My mother raised me under the belief that monotony was a worse state than death and she lived her life accordingly. She taught me to do the same. About five years ago, my mother died. Her death steered my course from any sort of seated, settled life and into a spiral of new experiences.
For months after she left, I skulked about each day feeling slumped and cynical and finding everything and everyone coated in the sickly metallic taste of loss. I noticed that without her I had allowed myself to settle into a routine of mourning. I pitied myself, knowing what she would have thought.  Life was already so different without her there and I couldn’t continue with life as if nothing had happened, so I jumped from my stagnancy in attempts to forget my mother’s name and to destroy the mundane just like she had taught me to. I had to learn how to live again, and I wanted to find something that would always be there if she wouldn’t. I had a purpose. I tried to start anew and drown myself in change by throwing all that I knew to the wind and leaving my life behind.

I was running away from the fact that she had died for a long time. When I first picked up and left, I befriended the ocean and for many months I soaked my sorrows in salt water and *****, hoping to forget. I repressed my thoughts. Mom’s Gone would paint the inside of my mind and I would cover it up with parties and Polynesian women.
I was the sand on the shores of Tahiti, living on the waves of my own freedom. A freedom I had borrowed from nature. A gift that had been given to me by my birth, by my mother. I tried to lose myself in those waves and they treated me with limited respect. More often than not, they kicked me up against their black walls of water. They were made of such immense freedom that many times made me scream and **** my pants in fear, but they shoved loads that fear into my arms and forced me to eventually overcome the burden.
As time slipped by unnoticed, I created routine around the unpredictability of the tides and the cycle of developing alcoholism. One night after a full day of making love to the Tahitian waters, my buddies and I celebrated the big waves by filling our aching bodies with a good bit of Bourbon. By morning time, a good bit of Bourbon had become a fog of drink after drink of not-so-good *****? Gin maybe? I awoke to the sight of the godly sunrise glinting off of the wet beach around me, pitying my trouser-less hungover self. With sand in every orifice, I took a swim to wash me of the night before. I floated on my back in silence while the birds taunted me. I felt the ocean fill every nook and cranny of my body, each pulse of my heartbeat sending ripples through it. My heart was the moon that pressed the waves of my freedom onward and it was sore for different waters. The ache for elsewhere was coming back, and the hole she left in my gut that was once filled with Tahiti was now almost gaping. It had been a beautiful ride in Tahiti but I had not found solace, only distraction. The currents were shifting towards something new.
She had always said that the mountains brought her a solace that she never felt in church. They were her place to pray and they were the gods that fulfilled her. She told me this under the sheets at bedtime as if it were her biggest secret. I had delusional hope that she might be somewhere, she might not be gone. I thought if I would find her anywhere it would be there, up in the clouds on the highest peaks.
The next day, I was on the plane back to the States where I would gather gear. The mountains had called and left a needy voicemail, so I told them I was on my way.

In Bozeman, the home I had run from when I left, every street and friend was a reminder of my childhood and of her. I was only there to trade out my dive mask for my goggles. I had sold most of my stuff and had no house, apartment, or any place of residence to return to except for a small public storage unit where I’d stashed the rest of my goods. Almost everything I owned was kept in a roomy 25 square foot space, the rest was in my duffel. I’d left my pick-up in the hands of my good man, Max, and he returned her to me *****, gleaming, and with the tank full. I took her down to the storage yard and opened my unit to see that everything remained untouched. Beautifully, gracefully, precariously piled just as it was when I left. I transitioned what I carried in my duffel from surf to snow. I made my trades: flip flops for boots, bare chest for base layers, board shorts for snow pants, and of course, board for skis. Ah, my skis… sweet and tender pieces of soulful engineering, how I missed them. They still suffered core-shots and scratches from last season. I embraced them like the old friends they were.
I loaded up the pick-up with all the necessities and hit the road before anyone could give me condolences for a loss I didn’t want to believe. I could not stray from my path to forget her or find her or figure out how to live again. I did not know exactly what I wanted but I could not let myself hear my mother’s name. She was not a constant; that was now true.  

My truck made it half way there and across the Canadian border before I had to set her free. She had been my stallion for some time, but her miles got the best of her. It was only another loss, another betrayal of constancy. I walked with everything on my back until I eventually thumbed my way to the edge of the wild forest beneath the mountains that I had dreamt of. They were looming ahead but I swore I caught a whiff of hope in their cool breeze.
With skis and skins strapped to my feet, I took off into the wilderness. My eyes were peeled looking for something more than myself, and I found some things. There were icy streams and a few fattened birds and hidden rocks and tracks from wolves and barks of their pups off in the distance. But what I found within all of these things was just the constant reminder of my own loneliness.
I spent the days pushing on towards some unknown relief from the pain. On good days there fresh snow to carry me and on most days storms came and pounded me further into my seclusion. The trees bowed heavy to me as I inched forward on my skis, my only loyal companions; I only hoped they would not betray me on this journey. I could not afford to lose any more, I was alone enough. My mother was no where to be found. The snow seemed to miss her too and sometimes I think it sympathized with me.
I spent the nights warmed with a whimpy fire lying on my back in wait hoping that from out of the darkness she would speak to me, give me some guidance or explanation on how I could live happily and wildly without her. Where was this solace she had spoken of? Where was she? She was not with me, yet everything told me about her. The sun sparkled with her laughter, the air was as crisp as her wit, the cold carried her scent. I could feel her embrace around me in her hand-me-downs that I wore. They were family heirlooms that had been passed to her through generations, and then to me. The lives that had been lived in these jackets and sweaters were lived on through me. Though the stories hidden in the seams of these Greats had long been forgotten, died off with their original masters, I could feel the warmth of their memories cradle me whenever I wore them. I cringed to think about what was lost from their lives that did not live on. I was the only one left of my family to tell the world of the things they had done. I was all that was left of my mother. She had left her mark on the world, that was clear. It was a mark that stained my existence.
These forested mountain hills held a tragic beauty that I wish I could have appreciated more, but I felt heavy with heartache. Nature was not always sweet to me. For days storms surged without end and I coughed up crystals, feeling the snowflake’s dendrites tickle at my throat. I had gotten a cold. Snot oozed from my nostrils, my eyes itched, my schnoz glowed pink, my voice was hoarse, and I wanted nothing but to go home to a home that no longer existed. But I chose to go it alone on this quest and I knew the dangers in the freedom of going solo. The winds were strong and the snow was sharp. New ice glazed once powdery fields and the storms of yesterday came again and there was nothing I could do except cower at the magnificence of Nature’s sword: a thing so grand and powerful that it has slayed armies of men with merely a windy slash. I was nature’s *****. I felt no promise in pressing on, but I did so only to keep the snow from burying me alive in my tent.
And I am so glad that I did, because when the great storm finally passed I looked up to see the sky so hopeful and blue bordering the mountains I knew to be the ones I was searching for. I recognized them from the bedtime stories. She had said that when she saw them for the first time that she felt a sudden understanding that all the many hundred miles she’d ever walked were supposed to take her here. She said that the mere sight of them gave her purpose. These were those mountains. I knew because the purpose I had lost sight of came bubbling back out of my aching heart, just as it had for her.

These peaks as barren as plucked pelicans and peacocks, but as beautiful as the feathers taken from them, were beacons in the night for those in search of a world of dreams in which to create a new reality. From them I heard laughter jiggle and echo, hefty and deep in the stomachs of the only people truly living it seemed. When I was scouring the vastness of this wilderness for a sign or a purpose, I followed the scent of their delicious living and I guess my nose led me well.
A glide and a hop further on my skis, there the trees parted and powder deepened and sun shone just a bit brighter. Behind the blinding glare of the snow, faces gleamed from tents and huts and igloos and hammocks. Shrieks of children swinging from branches tickled my ears, which had grown accustomed to the silence of winter. As I approached this camp, I saw they were not kids but grown men and women. It seemed I had stumbled down a rabbit hole while following the tracks of a white jackalope. I had found my world of dreams. I had found them. I had found a home.
I was escaping my lonely, wintery existence into a shared haven perfectly placed beneath the peaks that had plagued my dreams. A place where the only directions that existed were up and down the slopes and forwards to the future. Never Eat Soggy Waffles did not matter anymore. By the end of my time there, I had even forgotten my lefts and rights. The camp had been assembled with the leftovers of the modern world and looked like a puzzle with mismatched pieces from fifty different pictures. At first glance, it could have been a snow covered trash heap, but there was a sentimental glow on each broken appliance that told me otherwise. Everything had a use, though it was not usually what was intended. The homes of these families and friends were made of tarp or blankets or animal hides and had smelly socks or utensils or boots or bones hanging from their openings. There were homemade hot springs made of bathtubs placed above fires with water bubbling. Unplugged ovens buried in snow and ice kept the beer cooled. Trees doubled as diving boards for jumping into the deep pits of powder around them. The masterminds behind this camp were geniuses of invention and creation. Their most impressive creation was their lifestyle; it was one that had been deemed impossible by society. This place promised the solace I had been searching for.
A hefty mass of man and dogs galumphed its way through the snow. Rosy cheeks and big hands came to greet me. This was Angus. His face grew a beard that scratched the skies; it was a doppelganger to the mossy branches above us. But his smile shone through the hairs like the moon. There are people in this world whose presence alone is magic, an anomaly among existence. Angus was one of them. Not an ounce of his being made sense. The gut that hung from his broad-shouldered bodice was its own entity and it swung with rhythms unknown to any man; it was known only to the laughter that shook it. Gently perched atop this, was his shaggy white head that flew backwards and into the clouds each time he laughed, which was often. Angus fathered and fed the folks who’d found their way to this wintery oasis, none of which were of the ordinary. There was a lady with snakes tattooed to her temples, parents who’d birthed their babies here beneath the full moon, couples who went bankrupt and eloped to Canada, men and women who felt the itch just as me and my mother had. The itch for something beyond the mundane that left us unsatisfied with life out in the real world. All of them came out of their lives’ hardships with hilarious belligerence and wit, each with their own story to tell. The common thread sewn between all these dangerous minds was an undeniable lust for life.
The man who represented this lust more than any other was Wiley and wily he was. He’d seen near-death countless times and every time he saw the light at the end of the tunnel, he would run like a fool in the other direction. He lived on borrowed time. You could see that restlessness driving him in each step he took. Each step was a leap from the edges of what you thought possible. Wiley was a man of serious grit, skill, and intelligence and never did he let his mortality shake him from living like the animal he was. He’d surely forgotten where and whence he came from and, until finding his way here, had made homes out of any place that offered him beer and some good eatin’. Within moments of shaking hands, he and I created instant brotherhood.
The next few days turned into months and I eventually lost track of time all together. I could have stayed there forever and no day would have been the same. I played with these people in the mountains and pretended it was childhood again. We lived with the wind and the wildness the way my mother had once shown me how to live. I had forgotten how to live this way without her and I was learning it all over again. We awoke when we pleased and trekked about when weather permitted, and sometimes when it didn’t. Each day the sun rose ripe with opportunities for new lines to ski and new peaks to explore. The backcountry was ours and only ours to explore. We were its residents just like the moose and the wolves. My body grew stinky and hairy with joy and pushed limits. Hair that stank of musk and days of labor was washed only with painful whitewashes courtesy of Wiley. Generally after a nice run, we’d exchange them, shoving each other’s faces deep into the icy layers of snow, which would be followed with some hardy wrestling. By the end of each day, if we didn’t have blood coming out of at least two holes in our faces then it wasn’t a good day.
I never could wait to get my life’s adventures in and here I was having them, recalling the unsatisfied ache I had before I left. Life was lost to me before. I had forgotten how to live it after she had died. Modern monotony had taken control until my life became starved of genuine purity and all that was left then was mimicry. But the hair grown long on these men and smiles grown large on these woman showed no remembrance of such an earth I had come from. They had long ago cast themselves away from such a society to relish in all they knew to be right, all their guts told them to pursue: the truth that nature supplies. Still I worried I would not remember these people and these moments, knowing how they would be ****** into the abyss of loss and time like all the others. But we lived too loud and the sounds of my worries were often drowned in fun.
     We spent the nights beside the fire and listened to Wiley softly plucking strings, that was when I always liked to look at Yona. Her curls endlessly waterfalled down her chest and the fire made her hair shimmer gold in its glow. She was the spark among us, and if we weren’t careful she could light up the whole forest.  She was a drum, beating fast and strong. Never did she lose track of herself in the clashing rhythms of the world. She had ripped herself from the hands of the education system at a young age and had learned from the ways of the changing seasons f

Sometimes I fear I am more scar
than skin. More salt than water.
More gun than girl. I play the
piano; black and ivory softly so
you can follow me back to the
cave, to the gardens, to the water.
My body was not touched by
the boy, was not touched by the
girl that ripped out my heart and
ate it. I checked for fingerprints
on the side of my breast, my hip-
bone,the inside of my thighs—
nothing.
Their hands never leave traces,
never leave proof that one day
someone was brave enough to
touch the hills and valleys of my
body. Rachel Wiley said: *******
me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
He said: I would do it if you lost
weight. He turns off the light, but
I do not blame him. If he hadn't
reached for it first, I would have.
I keep on my T-shirt, make sure
his hands don't wander to places
I try too hard to forget are there.
They call me fat—I make jokes
about it so they won't. My mother
tells me that it's important to love
yourself even if you don't want
to. I say yes, then count the cuts
on my thigh, then smile.
RACHEL WILEY SAID:
******* ME DOES NOT
REQUIRE AN ASTERISK.
LOVING ME IS NOT A FETISH.
I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY
YOU COULD THINK THAT
FINDING ME ATTRACTIVE
IS SOMETHING TO BE
ASHAMED ABOUT. SOME-
THING YOU WOULDN'T
TELL YOUR MOTHER. YOU
CAN TOUCH ME IN THE
BEDROOM BUT REFUSE
TO HOLD MY HAND. I AM
NOT EXTRA THICK
WRAPPING FOR YOUR ****.
I AM NOT SOMETHING
YOU  LIE ABOUT TO YOUR
FRIENDS. LOVING ME IS
NOT SOMETHING TO HIDE
FROM YOUR SISTER.
LOVING ME IS NOT
SOMETHING TO HIDE.
It is 11:31 PM. I am the girl they
like to **** but not the girl they
like to have wedding pictures of,
hanging on the kitchen wall.
He says: I would do it if you lost
weight.
I say: I would do it if you stopped
acting like I am something to
be ashamed of.
Rachel Wiley said: *I say: “I am
fat.” He says: “No, you are
beautiful.” I wonder why I can
not be both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Wiley is my favorite teacher,
his face is a very attractive feature.
He is a very stocky man,
he is so strong he could lift a minivan.

Mr. Wiley is a very generous human,
He reminds me of my grandpa Harry Truman!
Sometimes he smiles at me with such jolly glee,
Every time he does it I think to myself WHOOPEE!

It was the 46th Commencement at CUNY MEDGAR EVERS COLLEGE
I graduated in the year 1981 and I am an ALUMNI
How times flies oh my
I was a treated like a VIP throughout
Reserved seating in what I am talking about
All the Speakers and Keynote Speaker had inspiration to shout
The graduates where given encouragement going beyond
Medgar Wiley Evers legacy to look upon
Inspiration to step out and let your involvement take flight
You got the education, but don’t sit back and take it light
CUNY MEDGAR EVERS COLLEGE is on the move
Pure academics CUNY MEDGAR EVERS COLLEGE will continue to prove
The history the college has maintained
In my heart the legacy will remain
Being an ALUMNI thought, I am part of CUNY MEDGAR EVERS COLLEGE’S HISTORY
A part of the vision is that all graduates will accomplish
They came from a college that is very distinguished
But the college is continuing to be on the move
A New School being Urban Development
So MEDGAR WILEY EVERS is looking down and feeling proud
His spirit feels the welcome and his honor allowed
I was moved in seeing all the graduates
A tear came to my eye
I see a question being why?
It was for sadness, but joy in seeing the Men and Women achieving, and I was so proud
CUNY MEDGAR EVERS COLLEGE, you did it again
Another group of graduates with concentration being CUNY Medgar Evers College to mention
Now wait for new Freshmen again, and another graduating class having a future commencement that will begin
Carry on CUNY MEDGAR EVERS COLLEGE
Lift every voice and sing, but always remember one thing
“Your voice has a choice, but footsteps always need movement. Be assured with confidence. Have no fear as the Lord is always near. Medgar Wiley Evers legacy left his vision that will help you preserver”.

Unburden me my wiley friend from all my mundane woes
Release the threads that bind me here, submit me to your throes
Happily you blur the lines and change the days perspective
Mollify me with your lies and kindly dope objective.

It’s pleasant here, I have no care to change this altered state
Inhibitions lose their power to taunt me and berate
I perform well, I entertain, I please so easily
Popular I find myself within your potency

But soon I find the last drops have now dried up in the glass
Your soothing draft has poured its fill, your best has come to pass
And in its wake you leave for me a tender raw emotion
That carries me upon a wave of heady dissolution

The tears they stream, I am a mess, back down to earth I plummet
All former worries amplify now you have reached your summit
I was misled, you’re not my friend, a pariah in disguise
You sought to trick and confuse me put beer goggles on my eyes

So now into my bed I crawl to rest with bland submission
The toilet has already shared with me your vile emissions
I close my eyes I pray for sleep, my head already throbbing
I enter sleep in throes of self-absorbed,  repentant  sobbing

Who the hell you think are to be demanding me a poem?
Mozart of this art like all these written no-gimmick lyrics are my profession,
Woah, that flow's a shard piercin' you and while you're bleedin', I tell you a fine confession:
This is freedom of expression, this is me out of depression, physics is nowhere near a suggestion for reason behind the never-yet-reached depths of my perception.

Boy you be readin' these ill lines by a writer so sublime, you couldn't fathom or imagine what it's like to be behind the steerin' wheel of the high-paced drive up in my mind,
All these spitting free-verse like that's skilled, yeah sure but they're nowhere close to flowin' poems so potent it could blind,
You can play this like over to cope, you'll need to pause and rewind not one, two, three but at least four times.

This is be that sick spittin' raw ****, you aint heard on the radio,
This be that thick ****, masculinity half gentleman half wild-lion ROAR and make those ladies hoes,
This be the new age slim shady yo, basic rappers way too slow, Mumble rapping on a track and reading **** like BABY PRO,
Na **** that mainstream ****, dawg this be that underground vicious ****,
Boy I've been slitting throat downtown before rap ever was for the ***** *****,
I'm that middle-school rap era, where gangsters could mean black but also Vinnie Paz, shout-out to the most-feared real-deal Gladiator straight from that Sicily pit,
I love Paz for his delivery, flow and anti-gimmicky lyrical potency like no other G that'***** that'***** the scene,
I love Tech for the flow man, Em for the show and love Minaj for puns and Hopsin for being the pioneer or bringing REAL RAP back, he's a cunning industry player but **** HE GOT FLOW. Chris Webby for the raw masculinity-vibe progressive ****, spreading those vibes getting the world to hear his messages,
I love Bugzy and Devs and a little Wiley doesn't hurt,
Grime Scene's a beautiful off-shoot of rap that unlike mumble crap is an old beautiful tree that grew straight from the dirt,
Imma leave it here, let me on this site so your ***** can squirt,
If you're a guy you'll wish you were me but turnin' me down's buryin' what you know be that legit **** that like a Phoenix'll rebirth.

Am I the only one that grew up watching ****** tunes?
I loved those animals much more than the ones in the zoo
Daffy, Bugs, porky, and Elmer Fudd,
got me laughing as a kid, even when I was in a rut.

But my favorite toon, if you couldn't guess
was Wile E. Coyote, and Roadrunner, They to me were the best
Would He ever catch his prey? as a kid I only fashioned a guess
with each and every failed trap, showing the Roadrunner was blessed.

Now to use these two metaphorically
I'll be Wiley, and Roadrunner would be
amour, you see.
Now in every episode I keep trying to pin it down
but just like Wiley, I get blown up, flattened, or otherwise hurt while it roams around

maybe it's fate
or a strange genetic trait
all I know is sometimes living in a cartoon *****

WATCH OUT OF THAT TRU *POW!!!!!!!

I remember it well
As if it were yesterday
We geared up and set sail
And embarked upon unfamiliar waves

It was I captaining the vessel
With One-eyed Sven my quarter master
He could cut throats and roll pretzels
His weapon of choice was his bow caster

This wasn't a mission of plundering
That alone left the crew in a state of wondering
No, we weren't looking for buried treasure
But for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather

My first mate Mr. Obanion said to me
"Captain are we off course?"
Then my boatswain , Wiley asked sheepishly
"Aren't we going for *** and ******?"

I looked them in the eye at the same time
"Gentlemen, this ship is headed to Dublin"
"We're going to see a good friend of mine"
"Now get back to your swabbing and scrubbing"

This was an order of business not some sort of cruise
I'm sailing with a ship of one track minded fools
We didn't set out on a vacation of leisure
Were on the hunt for sheep skin seat covers and Scandinavian leather

I did not mean to keep them in the dark
But they would think less of me
I needed these things
For the women I married

You see we'd been on the rocks
And I know she wanted these items
So I went over the sea with a fine tooth comb
Until I had finally found them

My men had sailed endlessly for months
They were worn down and ragged
Waterlogged and exhausted
While I always came up empty handed

But I had to save my marriage
Salvage my relationship
I knew it would work
If I gave my love these gifts

We reached the golden, calling shore
Of the beautiful Dublin
From the River Liffey and headed north
My friend Seamus let me come in

I came out shaking his hand
I was satisfied with my purchase
Until I was questioned by my men
What it was we came for in our searches

I had to show them, I was under scrutiny
I pulled out two stagecoach seat covers and a pair of pants
They were enraged and called mutiny
They blindfolded me and bound my hands

Now I'm marooned on some unmapped island
And I see my ship riding that horizon
This will sadden my wife, oh how it will upset her
She will never receive her sheep skin seat covers or her Scandinavian leather

I am a glass of skim milk.
I am a reconstituted congealed protein fixture-ate
molded like a rack of ribs.
I could be alien technology
if I weren't christmas lights and a projector.
In fact if I were any more prosthetic I'd be...
a picture of a painting of a plastic rose.

I'd be at the globe theatre.
I'd be lear, othello, hammers, macky, romero and roz.
Cuz I'm a lick-on-stamp of higher education,
and I'm a bottle of **** that you find under your seat in the van
when you're so thirsty you can hear Berbers in the distance.

I could be the mermaid on the front of wooden ships.
I would be the black olives on your gordita cruch;
and I'll smile at you with 9 inch long teeth
as I dutifully hang your laundry in the rain.

With dozens of laughs all covering up
tender spots I'm too chicken to cry about
I am a master parade floating up, up,
in the middle of the street,
Til I fall with a ******* box of bottled bourbon *****
for my buccaneer bravado's.

And fists
I make while walking
and beating sticks
I carve, still beating,
with imaginary reasons
that I find a bit disturbing.

When I go walking I go walking off into the ending
cuz I'm just killing time while trying not to go crazy
i-I-eye-shouldastudiedmore
I shoulda beat up my *** drive in a dark alley
while it was still raining,
and a I shoulda
red more
bled more
sweat-ed more than I did,
cuz I'm standing here in a bucket
with the thunderstorm looming
clutching onto a flag pole for dear life
like it was my mother.
Hoping just for one big bang
to send me off into the twilight
to shoot me out past the moon once again.
Cuz I'm drowning in the rain that doesn't hit the ground.
and I'm smiling like Bob Wiley on a tree stump,
as I sip at strychnine
like it's Chianti.

How dose your Ship Float?
Corkey Hawley
1982
How dose your Ship Float?

What do you do when
You lose the feeling

When your heart gets
Broken and you need healin’

Does another’s arms
Calm the storm for the night

Or does your ship sink
In the dark and quite

How many holes can you
Put into your ship

Expecting it to stay afloat
While on deck you flounder and slip



CH

New York City alive and
Live’n still

If the roaches don’t
Get ya, the taxes sure
Will

It’s ***** all year and
It stinks as bad as hell
But the actions so exciting
It gives ya such a thrill

1982



You & Me, Baby

You’re a lady
who needs a tender touch
You don’t like anything
That’s rushed….too much

I’ve seen the disappointment
In you eyes
I’ve tasted your tears
When you cry
We’ve been closer than
Any I believe
I’ve stayed longer then some
Should I leave?

You know it’s down to
You and me
Sometimes I think I
Should leave
Buy those baby blues
Plead please stay

Sing for me one more
Refrain for today
Please no more
Rain today

I’m not quite the bargain
You thought I’d be
I’m not as cheap to keep
As I claimed to be
I spent your dime
Take’n my time
Now heartache is the
Only thing I find in rhyme

I’m just that lonely
Guitar picker you found one night
Lookin’ for a home, some warmth,
And a feelin’ that felt right
You’re the one who saved
Me from myself
I could have died lonely
Without any help

When those who called
Them shelves my friend
Were stabbing me in the back
You showed me
that it wasn’t the end


CH ‘82



Street Music

There’s a lot of good people
Play’n music in the streets
Singing really fine for all
Gett’n little change for
Something to eat
They never ask for anything
They mostly sing and play for free
Freeze in winter, thaw in spring
Boogie in summer, the fall they never see
Most people don’t stop to listen
They’re to busy going by
They don’t know what they’re
Miss’n they don’t even stop
To wonder why

Street people play’n music
There’s a lot to pick from
Street people play’n music
Catch a song on the run
Street people play’n music
Lord knows I’ve been one




Wiley Words of Wit
Corkey Hawley  11-79

The hounds are hiding behind
Their burning bushes and
In flaming tongues they find
Some wisdom there in Whitman
And metaphysics in Donne’s
a kind
Of wily words of wit

These flaming, dancing tongues
Bound between the hounds
While beyond all burning tongues
A silver fox is found
Who leads the hounds upon a run
With wily words of wit

The bushes, they have burned
And scared the fox so deep
Now it’s the hound’s turn
To see and feel the heat
As the hounds pursue and yarn
For wily words of wit



Oh The Tropics


Living in the sunny tropics
That would be the life for me
Lying on the sands
With some *** in my hand
Toasting to the stars and the sea

Eating crab meat all day
Watching the palm trees sway
Never give a care for tomorrow
Just living down by the bay

Chorus:

They don’t make a Pinacolada
Like they do
in the South Seas
And the sun don’t shine
Like strawberry wine
Except in the South Seas

I’d strum my guitar on
Some old sand bar
And tan my form in the sun
Lay down for a while, and stay
With a smile until the day is done

Picking fruit form the trees
As much as you please
And taking more then you could eat
Find a friend on the beach
And give her a treat, maybe she’ll
Stay for a week



What A Way to Go

Met him in Seattle, he bellied up
To a bottle tellin’ lies in the Blue Moon Bar
His face was hard and traveled
And, as the lines unraveled I saw a man
Who could laugh about his scars

He said,” I got shanghaied in Vegas
By a painted woman
Hog tied by a ****** in Ohio
Derailed by a dancer down in Detroit
Lord women goin’a be the death of me
But what a way to go”

He said, a girl named Nancy
Once tickled his fancy
And he backed it up
With a fifty dollar smile
He laughed when he remembered
The pain of sweet surrender
But heartaches never seemed
To cramp his style

He said,” I got tongue tied
by a teacher in Tallahatchie
French fried by a waitress in Idaho
Way laid by a widow in Wyoming
Women goin’a be the death of me
But what a way to go”

CH ‘82



This Must Be Love

The sun came shining
Through my window today
Waking me from pleasant
Dreams I wished would stay
Then I felt your body
Next to mine
Warm’n my cares away
I almost thought that
Your love had gone astray

Chorus:
Is this love, love, love, sweet love?
All these feelings I’ve got inside
Is this love, love, love, sweet love?
All these feelings I can’t hide

The sound of, I love you,
is ring’n in my ears
As we hold each other tight
We draw each other so near
All I ever want or need
Are those precious words to hear
But then you know, the feelings
I’ve got aren’t quite clear

Chorus:




Here’s to…

Here’s to the morning light
Which I so seldom see
Here’s to the woman who
Cares for and comforts me

Here’s to the songs I write
Which are so seldom sung
And here’s to every blessed
Little thing I’ve ever done

The night it lasts forever
When I try to find some rhyme
That fits within the meter
And keeps a steady time

I could spend the night
Awake searching lines inside my head
Instead of turning in my pen
And taking comfort in my bed

She never understands
The reasons or the whys
For my midnight madness
Sometimes it makes her cry

I’ve never meant to hurt her
With my all night writing sprees
I just want to leave behind
some songs
A little part of me

CH

Keeping my legacy alive
Thinking on the Civil Rights fight and how it will be your strive
I faced struggles everywhere along the way
It’s opposition blocking every moment day
Even though I died in efforts
The mission of Civil Rights must continue on
It’s continuous regardless of how long
The Civil Rights fight must let the world continue to see
It’s Freedom for all including me
Don’t turn back and flee
Victory can be done
But it must be complete until we have won
Come together in unity
This goes for every U.S. city
Across the country into every community
Raise your Destiny fists up
Don’t tire and get fed up
Power to Dignity and Pride
This is a movement with no time to hide
Educate and use what knowledge will provide
Let your voices be heard in the fight
It’s the sunshine that has given us the light
We can’t sit back and let Civil Rights continue to be a plight
Show Washington, DC in plain sight
The sun has risen and tomorrow will be our guiding light.

don't look, I
run with the wind, amok gilted hands
fast lacing,
i've only got six fingers saved for
dead kachinas, and I'm

wheeling rough
through the underbrush;
mixed Wiley yellow, willow
peering in on my schemes, paint
pallet dragging leaves
over the hills and holes of
my body's deepest grief

so brush up the tic
and wipe off the blood,
if i'm treading through this
horse hyde, then lift
up my red dress
and sift out the weeds
 
bramble ramble, ramble
soothsayer hanging bones from
his swollen empty gut-- I

got a rain-stick, talking-stick
Yellow Wampum floating, bagging
sick sweat, for Appaloosa, holy, holy

leave, god anger ugly,
golden painted leaves

and if i'm too swollen, and if you're too
sullen-- i've got a bag of névé rocks for you
so hitch up the tobacco and wait
for tomorrow

my deer running, hoof trotting, snow
blowing legs will be comin' soon.

Despite the right to spite the far away
Of only what I know is nothing as a word
Only what I know is everything as a meaning
******* **** in this early morn
******* love of that metal music

ENOUGH OF THIS (will make you crazy)
Heterosinea contractual echinacea of aviary actual sack attack
ATTACKING SACK INSIDE A RACK O' FLACK
FLACK BOMbardment of horse willed ensnarement
Wiley wicker writhing in illness

Loose found youtube through fool rude nudes
Useful contraptions trap attraction for creative adoration and many more "things"

Once Sadie O’Leary’s dementia
Brought her to ‘Whispering Pines’
A nursing home at the edge of the woods
Where she played in earlier times

Her loving son bought her Nikes
For Sadie was sturdy and strong
Her sneakers got quite a work-out
Whenever the door alarms bonged

That happened almost daily
Sadie escaped out that back door
Into the woods she scampered
As I raced to fetch her once more

A good headstart down the timeworn path
Now overgrown and winding
While I just turned 30- so winded
Sadie’s ahead at 90

Sadie O’Leary kept going
So wiry and wiley was she
I heard the alarm bells ringing
Far away from Sadie and me

Sadie, wait!  Where are you going?
She was determined like no other
Her nostrils flared when she declared,
“I’m going to have lunch with my mother!”

Finally able to reach her
Grasping onto both of her hands
Remember she died years ago?
Your mother’s house no longer stands!

"Don’t you think I know that?!”
Glaring into my eyes brightly
Turning round to go back
Sadie gripped my hand so tightly

A comfortable symbiosis
Her foundation by the stream
Tomorrow we'll go together
Who am I to spoil her dream?

Of feet:
Talon dancing,
claws of deadlight whimpers
what fierce, nocturnal

we, flat feet, barefoot in the snowy dust.

Of fools:
Rampant, rampage
of madlight weakness
soft fowl, moon-eyed

we, black jesters, makers of dreams.

Of children:
Wiley charm,
naked of sadlight gestures
limbless folly, red cheeked

we, coiled by birth, the sack of infant sighs.

Of voices:
Time would swallow silence,
by the tongue, by meek silhouettes,
by shadows of the throat, of man

as he enters the cave, black body, old in
stalactite teeth, snowy dust
through curiosity in the black dream,
and birth the birth of folly one hundred times
and sigh the first whimper, at the end

I was here.

When William walked
They stayed in pace

And when William stopped
They backed away

Williams women knew their place

They prepped the food
They cleaned his place

They shined his shoes
And shaved his face

But oh Williams worth
Was a wayward lot

Dampened darkly
Away and aloft

Sparkly hamperings
In the trunk of his car

Scampered starkly
Alone in the dark

So far far and away
They exclaim

Oh Billy!

Ol'***** has his fame
Flames but to his back
As he walks away

Really just another *****
A wiley killer killen em
Wily nily willing or not

He's lovey dovey
Shovey punchy

Always feelin hot

When with his silly thoughts
He sees the holes in their knots
And gets off on their thoughts

For the love of the pop
The pop of the ma-gotts

Sopping mind rot
He gets it alot

And when he stops
He froths throbs
Weaves and bobs
Wheezes and sobs

Then sneezes and hes off

To either burn a stable
Or poison a troth

Severe a cable
Or just turn it all off

Offering lovelessness
Amidst pimps

For he is the way

The way of the worlds
Lawful in his lawlessness

He is the glint
Of the harbinger

The bringer of depth

The flint
Of the match maker

Closer to per-fect

A tepid tempest in a teapot.
A puerile pursuit
of personal perspective.
Corporate censorship?
A first amendment attack?

Times-Standard?
Really?
One letter kills a comic?
Or is it an overlord order?

Artist assassination it is.
Artist with his tools powerful
Pen nib and India ink; his
Semi-automatic pistol pen

Reminder:
1st comes before the 2nd.
Mr. Rogers: "Amendment?
Can you say that?
Amendment?”

Do you think you can
take that tool from the artist but
keep large capacity clips legal?
Censor artistic license?
It’s a minority report!

Let’s go to the semiotic
Shooting range:

There’s rap.
You know, rap?
Music?
What our ******* kids
are ******* listening to?

Bukowski shoots “****” from
His lethal snub nose poems
When he needs
to make a point

David Mamet sprays “*****"
with his literary machine gun
In his plays made into movies
that you have watched.
And enjoyed.

Even Shakespeare got away with:
“You starvelling, you eel-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s-pizzle, you stock-fish–O for breath to utter what is like thee!-you tailor’s-yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck!”

Meanwhile:

Trump shoots full fallacies
As a spray of stinging tweets
Disregarding both amendments
While hobbling the press

Different weapon that;
Smoke-screen screams
Tangled web of
Fabricated news skeins

An Internet search showed me that it was a monk that first scribbled the word “****” in the margins of a text on moral conduct as an opinion about an another abbot. In other words, an editorial.

It was the wile and guile of Wylie
to pay homage to
this historical reference.

Let’s remember to keep the amendments in their proper order:
First one then two.

Artists hide messages in
artifacts.
It’s what they do;
we expect that of them—
we don’t want them to
throw away
their shot.

I hope some of this makes sense
to some of you
fans of amendment one.
If not, I guess it was a
Non Sequitur.

(Thank you Wiley Miller for your beautifully drawn and artistically constructed comic strips that had a
Line A (family plot line)
Line B (Noreastern bar humor)
Line C, D, and Etc always
With sly custom commentary.

Censored.
Removed.
Wrong.
**** that!
**** Trump!

There.
I said it.

Heretics.
Bolsheviks.
Lunatics.
Kleptomaniacs.
All fronts.
Pretend fronts as
Friendly
Guises to disguise
Wiley acts of terrorism.

All tics like
Parasites
Stealing and *******
Fleas on festering
Flesh.
Breathing carrion
Breath.

Why inject your
Games with
Ungainly success.
Why such primitive
Unleashing of frustration
And repressiveness.

They came without vision
None questioned their skills
They took a big lead
Then promply got killed
New England was battered
New England was bruised
Atlanta was lunching
And quickly got schooled
The halftime explicits
They blistered the walls
The bigger the lead
The harder they fall
Tom Brady's the gravy
In Belichick's cup
Coach built a big fire
And heated him up
There were some deep passes
Some ***** and some dunks
The hell of it is
It was done without Gronk
That tightend of legend
Who sat in the wings
While wiley Tom Brady
Conducted the thing
It's all big in Texas
Including that game
The hype, the excitement
For Atlanta, the shame
We heard them complaining
We saw them give in
With Julio to lead them
They still couldn't win
But, there is good news
If it wasn't from chocking
They stumble this fall
Then it must be bad coaching
In twenty-eighteen, we'll fire the staff
And bring in some retread
For minimum cash
He'll get the ball rolling
We'll win it, for sure
Or, ole Mr Ryan
We're showing the door

He would walk to Bears Den when the weather allowed
when his old bones felt as if they could take the steep mountain road
he would sit upon the rock that faced West
towards Winchester
and here he would search for inspiration
despite the pain in his shoulder and knees
he could block that out long enough
to find a few words
the poet of Pine Grove
they would see him on occasion
mention to the country store clerk that
the old man with the pad of paper
was heading up the mountain again
no-one knew who he was exactly
or where he came from
they just knew he was no kin to the local folk
one Winter's day a few kids made their way to Bears Den
to throw stones off the edge
they found the old man
laying sideways on the rock
clutching a pencil
and on the pad
they read the first few lines of a poem;
'Here I can see forever
here I am above the fray'
He was buried in the little cemetery
near Unison
where the Birdman and Wiley rest
it is quiet there
the breeze is constant and the view is open
it is a good place for an old poet's soul
to contemplate his art

The shallow opening
Ran below the bank
Musky air and water
It's wasting stone away
Now I am kneeling here
Searching for my place
With a little inspiration
I thought of Jenny's grave

The falls of Jenny Wiley
They're running in my veins
My ancestors killed her babies
And took her as a slave
They ***** and murdered
And butchered all the same
The Indians of this area
And their tomahawk blades

But Jenny made a run for it
And she got away
After a year in captivity
She just couldn't stay
I like to think she knelt here
In this little cave
Just as I am now
Planning her escape

I used to shed light from an ignorant place
Crashing waves with the willows
With a smirk on my face
I fooled fellows for fun, but I'd keep my nose clean
And I'd play it the fool if my shame was unseen

Wiley as I was, I'd be joyous ashtray
At night with the cowboys, Askew by the day
And it started off slowly, with a glint in my heart
When you begin stopping, you stop what you start

In a matter of time, I'd trade matter for time
Pills for my pleasure. My passion for pride.
And my haired pull back tightly, as with time it'd do.
Don't follow their path, or this too could be you.

But alas there is this, an upswing indeed,
There isn't a day or an instance you see.
This isn't the fate of everybody there is,
Don't get lost in the race.
Never forget just to live.

I lost you, no we lost you
We have missed you, we will miss you.

We have lost your wiley, witty, sarcastic humor.
So creative, we lost your bass voice sound as deep and strong as Gabriel's trumpet.
Always time for us, even when there wasn't.

But why?
Why, why, why, why, WHY?!?
Why didn't you love yourself like we loved you?
You let it get bad, then worse, until it was too late.
You had left us...
I asked you for to see the doctor...
You put it off, not for a day. It was weeks...
I am hurt, you are missed so...
Missed so much...

I will go on, but the world is that much darker...

In the slew of this trance
Railing across the nights
In shining armor of horror,

Light, something comical, guides me.

          I forgot how to write.
     I have no purpose.

a separation of tied limbs by
Wiley Scientist’s
Churning, clenching, wincing
Smile
Burn into my lobe.
Submission to anxiety.



Liberate my shackled mind
From the screeches of Armageddon,
Residing in the Nine Rings of rajas,
The most fruit bearing peninsula of
Illusions.

Tearing through the center of
My pinwheel of paralyzing
Hypnosis,


      Something reached beyond depths for me.

It, somewhat, portrayed itself,


As Light.

February being a yearly reminder of Afro-American achievement
It is also being the black pioneer’s commitment
Creations being actual experiments
Discovering knowledge and expanding their mind
Being successful with theory combined
The possibilities that actually became a reality
George Washington Carver in turning a peanut into oil
Eubie Blake, my Famous Great Uncle who was a Movie Star, Jazz Pianist, Composer and in 1985, a Broadway Play “Eubie” in his honor
Dr. Martin Luther King, Civil Rights fight for Equality in order that there would be liberty
Medgar Wiley Evers, a Civil Rights leader who fought for what was wrong in order for all to get along, and a college named after him called CUNY MEDGAR EVERS COLLEGE
Malcolm X’s widow, Dr. Betty Shabazz, I had her as a Professor in a health class while I was attending CUNY Medgar Evers College
Joe Black, One of my Mentors who is deceased, was once a Pitcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers and later Vice President of Special Markets at the Greyhound Corporation
Ken Webb, Formerly Kiss-FM 98.7 Radio Personality Host in lecturing my Radio Production class in the fundamental of Radio Station Engineering at CUNY Medgar Evers College actual Radio Station
Zelma Lewis, Deceased Board of Education Music School Teacher and Professional Opera Singer.  I was exposed to Opera at 15 Years Old at the AMATO OPERA HOUSE
in the Bowery in downtown Manhattan. Ms. Lewis taught me the fundamentals of the Piano after hearing me play the ***** and Mr. Daniels being a Professional Pianist also taught me the Piano.
Charles Anthony Blake, my Grandfather, who taught me the elements of Typing and becoming intellectual in being college educated
My personal heroes in helping become a champion established in how I would succeed. Some were famous and some were not. Yet in their own right, it doesn’t matter as it is true Afro-American achievement that all provided in contributions in their own way and it’s their inspiration that carries me each and every day
They all are great in their own God given talents
They were nothing that I needed to be silent
Achievements made against all odds
Achieved in how and the remembrance being now.