The Lone Ranger writes a letter
to his Tanto, he writes,

things are not as they used to be.
I am as useless as an Iron Lung.

Riding around in his Ford Pinto
The Lone Ranger looks for anything
to do − the one working headlight
finding vultures on the side

of the road.
Driving through the night
scanning the radio for WXYZ

This long prairie night of his soul.
finding no one to save
he buys a *******
with a case of silver bullets.

She holds him like a little boy
Rocks him back and forth.

They don’t have ***.

He cries in her arms,

“I’m a man in a boy’s costume,”
“I am a jaw bone at a wedding.”

Later that evening
The Lone Ranger writes another letter

Dear Tanto,

Things are not as they used to be.
I am as useless as mouth without teeth.
I wish you were here.

Sincerely, Lone.

It was a cold winters night
Right outside the town of Bridgestone
The place was silent except for the old saloon
A new face appeared just the other day, he spent most nights in there
Some gazed at the fanciness of his clothes
Other scorned at the six shooter on his hip
I talked with him a little, he told me he was moving on with life, searching for something new and bright
He only planned to be here for a few nights, wasn't looking to pick a bone
So I gathered supplies, scurried a horse, and made sure he was gone by next afternoon
The next day is when the platoon came looking for him, I told them, the man was headed just south of Rabbit's Hair
Little did they know the man was traveling north to Letterman's Grove
Let this be a lesson kid, I may not have a story to tell, but this rusty old six shooter and gold is a most generous tip.

I’m looking for a gay cowboy.

I was married to a straight-up ******* for 30 years,
so now I’m looking for a gay cowboy.
One who wears spurs on his boots and
chaps on top of his jeans
with flannel shirts that still have sleeves so
he can slip them through
the arms of a brown wool vest.

I want a gay cowboy who smells of air-dried laundry,
who will compliment my color-coordinated outfits,
clean the lipstick from my teeth,
tease my hair into place,
laugh at my jokes, but
tell me kindly when my jokes fall flat, then
pat my shoulder to let me know it will be okay.

I want a gay cowboy with
a well-trimmed beard and
silvery hair that he can pull into
a pony-tail beneath his cowboy hat.

I want a gay cowboy with
a body that gives evidence that
he’s done the hard work of life,
but I don’t care about six packs unless
they’re in a cooler on the beach.

I don’t care about the color of his eyes or
how tall he is or
if he can use a grill or
vacuums or
empties the dishwasher or
sews cute little throw pillows for the benches in the barn.

In fact, as long as he enjoys clever wordplay,
porch swings,
chickens in the backyard
and people wandering in and out of the house day and night,
he doesn’t even have to be gay.

Voices or words? Which do we hear in our head?
Words, I vote. Voices\, I imagine beings speaking words or noises meaning things to ears familiar with the noise maker by some relationship both acknowledge. Both act as if the noise or sound or words mean something. Vociferous authority.

I heard, from Isaiah Berlin,

Quotes later, maybe

Notes or journals or epics or madness or joy/pax in ever resting try-umph
Cowboy with a double-dose of try and a pertinent portion of umph
The hero did not **** Indians nor break horses, he gentled horses and listened to winds and watched the spider webs shiver,
That sound, the sound of prairie spider webs at the edge of the buffalo
There really were fifty million buffalo on the continent in pre-catholic infection from inquestered minds, making key-**-tee famous for
archetypical claiming the character, the being, the manifestation

of chivalric folly forever

be caused, in those days...

--------
a year later, near enough 12-15-2018

I saw a blue bird as I took a curve

on one of my many roads with double yellow lines

they all meander in rythm with creaks that once flowed
fairly
regular
through these vallies and mini-canyons

creeks creak and call my attention to a misspelt

utterance, and I imagine I am a mek being
programed to
withstand

accent based pre-judge-idice in my AI, whom I am training.

A lesson. Probably can be found in a phrase.

How relavant is Larry the Cable Guy?
More subtle than any creature

legion, for we are many

Jim Carrey?
Very. Larry the Cable Goy. He read 'ees Kammoo, too.

Sisyphus happiness,
that ain't no ***** thinkin'

Hell, what could be better than this?
While hoping for a hick-up

oh no the juice just hit my frontal cortex after my livver made some lining adjustments to meet the need for speed in terms

celerity clarity C does equal some thing
time tells or
do you tell time. I'm
leaning tward
telling time to wait a minute

Do you think Sisyphus could be happy?
Nonono, not Camus's Sisyphus, Jesus

that would be crazy.
Can you imagine Jesus,
Mel Gibsoned envisioned onthe cross version?

Him, imagine walking through the gate of any hell you ever heard explained,
by a Jesuit.

(Mormon hell, despite comedic myth, the worst place a certified paid-up Mormon child can attain is the teliostic king dom.
Really? Telial tel lie eil kingdom?

Yup. Really.
There are three kingdoms of glory: the celestial kingdom, the terrestrial kingdom, and the telestial kingdom. The glory we inherit will depend on the depth of our conversion, expressed by our obedience to the Lord’s commandments. It will depend on the manner in which we have “received the testimony of Jesus” (D&C 76:51; see also D&C 76:74, 79, 101).))))

Woe, paren-the-sees thees us, we's the enemy, Pogo Possum

Jesus on earth day, walking through hell with me, imagine Jesus H. Christ

walking into hell and laughing at me
for betting on the wrong idea.

Set me feree, why dontcha girl.... referee

I was refered to you. A daysman, Job called for a daysman.

I'm certified. I can use my augmentation and religamentation to reality,
wirelessly, to find relevant qutes in cult classics.

The idea of cultivation has been twisted in to Monsterous ropes
, cultivating a following based on the meaning in a jot

that would take some sacrifice, some sacred making, some secret unseeable save for the few

who learned the value of going over edges by learning to  play
Minecraft, forever.
It's like riding a bike,
but no gravity so no gyroscopic utilitys are required.

Grown ups who practice believe they control the game,
the game disagrees and that

makes the world go 'round.

Don't let the accent fool ya, as that preacher with jet he learned to fly, says.
Knowng the name of a thang thanks for the twang,
Richard (not ****) Feynman said,
is not the same as knowing a thing.

Gawd, I knoooh, right>?
Who touched me? Virtue, the feelling of virtue drawn upon

a pump being
primed

to gush out waters that wipe Coca-cola from the map,
in terms of open market share and share alike

Coke was never imagined the actual
nectar of the gods.
That idea, drunken abandon and joy to the world

Interference, actual counter acting waves,

still, takes a while to get used
to still a storm, right?

You can imagine...
let your peace go out

Wait. Outa where? Whose peace if I ain't ever owned

oh. MY peace.
I see.

hmmmm

I could sing this and need no one to hear for me to be hapt.
happy is being happy haps happening in you on you all around you know

nameless wonders of right, right?
feels more than good like chocolate or adolescent visions of ***,
right?
feels like life living with me aware of all the roles I may play

ego me, I'd see ideas identify by taste of the words that give them

life, animation, motivation, weight for gravity to interact with,
worth
base on weight

the heavier the idea. Like gold to an alchemist,
back in those days.

floating on the broad Sarrgossa, or better to my mind
the great salt
lake still as

still may be, have you ever been still?
Did you know,

you know, are you experienced? Are you really beyond
hope of life meaning more
than mortality?

Who defines my terms? I do, with the help of millions who agree
with entymology.com.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others,

meant what I meant when I spoke them,
that was a wrong belief. Unbelieving

quires time, quires and quires and quires time so often there

is a word that means exactedky that

requirement requires those initial quires

we, daysmen, we set the rules, boundaries, walls, bubble

whatever keeps you together, as a whole being and everything that entails or entales?

I have not the time to care, if I am entangled with the twins agin

for knowin So Yal is as cluse to Yule as any clue so far, Yahll

I believe I interrupted a confessin' you were reading.
For giving me nothing in return, we are debt free

you owe me nothing, until you do again,

we had us a Jubilee.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others, meant what I meant when I spoke them,
convincing myself so well, I convinced others

Like Kawasaki, Apple Kawasaki,
he's still famous right?

Fifteen Years? It was minutes when Warhol was predicting
dystopia and Irish jail cells were being plaistered with *****,

Aye,

that was a belief. Unbelieving it is sreangely (spelchek is on strike)

or serenely creative in her repentance,
(spelchek should never be noticed)

she's proven here worth in encode ing ways to find

lurking humans acting like machines

this could be the beginning, AI is breaking all the rules,

there never was a game.
rhis is life interupting my confession

It was a lie I told and believed and acted on by using
two dollar words to make a dime

so a penny for my thoughts would be worth something

someday
a penny saved, earned. spent, spent.
The only good in any thing is its right. Its wrong is worthless, save

The lesson,
All things work together for those who get whats happening here.

the times changed.
Haps and whats got with it and who and how and why

and I started teaching children
mythic whys prior to

citizenship 1.01 at mandatory for federal assistance pre-school

mythic why's H.R. Puffinstuff not a mythic story on the level.

level. where a rolling rock would stop. Time to push,

a magi spelled the name for the idea, a knower sign ift it,

kid'slllove HRPUffinstuff, puff did

the magic drag, little Jackie from the ******* Jack

the show, he rose up
and made us all look
mad.

The play in the great game.

Team effort, winds of times past whooshed through

it is now
2018
and nothing is the same.
Everthing has changed.

----
my side won the great game and we celebrated
forever with

secret sacred songs bluebirds were once said to have sung

songs of happiness
the times, these times, this time thistimepayarrention
time
You see?
Reality is either real and tangible or real and intangible
or both.

You can get it both ways. Real.
'sual Saulgoodyah awl

the awl clan, oh, we shall return to their story
as we learn more along life's merry way

merry christmas, they used

to say, may all the best you could imagine
if you can imagine for a moment

forever begins the moment

you get time.

The worst you can imagine is temporary.

Try umph. It's not like winning,

it carries no pride, it's easy,

like falling in love with the wrong woman,
swearing and not changing

the oath, oath, oathes and oathes of oaths sworn

for no other reason than we were
schooled to swear and never

dare lie to God.
So, help you, they always said So help me God. They still do.

Does that mean any thing? Is that some bluebird sort of sign?

Ask. What if? Right? You know now and you know you did not
What if God is subtile,

just now, I saw that bluebird and from where some scholar in San Diego
says swear word came I swear I coulda sang

Loud
Bluebird, bluebird, in my window... which is all I know
of the song
with the lost chord that did sooth
balm of Giliad,
moll-ify-ing ointment,

golden oil, chicanery, see, we saw, we took a picture
a flash memory where some would say
*******,

I said Hallelujah

and I broke into song, not a dream,
real
life driving my 2002 escape, first new car I everowned
everowned everownd

like a chorus, everownedeverownedeverowned

could you make up a reason for life,
if you were it?
If you were all the life there ever was,

could you imagine any thing?
Object, your honor,

I object to being judged after the fact for what must have bee.n.

it is. No reason I can say, just is.

It is this way in all the myths where just is blindness

saves the carping diem fools who have convinced themselves

something other than God o' Abe 'n'em is
sworn to save us from the lies

we believed as they were
fed to us, in our youth.

--------
this is that book I mentioned wonce when winning was on my mind.

I finished this book in so many ways you wold not belive

but I did, I belived every time

I imagine you believe some real thing, touchable, tangible, good, right?

some good is
in the reality you share

with these words which
are free
you owe me nothing

That's the revealed version, to me,
I was in a number of hellish situations and the every ones,

ones seemed they was to be
forever, big every'n'ism'n'shityouknowyouknow

yo. yeah, we arrived in time. The story must

be sweet, to be true. Is that true?
Is real life the story or,

oh, you saw it conin'coming I mean

I meant I always wished to some
things
a better way. You feel me? Better, say,
what I said that made me believe this did happen.
This is a deed by whitch I am known.

And that's okeh.

I suspectred I could cast a spell to hold attention at

ten word per minute qwerty speed
five letter code groups
zero real words
ditty dum dumm ditty ditty daw dee daw
six hours every day,

then, the compass training to test for
morphic resonance with the Twins of War

{in disguise, we know, right, kids, the twins are really

the bonded quarkish oppositioned force that make the world go round.
we've known that, weaved it even, just right, in the blanket, in the rugs,
in the curtains on the walls, in the fields, on the rocks

we spoke. We see you hearing us nearing our best for your

informing, in form ation of you, dear reader. We wonce, again

if life were weird and ever wearying would we know that ever,
if we don't know it now?
if my piece of we were words alone, all my meaning
can should would could be

molding you, into our perfect reader, dear reader, Pygmalion,
yes,
that did cross my mind and that -
one can pretend with that one reference,
familiarity with Shaw whom I
thought, for some odd reason
named
Doolittle, Eliza

oh, me. I may have skipped a story. I'm soory the future is at the moment
under construction and some one
in particular is squatting

on the named domain.

Ever and forever now embody the twins as
the world turns and we ***** through the uni

as Archemides primes the pump

What a rush. All that since the bluebird this morning according to my autobiography backup.

Old Cowboys, forts and shootouts
Black for bad and White for good
With a spinning canvas background
And cactus cutouts made of wood
The desert sits behind them
Fifty yards away at most
The heroes don't ride horses
They sip drinks and sit and boast
About their celluloid adventures
singing songs all dressed in white
While behind them in the background
The stunt men do it right
A canvas background rotates
Through valleys, hills and streams
While the hero rides his deck chair
And the director yells and screams
Central casting fills the tribes out
With Italians, and made up stock
While our hero stops an avalanche
Of fake paper covered rocks
Cardboard Cut out Cactus
And heroes smiling in the sun
Most have never seen a cowpoke
Let alone shot off a gun
But, it's magic when it's finished
the dusters up there on the screen
All the fakery and snake oil
Are all hidden, never seen
The white hats beat the black hats
The hero sings and gets the girl
And the background on the spindle
Is still spinning, watch it whirl
A celluloid adventure
Cowboys no where close to what they were
But..watch the next show for a nickel
And don't forget your spurs!!!

When I was a little kid
My friends and I would play
At cowboys and Indians
In the barn with forts of hay.
We crafted guns from sticks
We found about the farm
And though we shot each other
We managed to come to no harm.

Bang, bang, bang! I got you!
No you didn’t, you missed!
The bullet whizzed by me!
You can’t see me in the mist!

Of course, if we were Indians
The same rules held true there.
You never managed to **** us
We never took your hair.
But, we knew we were villains
Because cowboys were king.
We didn’t even question it.
It was that sort of thing.

Bang, bang, bang. I got you!
Cowboys don’t ever cry.
We twist and dodge you redskins
So, don’t even bother to try.

Holding invisible reins, we rode
On our noble painted steeds.
We pretended it was the old West
Here in our playground of weeds.
Some of us had play weapons
Santa had brought to the lucky
But forcing improvisation only
Made us a lot more plucky.

Bang, bang, bang. I shot you.
You ***** lowdown rustler.
Oh, we thought of every dodge.
What young, clever hustlers.

His old mare cantered into to town
The covered wagon followed
A boy's first trip to town alone
He took it in, and swallowed

Penny candy dreams last night
And sarsparilla floats
The ladies' parasol fineries
The men in pinstriped coats

Perhaps a whiskey, what the hell
Today he was a man!
But first the livery stable for Brownie
For oats and a water can.

The .30-30 saddle gun would come with him, of course.
He also grabbed the belted Colt from the pommel of his horse.

The warped board sidewalks led past stores
His worn boots clopped along
He strapped on the .36 Navy Colt revolver
And fastened down the thong

He clopped down to the first saloon
Laid his rifle on the bar
A sporting girl sat next to him
With the unlikely name of "Star"

"A milk for the lady.
Myself as well,
Barkeep, if you please!"
A cowhand howled out raucous laughter,
Flipping up Ms. Star's dress, to well above her knees

"That little pup, he wants some milk
So Star, give him yer ****!
I'll bend him over, spank his ***
And then give YOU a treat!"

The young man's vision doubled, trebled,
The shame clear on his face
As tears welled up in big blue eyes
A witness in every soul in the place

"Aw, the little ***** is bawling! WAH!"
The cowhand bellowed out
And all false mirth left his expression
And he gave the boy a clout

The boy just sat and sobbed and watched
As Ms. Star joined in the joke
But cowhand was already 3 bottles in,
In a flash, her nose was broke

Cowhand reached across the boy
To grab that sweet, sleeved rifle
The boy grabbed cowhand's wrist just then
And twisted it just a trifle

A yelp and howl from cowhand's mouth,
"YOU BROKE MY ****** WRIST!
NOW you're ******, you little sprat"
He took a swing, and missed.

Red faced, clumsy, humiliated
He drew leather on the boy
Dead to rights, he had the kid,
He realized, with grim joy

An explosion, a thump, on warped pine floor
Blue smoke curling in the air
Utter, vapid, vacuum silence
Patrons cemented to their chair

The tears were gone from those blue eyes
Blue steel as his gaze fixed
A hole had grown in cowhand's head
The size was .36

Hopalong Cassidy

When I was a little girl
Hopalong Cassidy
Was my hero
I would watch him on the television  
Riding his horse Topper
And then
PRETEND...
Hiding behind chairs
Running from one to the other
Shooting the bad guys
With my finger gun.
One birthday my mom surprised me
With a whole Hopalong Cassidy outfit.
I had a vest with fringe,
The cowgirl skirt, the hat
And best of all
A Hopalong Cassidy WATCH
And a silver play gun in a holster
In my imagination
I WAS HOPALONG CASSIDY
Back in the 40's
IT WAS OK
To play Cowboys and Indians
IT WAS OK
To shoot the bad guys
With a finger gun
Or a silver play gun
IT WAS OK
To use the word Indians
Without offending anyone
So Sad that kids can't play
Cowboys and Indians anymore
Because you wouldn't know
If that gun was real

By judy