,
Distilled, aged, blended &
Shipped, by Alexander MacGregor & CO.,”
Our boys in Glasgow
“Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government.”
(Read more: www.bobdylan.com/  us/songs/subterranean-homesick-blues#ixzz3aKTl­eIUb http://www.bobdylan.com/  us/songs/subterranean-homesick-blues#ix­zz3aKTleIUb)
To quote my pal, Rabbi Zimm,
Which is what we called Dylan
Back home in Minnesota.
No wonder he left town.
He’s been heard to blame the winters,
But I know it was the rabid,
Anti-Semitism, driving
Robert Allen Zimmerman
(Hebrew name שבתאי זיסל בן אברהם
[Shabtai Zisl ben Avraham]),
Driving his escape outta town.
It was virulent Jew hatred
Driving him away,
Exiling him from Duluth.
But, I digress.

I have written this morning’s poem
Many times before, giving it the title
“BUKOWSKI MORNINGS” last time.
I get my Clan MacGregor at
Wal-Mart, $16.97, 1.75 liter,
40% ALC./VOL. (80 PROOF).
Another astonishing value &
Habit I can afford.
One more shining example of
Walton Family benevolence,
Give us our daily bread,
Give to us,
Us the many,
The many shamed 99%.
The Walton crystal ball,
Anticipating the future way back when.
Going even so far as to
Sponsor a beloved family TV show,
1972 – 2010?
Is a run like that, fecking possible?
Still broadcast today,
Hallmark Channel.
The Waltons:  John Boy, Olivia
Grandma Esther &
Grandpa Zebulon,
Played by, his Reverence,
The cherished Will Geer.
How could you not esteem The Waltons?
The Walton Family: shrewd grocers of
Bentonville, Arkansas?
Lovable Sam—the one with the Club—
The association, not the clubfoot
Nor, the giant troglodyte club,
Wielded by Old Sam--
Mr. Walton, truly a swinging-****
In his day, intergalactic, a Mega-chain
Retailer of “a vast selection of Food, Apparel,
Home Goods & Electronics, not to mention
Garden shrubs & Patio Furniture.”
Again, I digress.

Clan MacGregor: no single malt liquor;
No Glenfiddich “Robert the Bruce Flagon,” $300 bottle;
No Balvenie “21 Year Old Port Wood Finish,” $200.00.  
No Laphroaig, no Glenlivet.
No Highland, no Lowland,
No Islay, nor Speyside . . . for me.
Not one drop of single-malted
Mist of the moors shall pass my lips.
Maybe I don’t know any better?
More likely, I can’t afford to,
Scotch snorting snobs be-******,
Clan MacGregor does the job nicely,
Nicely, thank you very much.

The moon can make your eyes burn
from its brightness.
God's Canopy of Grace.
A lot of a good thing often makes you ache
for more.

We examine simplicity,
Utter awe, incurred by a moment:

Driving into the nothingnight
The wind touching everything
Two hands growing old and familiar
Staying warm together
Trying not to destroy the stillness.

Along with fragments of the sky,
     We
            Fall,
                   Golden.

How is it, that the world has not stopped shimmering
since we saw the moon drench the flatland?

Your hand still in my hand
Your eyes blink, often
slowly.
As they close, I yearn for them
to open up to me once more,
and glimmer with the warmth
you've stored away inside your soul
just for me.

Don't look away,
even if it burns.

You speak love into the shadows
Lights, again above our heads.  
I'm always dazzled by light when you're around.
We pray for things like peace,
and discover that God's been giving it, all along.

J. Alfred Prufrock had it wrong:
The universe begs to be disturbed
By love like this.

Letting the wind and moon
and the stillness press upon us.
We are infinite.
And a little dizzy.
Hope expands in our chests
         So many birds scatter the sky.

We are Walton, Nebraska:
A normal surprise,
God's whispered secret about beauty
covered in the moonlight,
heard only by the wind
that pushed us together.

I rode down my old street tonight
Walton Place is the finest street in N Mpls
Its a dead end street, deeper than it seems
You can't just keep going down that street
You always gotta leave
4 houses down on either side
Back on outta that same way you entered
less you on foot, then you in luck
cause Walton Place gotta few cuts.

Rode past my house and round to the back
Ain't much changed round here
Looks like the family's still black
I see a woman in my mama's old bedroom
I wonder if she can see me
I almost wanna snap a picture
but that a be creepy.

My heart hurts as I imagine what the walls remember
back when we were staying back there.
The living room, the stairs to the attic,
the basement, and my brother's room.

I smile as I see some stray cats to distract my train of thought
I didn't have the worst childhood but it was rough
That's the way resilient traumatized people like to talk

I still have wishes to buy that house one day. It's yard so nice, I noticed they cut down the mulberry.

Morning smells of Lilacs rapture me,
Taking me back to Kinderhooks Chatham Street….June 21st 1961……not a cloud in the sky.
Lying in bed I open my eyes to the hum of a window fan.
And in the distance I hear a Hudson River barge blast its horn.

This moment in time, well it brings tears to my eyes.
Eleven years old, brown hair, hazel eyes, a toothy smile,
Grins in the mirror, hoping to find a whisker or two…
My cat Oscar sits there on the sink purring out his contentment.

“Oscar” I say, “today I leave for the Freedom Farm”
The Freedom Farm is the one place where I’m free to be me
Without the fear of a negative comment or a boot in my ***
I climb aboard the Greyhound bus with suitcase in hand, And looking down at Mom and Dad....I wave…. So Long Suckers!!              

Walton NY, June 22nd, Dunk Hill Road, the smell of cow ****,
The land of Milk and Honey, Fields of four leaf clovers and 10’ corn stalks.
It was here that all my friends lived, Shorty the horse, Mrs Blue the Holstein,                                                        ­                      
And there was Uncle Ike, Aunt Minnie and 9 Cousins. I loved them all!

On this little dairy farm……my potential was unlimited,
Uncle Ike taught me to drive the Tractor, water the heifers,  
Milk the cows, shovel ****, spread manure and have some **** fun!
Hell Uncle Ike even let me try a piece of his plug tobacco... (Note to self…Just say No Thanks next time)

A summer filled with character building experiences and an eight year olds understanding of work ethic.
But we still had plenty of time for fun and cousin bonding.
My Cousin Tom taught me to ride the cows and honed my spitting skills.
And in my downtime I'd perfect the finer points of armpit farting,
Four weeks of heaven on earth where nothing was impossible.

*Once you work on a farm you get dirt in your shoes. And when you get dirt in your shoes, you can never get it out!"

She's been enjoying her time while living and working in London.

And Nicole Kidman was clearly thrilled to be one of the star guests at The 60th Women Of The Year Luncheon & Awards in the British capital on Monday afternoon.

The 48-year-old actress - who is currently starring in West End play Photograph 51 - cut a beautiful figure in a multi-tonal lace dress as she arrived at the prestigious event, held at the InterContinental London Park Lane.

The willowy beauty covered her slim figure in the mid-length dress, made up of several different lace panels in pale lilac, purple, yellow, black and white.

Cinching in at her slender waistline, the dress billowed out into a full A-line skirt, and also included long sleeves.

A Victoriana-style high-necked black lace section finished off the gorgeous garment, giving her a serene, ladylike air.

The Australia actress teamed the eye-catching dress with a pair of strappy black heels with pointed toes, and a tiny black box clutch.

Her pale red locks were swept back into a chic updo, her mid-length fringe framing her face.

The actress' bright blue eyes were highlighted with just a touch of mascara, and her beauty look was pulled together with a pretty pink shade on her lips.

Nicole was one of many star guests at the annual central London event, held to honour amazing women across all industries.

The famous event, which paid special tributes to six remarkable women from all fields, saw plenty of other star guests in attendance, with 400 in total at the luncheon.

After rising to fame as the winner of this year's The Great British Bake Off, Nadiya Hussain was one of the star attendees at the highly-significant ceremony.

The talented baker and busy mum, 30, rocked a simple and chic ensemble of slim-fitting black trousers and a crisp blue blazer, and bright turquoise heels.

Another familiar face was singer/songwriter Katie Melua, who opted for a cool androgynous ensemble.

The Call Off The Search hitmaker showed off her lovely long legs in a pair of black leather trousers, teamed with a sheer white blouse, a blazer and a cute black ribbon ******* around the collar.

Writer-comedian-actress Meera Syal rocked a typically unconventional ensemble as she arrived, cutting a striking figure in a bold patterned shirt dress with a lovely long black scarf and a jacket thrown over the top.

Princess Diana's glamorous niece Lady Kitty Spencer channelled a power-dressing 1980s vibe in a standout black shirt dress with bright, colourful buttons donw the front.

The pretty blonde finished her luncheon look with a chunky white clutch bag and perspex heels.

Choreographer and former Strictly Come Dancing star Arlene Phillips was a chic addition to the guest list in a figure-hugging red dress, and TV presenter and journalist Julie Etchingham wowed in an understated taupe dress with an origami-folded skirt and matching cropped jacket.

Also in attendance were the likes of Dame Esther Rantzen, TV's Lorraine Kelly - who was glorious in a gold lace frock - Maureen Lipman, Mary Nightingale, Jo Brand and

The Women of the Year winners were whittled down and chosen by a panel of notable, accomplished women: Sandi Toksvig CBE, Sue MacGregor CBE, Dame Tessa Jowell MP, Baroness Doreen Lawrence OBE, Jane Luca, Ronke Phillips, Eve Pollard OBE, Lisa Markwell, Gill Carrick and Sue Walton.

And viewers of popular morning programme, ITV's Lorraine, were also able to vote for their Inspirational Woman of the Year via a phone poll.

Sandi, President of the Women of the Year Awards, said: 'Women of the Year has celebrated the wonderful achievements of women since 1955.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/mermaid-trumpet-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

I don't dream of you either. Not at night. The occasional daydream occurs. You crawl into my mind in sentimental coffee shop conversations we never shared, love made in hotels we never went to, picking up naked dolls with frayed blonde hair that the daughter we'll never have left out. Sometimes it's lovely not to question the reality.

Usually the night drives keep me in Oklahoma. I don't know how many times I've stopped in Kingfisher to look at that terrible statue of Sam Walton. But he reminds me that no matter how successful a man becomes, in the end his legacy is depicted by his leftovers. There's a sadness in that. But also a freedom.

Wednesday's drive took me to Ulysses, Kansas. Light pollution gave up just outside of Woodward. Guiding me like a weary wise man who forgot his frankincense, stars beamed and made for suitable company. I love passing through small towns at night. I become a ghost. I'm above them. I'm not exactly there. Brief haunt. Then on my way again.

I parked about 100 feet from my grandmother's old house. Judging by the minivan, some young family's new house. They were in the process of adding to the east side. I wanted to tear at every fresh board. Instead I picked up a couple pieces of my grandmother's gravel. Put them in my pocket. Touched her old mailbox, and drove to the cemetery.

When I got to the headstone, which read Merle and Virgil Mawhirter, I thought back to the last thing my grandmother said to Karen and myself. We visited her in the hospital right before she found herself in the pangs of a ventilator and scattershot science. It was her birthday. I bought her a book she never read.

As Karen and I left, she stopped us. "Don't forget to bring me some ice cream. Good to see you, Floyd and Margie." Not sure who they were. Ice cream. Even at the end, she laughed in the face of diabetes.

Do you think Tim will be the name beside yours on your headstone?

I lied down by my grandparents' graves. Dim moonlight seeped through small breaks in the amethyst clouds. Dead leaves feathered to the ground beside me. I wanted to say some words of encouragement to her. For her, but mostly for myself.

All I said though -- My name is Joshua, Grandma.

Isolation and addiction
Lost in an ocean of asphalt
Yearning for this to end
Salvation is a lifetime away

He was a West Virginia farm boy.
His name was Walton, Cpl. John.
I **** thee not; we called him John Boy.

Two bunks down from me
in a barracks at Fort sux Dix, NJ,
he would write poetry after lights out
by penlight. Drill Sergeants called him a *****
when one of the recruits hung a poem in the chow hall
that Boy had written about missing his little sister.

Boy could weave a line from Whitman
or Frost or Byron, even Emily
flawlessly into a conversation.
I would try hard as hell to keep a straight face.
Boy never cracked a smile. No one else ever caught on.
Funny as hell. And pretty **** cool.

Like during the class on E and E
when asked to summarize lessons learned.
"Resist much. Obey little, Drill Sergeant".
He earned a smoke break for that.

When asked where his home was during an inspection
by the company commander, Boy replied
"Perhaps it is everywhere-on water and land" or
"under the soles of your boots, Captain".  
That one got him two days KP.

Most famously, when asked how battles are lost he replied
"Battles are lost in the same spirit as which they are won, Drill Sergeant".
That one got a big Ooorah and earned him his corporal stripe.
Drill Sergeant wasn't sure what he meant, but liked the sound of it.

We were stationed together for almost two years, Boy and I.
We deployed together. He would scribble by penlight in the bunker,
then scramble across the sand and call in close-air, then back to the poem
while the ground was still shaking, constantly blowing sand off of his journal.

Boy was hit in the left femur by a ****** round one night
while calling artillery coordinates down range.
He always left his field book in his sleeping bag.
I looked through it before it was gathered up
with the rest of his gear for shipping over to Ramstein.

Eighty-three pages of ******* awesome poetry about his daddy's farm,
his grandfather's mountain home, the snowy woods during deer season,
the first girl he loved, dogwoods in bloom, his mother's death in an auto accident.
A beagle pup that he once had.

Boy went home to West Virginia with one less leg.
I called him one Christmas a few years ago
after finding his phone number through a mutual friend.
We shot the usual ****. We were both a little drunk.
I asked Boy if he still wrote poetry. He said no,
he didn't have time with all the ***** that needed drinking.
Not much left to write about, he said. Anyway, poetry's for sissies.

r ~ 5/17/14

A red crow came to visit today
He asked for which treasure I seek
I told him Walton's Gold, buried a few clicks past the creek
His eyes were void and he spoke real low: be careful for which you say

I scurried him away and proceeded down the worn out mountain path
An eagle landed on a tree stump and told me to turn back
While I appreciated the laugh, I continued along with his feathers on my back
When I reached the creek, only then did I understand the eagles wrath

A man stood tall with a suit of white
He said "I'll give you all the gold in this clay, if you can answer one question for me today"
I asked for what he had to say
he said "how many times have you seen a crow and an eagle fight?"

A blue crow came to visit today
He asked for which treasure I seek
I told him Rudford's Gold, buried a few clicks past the creek
His eyes were void and he spoke real low: be careful for which you say

Explosive
Recently on a trip not to the holy land but to sacred lands of the Navajo just wanted to visit and talk to
The heroic wind talkers following still in the footsteps of my grandmother who was a code breaker in the
Sense a woman in the depression taking off in a Walton’s truck with nine children to go visit her people
In the Indian nation in Oklahoma more than five hundred miles away that wasn’t the usual code
Followed by women of that day little did I know I to would be meeting a woman later or at least hear
Her I got off the beaten path stopped in a small store I planned on paying respect to the great western
Writer Louis L’Amour he had on occasion set among the fields in California and cut open a can of peaches
Enjoyed his tramping with some fruit but as I walked up to the door a bill on the window gave this invite
Come to half moon ranch it gave the days date and direction hear the astounding violin of teal waters
She is noted for bringing tears to those who hear her haunting renditions some are other worldly I was sold
So I did a long lunch up on a bluff above the ranch I could see the draw or small canyon that would serve
As a performance arena not all that impressive somewhere along the line my eyes lost their fight to stay
Awake the sound of cars passing in numbers brought me out of my slumber the crowd was a little
Surprising out in the middle of nowhere this is a land where magic is believed and taught like in no other
Place the only place more famous would be Sedona Arizona well we all had taken our seats darkness was
Gathering faster because of the canyon walls with just a small introduction she started by saying she
Was going to honor her father and the other wind talkers wow was I lucky they came to me I didn’t even
Have to look them up well she set the tone that instrument with the thinnest whistle sounded just like
When I set out on the hillside all night in the fire truck waiting for the howitzer shells to explode down
Range then I was honoring dough boys from all past times in far more extreme circumstances but the C
Rations were the same and when I stood down on the flat valley those rounds sailing over then
Exploding a half a mile or more down range and the waves of the repercussion shook your pant leg
As if an angry dog had a hold of it she even imitated explosive blast on the heavy strings then the
Eerie was brought in while you set and peer into the darkness hoping against all odds you didn’t see an
Advancing horde when they continued on only your dead staring eyes would remain on the battle field
Did she switch to my country tis of thee I only know our hearts swelled I thought the red white and blue
Radiated somewhere and surrounded her she touched on the star spangled banner blazing lights truly
Rose from the stage that bow either caught the silver moon or it lit up and glowed white hot why not it
Was telling America’s story and the stories of her heroes who left arms and legs and lives scattered
Around the globe with that sacrifice our children are left to grow free and strong making the world
A safe place for all who love freedom and then the quiet strain carried the widows sigh and the
Children’s cry a daddy and mommy would only walk in the wonder of memories and in the loveliness of
The spirit that is forever close she did more numbers that ran the gambit of emotions and tears and joy
Gave us a rollercoaster ride to remember and I bought a CD TO relive a night to remember when the
southwest burned with patriotic flames flying in all direction from a truly inspired violin

DECADENCE PERVERSE

July 9, 2003 – Walton on Thames, Surrey

Everyone talks
And experiences
And experiments
And gets confused
Depressed
And anxious

People fearful
With multiple ****** partners
While a baby is alone
Crying nowhere
As people smoke their drugs
And laugh
And they start to go
Nowhere
Some doing business
And living out empty lives

In a souless planet
Christ!
I am really surprised by all of you people
Asking and questioning the same questions
Again and again and more
“Is there life out there?”
“Is there life in this universe?”
“Are we all alone?”
You keep on repeating your questions
And I ask you:
“Is there any life here on earth?”

I see a young girl suffering from torment
And hearing sorrow
Being riddled throughout her fragile mind
Is this, then, your civilization?
People!
You gamblers and prostitutes
Fraudsters and women beaters
Compulsive liars and addicts
Rich criminals, poor criminals
Slithering through your pointless slimy days
That we all know where it’s all ending

Christ!
But one baby’s life
Is never pointless!
I tell you so..

Miscellaneous pieces of life
I will list my families then you jump to your family and memories and enjoy again the special ways that thrilled then and still do today.

I have already told about my dad several times this was a mix of hobo voodoo and a poor man’s barbeque his big thrill was going
In the kitchen jerking out the rack from the stove taking it outside and in my opinion way to close to the house and put a few rocks
Down and build a six feet roaring fire the stove rack now a grill then a great cast iron skillet filled with sliced potatoes fry them a giant bon fire the trick was not to torch yourself in the process so before long those old light brown made to look like bricks shingles on the side of the house
Almost at the blistering point believe it or not a great meal would be the result how’s that for keeping up with the Joneses.

His mother my Grandma Denton a full blooded Cherokee when she was younger use to take the nine children and an old Walton’s
Pick up and head for the Indian nation in Oklahoma later when she was confined to a wheel chair for over forty some odd years as a
Five year old I would stand by her and from that chair she fired a burning flame of wonder lust in my heart that has never subsided she
Talked about the places we were going to go then a car wreck out at the then called Y at the Rosebud her going days were over
Granddad afraid for her safety wouldn’t take her out after that but he did bring her down to the farm above Opossum creek we were
Going across the road on top of the hill to pick black berries somehow we managed to get her and the car over there then we set her
Under a small tree for shade then down field in front we picked berries I never seen her smile so big and be so happy I guess when she
Died her son said that at that last moment looking up as she lay there a brightness lit up her face she was looking at her new home
Where she would soon be leaping and running for ever she would be there when Kevin her grandson would arrive I see Terry Jack two
Eaves Margaret Foil, Louie and many others I wrote about them in the curtain of time and the fun their all having makes you envious.

My grandpas were something else Grandpa Denton for his own enjoyment would set watch the fights and cuss the television well some
fighters at least and then to fix ever body else at every family gathering it was pull down the violin or in his case the cats dying screams
He never once hit something that sounded like music but he would just smile I would have turned up his hearing aid but he didn’t have
One he could hear all of that caterwauling but to him it was amusing a quart of oil would have been a waste how any one person could
Set music back that far was a curious wonder. My grandpa Brown liked to go to Toot an tellim order a large root beer and slap the
Dash board as he drank it all down without stopping we would have a contest he won most of the time.

Both of my Grandmother’s were Christian should I tell this why not she can take it now where she is but the night it happened it was
Different she kept this pint of Seagram Seven in the kitchen cabinet strictly for medical purposes well I found it the show was on I
Sounded like Elmer Gantry I got inspired oh Grandma here I am an impressionable fifteen year old and your sneaking a nip oh I have to
Call the preacher then with emphases oh I got to call somebody you should have seen her hopping around almost in tears the devil
Made me do it. Well that ought to give you a leaping off place.

Picture perfect world your conception flows on the canvas the old fence post and snow covered barb
Wire touches where I walked in youth the ruts in the road the car that made them contained my family
That doesn’t exist anymore but for a brief moment your brush and paint made them live again what a
Thrill the purr of the engine the car heater the sounds of dad and mom and sister lingers on the cold icy
Wind you created with soul and emotion I saw dad rolling a cigarette from a bag of bullduarm my
Mother has on a silk head scarf my sister is drawing in the frost on the window down and out of this
Winter scene our trip would take us to dad’s mom’s house what wonderful memories come to mind on
Those special holidays back then it seemed it always snowed before Thanksgiving and remember how
The snow would be just a mess of brown slush melting in the street they say slow down and smell the
Roses that’s good advice but stop and stand still in the room freeze the moment observe it in the
Minutest detail one day you will ache with longing if only you could step across time’s barrier touch
Grandmother’s lovely hand hear that one of a kind voice as a five year old she spun a web of adventure
All the places we were going to visit her wheel chair didn’t figure in she was the one who in the
Depression took a Walton’s truck look alike and loaded up nine children and headed to the Indian
Nation in Oklahoma that was a good trip from central Illinois I can see her participating in the shawl
Dance what a beautiful sight so I never doubted about visiting all those places and we did she spoke and
We left the widow she always set by in the kitchen we traveled on golden wings of memory you know I
Believe they were better trips than if we had gone for real her braided hair was still black as coal
Although there were strands of white snow laced through and it was a wonder how her skin was so
Brown in winter and it wasn’t from setting in the sun the previous summer what wonder lies in dreams
You see feel and hear them so well just like a painter takes the real pulls it from the air and instills it on
Cloth canvas they take the true spirit from rivers make it accost the gentle parts of our natures they
Invigorate the night sky by itself at times it is to distant the painter gives it a close friendliness a soothe
Pervades they in wrap you in the enthralling parts the part of darkness is allowed to seep into the mind
In such a personnel way you alone possess the charm and glow of night’s magical array thank you dear
Artist for setting free the very real that is so elusive but you bring it into crystal clear view

Is it just imagination, or
Is Wal-Mart running out of
**** to put on their shelves?
I swear.
(And I intend on cee-ceeing
Elizabeth Warren with this.)
So, you want to do something
About inequality in America?
So, you want to give the working stiffs,
A Fighting Chance,
Is that the name of
Your book, Senator Liz?
I’ve heard it all before:
It’s Hope & Change Redux, Babaloo!
(And don’t get me started on Osama Obama.)
Here’s my plan:
You go aisle to aisle in any Superstore
With a little notepad and pencil.
Every time you see some
Large plastic *******,
Realizing they sell
15 million of  ‘em every year,
All made by some ****-***** in China.
QUESTION: So, what do you do, Mr. Policy Wonk?
ANSWER: Federally-subsidize the
Building & Operation of a plant
Manufacturing that **** right here in Detroit.
Or Atlanta, or Hartford,
Cleveland or Fitchburg,
Or even Oakland,
Where San Francisco poor continue to squeeze.
(Don’t get me started on Urban Gentrification.)
Trust me on this:
AMERICAN JOBS
Will deodorize everything that
Stinks about The Economy.
“Capital Flight Gone Global:
Invest where Labor comes cheap.
Export those American jobs again & again.”
QUESTION: What’s the difference
Between a middle-class person
And a poor person in America?
A middle-class job,
*******!
But I digress.
I was sharing an observation:
Wal-Mart’s shelves are
Not as luscious, as they once were.
Gaps left for
PINEAPPLE CHUNKS,
With only CRUSHED PINEAPPLE
Cans in stock, e.g.
So much for that On-line,
Real-time,
Instant supply-chain,
Super-duper
Inventory system, Mr. Walton.
Arkansas wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
Was it Mr. Sam?

along the well travelled road by the side of hwy 92
in Alabama , I took the long way getting here,
most mysterious days I spent on hallucinogenics
back in Michigan a long ways from here
many years ago spent liquor fueled nights
with all the Tourist girls in Ft. Walton Beach,
Andalusia is where I thought I had
settled down, with wife and kids.
gave Denver a whirl back in the
Disco days,
Then I found Clayhatchee, sort of a resting place,
for my Endorphin lacking mind to rest. Found there,
I did, a sort of calm, no shortages of drama.
Everyone knowing you, talking , I heard so much
of every other person living here, all their ***** laundry,
how could I not fit in?
As soon as I unpacked I was involved with everyone's ex,
at least in the rumors, had all the old hardlegs jealous.
Hell, I may move again, to New Mexico. Or just stay here,
and call them all loco as I dial my phone, for some
more endorphins.

DYSFUNCTIONING LIFE


Ayad Gharbawi


December 13, 2003 – Walton On Thames, Surrey



Passing by groaning graves
Stillness hushes now!
What once was Furious party
Lives of splendour and decadence
Now lie solemnly dead
Think, of your minds, I feel
Think, of your emotions, I feel
Where they been?
And so, think now, of where they now stand?

The severely sad
Are struggling now to cope
Fearing suicide
And yet,
Fearing life itself more

What a planet!
What a world!
Beauties of models, clubs, yachts, parties, mansions
Cripples of despised ones, hated ones, dry ones
Listening to me;
Where is all going, where is all being?
Where is it all, your civilization, you sick Humanity?
I wonder?

When we listen
To nothing
And  no one
In our rage, shares our emotions raw

What then are the ‘rules’ for your life?
What are the ‘guidelines’ for your principles?
Is anyone there to tell me?
Or are we born naked here
And are we to live without reason?
Where are the Blessed ones?
Where are the just, Loving ones?
Where are the faithful, Compassionate ones?
Where are the dedicated, Faithful ones?

I’m still searching for you
Trustworthy ones
But from the rest of you all
I’m going to do one thing;
I am
Seeking to disentangle myself from you
From this filth
From myself
From my dysfunctional existences.

In the laptop of the gods.where canaries sing.

..then you leave me no option,
some will get hurt.

Look in on this and make as you will,
I still need peace,
but
not at any price.

ding ding,
seconds out.
Exit your hiding place.

(Kent Walton laughs in the background)

On my Father's death last night.*

Death of a father. Night of nothing. Morning of less.
Anhedonia. A family like the Walton's on crack.
Drama looms. Not a human feeling in the bunch.
Death a hyena at camp fire's edge. Light goes out.
Step up to the grave. Now you are first in line.
Mortality worm gnaws. No exemptions. Gnaw back.
We are but a moment's sunlight. Some not even.
Only lesson. World goes on. Without us. An instant.
Good morning blues. Blues how do you do.

  ~mce

Izak Walton, it was his fault!  I was hooked. I read and re read The Compleat Angler. I could have quoted chapter and verse. Something had to be done! there was a brook nearby, at the edge of the wood it's crystal waters contained Red Throated Sticklebacks, I was thinking of something bigger, my mind was full of fifty pound Pike and Carp as fat as pigs, goodness knows where they were to come from, at that age my mind only took one step at a time.  I needed to dam the brook, that was certain, I borrowed Dad's new *****, building a dam couldn't be that difficult, I found a good place to start, where there had once been a silted up pool, If I built a good dam where the brook ran between high banks, it would soon start to form a wide pool.  I started digging on Saturday morning and dug all day. Dad used to call me his "little digger" but he spelled it differently!  After digging all day, I stuck Dad's new ***** into the turf by the dam and climbed an Ash tree so that I could get a good view as the dam filled up, which it did, quite quickly. No one had seen me at work, apart from the mad horse, which used to come charging up from time to time, It had broken the legs of the farmers son, the year before, but I used to jump into a hole in the middle of a very prickly gorse bush, and wait till it got bored, after five minutes it would wander off and chase the geese on the other side of the field. Then work could continue for another hour or so.  I began to get excited as the dam filled and my thoughts turned to fish, where could I get some fish? while my attention was occupied with thoughts of large carp the farmer suddenly appeared walking towards the dam and looking particularly bad tempered. I have to say that he was not the least bit pleased to see the results of my labours! He siezed my dads new *****, which I had so carefully broken in and he cut the dam wide open!  I still remember the roar as the water gushed out of my dam. The farmer had not seen me, I was sixty feet up in the tree, his gaze was focussed on the things nearer the ground. He didn't like me and he wore clogs, they could hurt if if he kicked you, (I speak from  painful experience. )  "Bernard, do you know where my new ***** is?" I shook my head. "Well do you?"  "I can't say that I do dad". Oh the shame of it has haunted me ever since!  Next time I build something, I will need to find a better spot. A tree house might be just the thing! more anon.

I'll take you to all the places you ever been

Because you wana see the planet with me again
Yea I'm sucessful
I'm richer then reuplicans
More sucessfule the the Walton's and..
I can make life begin again
Time is fast and you need to slowdown and live again.  Quit your job and let me give you happy sin
***** relegion we can climb laws with out Moses.  
Let's be ourselves and let the mansions build
I can make you the women who never gives
Reality hardship.  
I can show you what love us.

I was still a child when the urge to build settled in my little brain.
"A project, what's that?"  I would have asked, wearing my customary frown. "Does it bite?" My first "thing" is to build a secret camp! that took a lot of digging! I toiled all summer. When winter winds blew from The North my secret camp was complete, roofed  with, branches, bracken covered, it was truly snug, deep enough so I could stand, wide enough to seat all my friends, I was popular all winter and warm in my snug. Disaster came out of the blue, in the form of the farmers tractor, it was blue! I came home from school to find it in my snug, where it stayed for two weeks, before it could be got out with a crane!  My lovely snug was filled in and the ground ploughed and put to growing corn!   Then I discovered fishing! Izac Walton was to blame. I discovered his book The Compleat Angler in the school library, it was dog eared and had no cover,
Seeing my interest, teacher gave it to me, not realizing that it would have a profound effect upon my life and family! More anon.

There are the mysteries of life, those of faith
(Leastwise according to Pastor, though I suspect
That is the get out of jail free card one acquires
By standing upright in the pulpit)
But death is a pretty clear-cut thing,
Going about its business all methodically,
Like a combine up one row and down the other,
And even if it’s a sudden thing,
(Folks coming up to you at the wake in some relative’s parlor,
Patting you on the forearm, absently, mechanically,
Purring At least he went quickly, dear)
It’s all down to any number of things,
Small, unobserved, nothing you’d notice at the time,
Like geese, one here and two there,
Flying to no place in particular
Until they darken the sky with their huge V;
Why, even when old Kuzitski the junkman
Ran his truck off the road up off the Hancock Road
And burned himself up all to hell,
That had been stalking him for days, years,
Maybe from birth.

Every once in a while, I will run into one of the girls from school
(Only on occasion, mind you--I suspect most of them
Go out of their way to avoid me, as where my life has led
Is a strange, almost monstrous thing to them)
And most often there is just idle chit-chat
About how dry the weather has been,
And how they opened a new Jamesway over in Walton,
But if there is someone who occupied that niche
Of best-friend or something akin to that,
Someone who shared sleep-overs and cigarettes,
They will ask me (quietly, almost conspiratorially)
How my newly minted singularity is a blessing in disguise,
Saying breezily Why, just think of what you can do now…
Trailing off to nowhere when they see the toddler
Wound around my legs, and then they understand
The weight of motherhood, of mortgages and monthly notices,
The unrelenting gravity of the whole thing.
(When you have buried a husband,
A good man who was the only port in a storm
When what passes for fun, Adam and Eve’s knowledge,
Goes all pear-shaped on you;
You get a goodly glimpse of what is and is not.)
Other girls I graduated with have gone further ,
Broadening themselves, as some maiden aunt would say;
They float back into town come Thanksgiving and Christmas,
On break from the teachers’ colleges at Cortland or New Paltz,
And I can hear them breathlessly nattering on
About all they’ve learned on evaluating children,
Standard-testing and psychology-textbook regurgitation,
And it is all I can do not to spit,
Not to turn on them and yell
You do not know the first **** thing about any **** thing,
But I let it pass--they will find out plenty soon enough,
It will find them all in its own time.