beyond the grave like lazarus

ain't misbehavin, sing a song for me on tortured steps and tortured ways, a way to get back, to get

Aint misbeavahin saving my love for you
sing one for me, one more time in the deep down, in the way deep down, where nothing can get at me, Blow it for me hard and tight up my bung hole so I can really feel it inside my guts and my blood so I can wail it against my bones just for the kicks and shits of it, so I can fully understand what it means when they say Its never coming back again, along that winding deep river did it blow to the deep down for me and for you Mr., didn't it say so, didn't it say so in that dark and shadowed place, didn't it say so when it was on the deep down, in the current, in the mud and the guts and the blood of it, didn't it say so in the tones on blue and gold, in the deep down inside of myself till it hurts and is bruised, and is let go inside myself, holding it inside till it burst in that rough and gravel voice and it gives me

Heebie Jeebies doesn't it Louis, doesnt it feel like some Heebie Jeebies, louis, doesn't it seem strange to blow like America does, doesn't it tell me something in my sleep Louis, tell me about America Louis, tell me how it was back then, when you had that big smile on your face Louis, tell me how it was then and there, tell me what it was like up there on that band stand looking back at all those faces in a crowd that went dark in the currents, tell me how it was singing in gravelly voice up there in America, trying to sings all those problems and those hates aways into the gravel tones of a deep down voice, in an America that has no voice, and doesn't sing for you anymore, tell them how to smile Louis, tell them how, show them the way Louis, show them how the song goes, give it to them straight but with a little bit beauty, tell me that song again, I cant quit remember it Louis, how does it go deep or does it go strong up the ass in America, or does it touch the lips Louis, far and wide like the mighty currents of those muddy tones, that goes across dusky skin, forgotten and torn and demented in a strange smile upon the band stand Louis, does it in grain me and torture me Louis, does it beseech you to do the same, but enough of that, enough of the blood and the guts, and strained eyes from the smoke, and raspy voice of your liquor falling from those wide eyes Louis, tell me that song again, tell me how it goes, tell me how

It's such a wonderful world it is, I see skies of blue and red roses too, but I'm not sure I see those roses Louis, I'm not quite sure I see them anymore, I'm not quit sure I see those blue skies, amidst the smog and the fog through dense city scrapes, stretching through miles of cars, I'm not quite sure I see it clearly Mr. I'm not quite sure it's there anymore, is it still in the sound of your voice Mr. Louis, is it still there in those tones that come out like a raspy angel, I'm not sure it is there anymore, I don't quite see it anymore, was it beautiful once, was it like that, singing to those people out there in the shadows, with laughing faces and eyes, but they seem demented out there to me Louis, they seem to have no eyes Louis when they look back at me from the haze of the smoke on wilted roses, they don't seem to be there anymore, just teeth and eyes and grins and menace that faces me like rolling soldiers on the march, with beats of the boots against the pavement and blood on there hands Louis, I don't quite see those wilted roses through those marches of the boots and the drum and drone of the city Louis, sing that song I can hear through the drone and drum, I see it but not the way you did Louis, I see those faces of teeth and grins and stone and faces against the bandstand leering and laughing and jeering, in a ghost like way of skeletal forgiveness, that is not there as they laugh over and over again but maybe there is something else there Louis in another song, over raspy bar smoked menace in the smoke, I think I see another number amongst the faces of ghosts and torment and eyes and blood and blots, hit me with another number, sing another song Louis, just for old times sakes

Like a Lazy River, in the Noonday Sun, Dream a dream for me, like a dream from another time, like a dream displaced and deferred, like a dream burning in that noonday sun, but maybe it is still there somewhere, I see it through the din and drone and drum of smoke in boots, I see that noon day sun in there somewhere, come and lay with me and understand me and tell me how it was, and how it will be Louis, sing a dream for me somewhere and anywhere that isn't here, is it a song of the old time South, and old time Hate, and old time Blood and old time Guts on the Deep Down, up a Lazy River where the Master Reigns and gives out orders at the drop of the Hat, like a chain gang, like a burning sun, up that Lazy River, is that where the Dream on a Bandstand is in amongst the smoke and the drum, is that where it is Louis, is it for old times sake, or for another sake, come and dream another dream for me Louis, give me something else, is it a river and that noonday Sun in another place, in another time, on the limitless, and ancient and immortal place, where folks are playing the fiddle and the banjo all together in the sun on another coast and in another time, on another picnic place, where the woman are gay and lively in silken white and gold dresses, of all colors and creeds and such, in a places lost behind mountains and coves, a secret place, going down the Rabbits Hole, going around the bend, tell me about that place Louis, tell me that's where it is Louis, around that bend, where the people are all together in that Noon Day Sun, dreaming dreams in that lazy sun around the bend in that river and eating barbecue on a Dream of another tip, in another Land, tell me that is that Dream Louis, not a dream deferred of old time hate and Blood, tell me it ain't Louis, tell me it's in another Land and in another place and time around that Bend Louis, give it to me Straight, I can take it, but I can't see that anymore Louis, it was a little too hazy for me from all that cigarette smoke, I got those blues Louis, I can't see that noon day Sun and that far off Land, I got the blues Louis,

I got those West End Blues, Louis. I got the West End Blues, I got the deep down Blues from the End of the West Louis, I cant see that Sunny Land anymore you were talking about where the Master Reigns with the Whip in the Cotton Fields, I can't see that Noon Day Sun Louis, all I can see is the bottom of this Glass right here Louis, that is all I'm caring about right now Louis, so play me some of the Blues, so I can get fast and loose and forget all those things we were talking about and just drown down at the bottom of that muddy river, drown down there at the bottom like the bottom of this glass, down there way down deep in the darkness Louis, where we can't see anything at all, play me some of the Blues Louis, I know you got them too, with that raspy voice and the way your looking on the bandstand with that big smile on your face, but you can't fool me Louis, you got the blues, I know you do, because this right here Louis is at the end of the West right here Louis, the end of all those Western Civilization things Louis, all those things propped up like some salt on the tip of my tongue as I feel it going down with that hard liquor Louis, this is where it all goes South, that Decline I'm telling you Louis, and you know it too, it's in there when your singing Louis, its in there in those Blues you were giving up on that Bandstand, I know you got those Blues hard I can see it in those blood shoot eyes because you been smoking too much Louis, tell me its not the end, Louis, tell me its not at the Western End of Things, tell me it's where it all begins again Louis, tell me something so I can feel it, not those Noon Day Sun type of things, let me really feel it down deep, something really down deep in my bones, on the edge of Zion type things, the End of the World Blues is what I got Louis, No I'm not playing, these are thing you don't play around with, these are the real things, on the tip of my tongue like Saint Louis, like those blood shot ring in your eyes when your singing those Blues, that had me thinking about those end of the world blues, to gather myself against and within and torch them through this drink of mine, and injest them into to my vein when you weren't looking because I know you don't like them types of things Louis, but I just do it so you won't see, so when you turn around I'll do it then when you don't see, when you don't see anymore because I know you got those Blues Louis, I know you really do, but just sit down right here, and pour yourself a drink because it will be alright in the end, it will be alright in the end, or that's just what we have to tell ourselves, we just have to keep telling ourselves that, but we just have those blues at the end of the western end, that's all there is to it, but get up there and sing those blues so we can forget, and I can look down into this glass Louis, and dream a dream away from here, and see those skies so blue and red roses too and that noon day sun on another tip Louis, play it so I can forget this nightmare of an American type, but its been so long now, its been so long now, but I think I can see that noon day sun now Louis, I think I can see it, its off to that west it is, I can see it, ya there it is, right there, I got it, I hit that right vein, I got it. Keep singing , Louis, Keep singing. I got it.




TORRENT. TORTURE> AND FAITH. In fingertips of release and blood and guts and those soldiers on the MARCH. But where are they going on the endless inner conflict and ecstasy divine treated as such. Such. Suchness. Such is life and death and release and endless CHORUS. Of suchness. And divine. Targets for our enemies to touch and to embrace. And to seize upon in boots. The march. Endless. Suchness. Ferment. On the inside. Or is it on the outside. I forget like ants caught in the web. Eating each others arms and legs in evidence concurrences. Of whom you are and what you aint' spit that game like it was twenty years ago to this day. When east point smoked some dank. And you were there to the touch. To the song that has no end. The endless march of suchness in breath and release and feeling and given torrents that come when they want to and when they dont at tall for all there is to blow on something that cannot give back. But is endless like the eyes. Blood guts march. Torture. Arms. Golden seized. Given. In conflict. War. Disgrace. Anger. Madness. Blood and guts and the march that is on the inside. Will it ever stop. Will it always be there. Is it in us. Is it us. Like the virus and like the decay of the skeleton of the blackness of the corpse. It is there in the corpse like the day of the day when all the corpses dance like wolves in the snow like a flake when that little drop of blood saw into the snow and then you forgot to be like that little drop of blood inside of that snowflake on the ground when it all came out upon the snow as that enemy marched through that snow with tortured boots and ripped up uniforms from seeing brains spattered and matted into hair as they fucked each other and tore at each other in the blood of the snow and on the endless they marched like a raven drop of torture and blood and guts and marching with bare feet on darkness with blood and drops and little repeats happened patterns emerged in the snow as the things caught on fire with in that darkness and within that snow and mouths of wolves and the raven lead by a demon with one eye in between them forward they marched a fiery hordes still one eye leading them like packs of wolves decayed and embraced for all those who see and to feel and to give and see, as the blood fell on the snow and the fire but raged within and without but for no other reason which I could discern and see but then I saw fire before the army of hordes, armies of silence, upon the bloodless snow in screams and agony they came upon the fire that turned to something else entirely because it feel like water as those skeletons turned to light and feel inside of themselves like flesh that gave to the light of the day, and upon the sands of waters it gave to something that had flesh inside of it like a flesh egg, a deviant beautiful sun feel upon the hordes like warmth and decay on the suchness of the water, in harmony and pattern that was broken and with truce of the discord as it marched and gave way to something else entirely foreign to itself, broke and gave way like a torrent of another kind, in another land that was once and the same, was once and the same, the suchness of all being with within the light and within the waters of all times and then some, to release into the hordes of bloodless day and bloodless night they came and they went, and they saw and the patterns emerged from without restraint and without feeling and governed without they came and went and saw in the waters of the bloodless hordes that had turned into the ever forgiven light on this side of the moon, on this side of the darkness that has no decay, that nothin. NON BEING. but itself to turn inward upon, the revolving, the blood that thwarts, that mixing and that snow and in that sand, on either side of a coming, that march on that follows each other, like that damn snake eating at itself, eating at itself, eating at itself in the suchness, of another time and on another tip, and on this they came and they went like ghost of the wolves, and raven that the bird that was in the sun, with the feathers golden, feather golden, and beaks of light it was to feel to the sand and pecked at itself like a chicken in the dust, in the heavens, it pecked at itself like golden light within the dust, as it turned inward on itself and it gave way from the inward from the decay of the darkness and the marching hordes that came upon them in the grace and in the name of the lord it came in the light from out of the darkness and gave way to something else entirely from which it came, because it came form the blood and it came from the darkness and the snow, it came out entirely from something of which it was not, it was not, it was not but the suchness that is, that is, that is doomed to display and go and go, when it wants too and when it is met at the right time, and in the right sequence, in the patterns that are always there in plane sight and they merge together in the BLOOD. And GUTS and intestines, moving together. Marching in the snow on blood into the light. Into the light and into the suchness. Always marching. Death cometh and light endth. Such is suchness. Such is suchness. Such it is, and such is such. such is nothing. As the horde moves on. Inside. Outside. Always.


A Magical Night at the Fishing Pier and the Terror Child

A Magical Night at the Fishing Pier and the Terror Child at the Restaurant, as it was underneath the strange green lights that illuminated the water, shining into that water that was underneath the pier, showing those voracious fish that were chasing those smaller fish in that game of survival, and as a porpoise swam around them like an elegant mermaid in that water, as I watched his ethereal form move and come in front of me, and it all seemed like a dream out there on that fishing pier out there in the Gulf in the Warm Wind, and you were with your Dad, that Father that had just got diagnosed with cancer, and he seemed like he never wanted to return and he never wanted to leave from out at that pier, like the old man and the sea out there at that pier, fighting with those voracious fish out there hitting the water, as you fished into the long night that seemed like an eternity that night underneath those strange translucent lights that gleamed into the water, but that was after, that was after all the fun with that little boy that was grown up to be a terror of the high seas himself, and my brother throwing him over his shoulder as he screamed bloody murder in one of those docked side sea food restaurants, those ubiquitous places that are all over the beach road down along the Gulf, one of those crab shacks, where they don't give you spoons or forks and you just bust into one of those crabs and kick back with a beer, with the other tourists families trying to escape their lives on the mainland, as that little boy wanted his present from me, and that's what started all the trouble, because before when he was like one years old I would give him a gift and it seemed fun and a nice thing to do, but now the boy expects his gift and demands it when he wants it, and when I made a little joke thinking it wasn't that big of deal, and told him I didn't have any present for him this time he just lost it, and looking like he was about to cry as he just put his head down on the table, like a dejected three year old, like his damn world had come crashing down to earth, and some might say like myself that the little man is a bit spoiled now, but I still like giving him little things, and maybe I started the problem anyway, as he had to go outside and he had to cool down before he could come back inside and climb on the walls near the photos of all the celebrities like 80s rockers that had come down to this sleepy little Gulf Town on the coast, to get away from life, to get away from life's problems, just like we were doing, accept not really saying anything about it, just trying to act like it was normal and nothing was wrong, and not trying to face up to the facts, but to escape them in this Crab Shack on Beach Boulevard, as the little terror went over to another table with some younger couples who were looking to have kids themselves, as my brothers wife was talking to them and was talking to them abut babies, and letting them hold my brothers second child, as the little terror man went and sat with them, still dejected from not getting his present, as my brother looked at him ready to pounce again at the slightest provocation, as the couple at the next table tried to cheer him up but it wasn't doing any good, and I went outside and decided to give him his little gift right then and there afraid of another meltdown from the boy, as I went out there looking at the ships and the sails, and feeling the wind and gravel that was oyster shells in this sleepy Gulf Town, and setting off the car alarm but nobody really cared, as I got the boy his Pokemon cards, the only real thing he cares about in the world, not playing soccer with my Brother as his coach as he refuses to play and go in the game, maybe hes too young to play, maybe he doesn't have much interest as they bribe him with those Pokemon superheroes that he mimics from the sidelines of that Soccer Game that he shows no interest in, but that boy is living in another time like a social experiment he is with his IPAD stuck in his face at all times, but my brother has banned his use to try to get him off the machine, and thats another reason that the night at the Crab Shack on Beach Boulevard has gone so wrong that I had to run to get his Pokemon Cards and set off the car alarm to appease that terror of the high seas, was because that boy didnt have his IPAD to look at all the commercials for toys that he wants for Christmas over and over again like it's just set on mass consumation repeat as he stares in wonder at those things he doesn't have, because another night after this one where we went to another tourist sea food shack at a marina he had that IPAD looking at those toy commercials and we didn't hear a peep out of the boy, it was like he wasn't even there at all, but that boy needed his Pokemon cards now, that spoiled little IPAD boy, but he thinks I'm like his Uncle Santa Claus and you can't let the boy down now can you, as I handed him his cards and he busted them open at the table and him and my Brother scoured over them, because my brother likes them almost as much as the terror boy does, remembering vacation trips with that blond boy in the back with a toothless grin on a gameboy in the 90's playing his little pokemon game and a terror his own self, and feeling older, and out of touch in this small gulf Town with that boy and your brother sorting out those Pokemon Cards on the table, and your Dad diagnosed with Cancer coming down here as his last resort almost to do what he wants to do, almost like its his birthday, but its not his birthday, its before he starts his radiation and chemotherapy, but such is the way life roles out, as we leave that Crab Shack on Beach Boulevard and go looking at some Bait Shops, looking at crabs eating fish heads, shrimps swimming around in the tubs, with old hands with tattoes on their backs and with leathery skin cleaning up the floors and spraying them down, as we get the bucket of fish to be used as bait, as they die in the back of the car where my Father looks too tired and worn and not really wanting to go anywhere, but he has to do this it seems, the old man has to conquer the sea, and never go home till he's had his fill, as we go out there like conquering warriors on the hunt, in the night, as my Father looking like a tourist weekeneder, with his floppy hat and khaki shorts, with his cart that he pulls behind him that makes all kinds of racket, as we pay the man at the front of the pier in his empty office, that doesn't have a stitch of furniture, a lonely life of the pier man, not paying much, in his empty shack staying up late to take peoples money so they can fish the pier, in the night, as he watches his little TV in the empty office, with pictures of peoples fish they caught, the big ones on the wall, but that is it in that empty shack, as he doesn't lift his head from his TV as me and the Father start heading down the Pier making all kinds of racket as we head down it, and everybody we pass we say hello, we say hello to all these characters on the Pier out here, and you see the people strolling, the couples that are together, and the drunken young people cracking jokes to themselves as they go past you in this different kind of life out at the pier in the night, and the older people just watching for dolphins and just enjoying a strolll along the pier, and then there are the fishermen, the ones that have already staked out there spots along each individual lights like territorial hunters guarding their prey, but each character you pass you give a little greeting too, and they are a motely sort these strange Pier fishermen, silent faced Hispanic fishermen with their wives greeting you with a nod of their head, as they listen to their music on a radio they brought along, chunking out big pieces of cut up fish they handle with a butcher knife on top of a cooler, a couple of drunken buddies laughing as they toss in their line and look back to us as my Father calls, out, “You had any luck yet?” and they tell us nothing yet, just some small sandies, talking in the fishermen lingo about those voracious fish underneath us, chasing out the smaller fish, as that dolphin circles underneath us, underneath those strange green lights, as he makes his port hole sounds as he comes up for air, and we see an older couple call out as they stroll, “There he is Barbara. Did you see him. He was right next to us.” as the elusive porpoise disappears again, and there are familes out there staked out underneath the lights and the kids with their small fishing poles, and the father trying to tell him how to do it, just like we tried to teach that little Terror boy how to fish the day before, and how he held the Fishing Pole that my father gave him, and he had a bite, and he caught a little fish, and he held it like that little Dr. Doolittle Boy he is, because if he is one thing, he isn't afraid of anything that slithers or slides around on scales, or any creepy crawling things that's for sure, as the little fish was flopping around, and we kept him in a bucket, so the little boy could throw him in the sand and look at him before he finally flopped back into that vicous surival sea from which he came, but now it was just the darkness of the fishing pier under those strange green lights that attracts those voracious fish, as we staked out your piece of territory on that pier to see what we could do and what we could catch, and to see what the hunters would bring home, to survive or to die, and to nevver come back from that fishing Pier, to be out there for eternity, to live that night over and over again, as those little dead bait fish in our bucket were struggling for survival because this is the world that we live in, this was the pier world that we were born into, this incubator of life and death under those strange green lights, as we started catching some of those small voracious little fish, and my Father was just in Heaven out there, but just for that one night, as those strollers would pass us, and you could hear them still looking for that dolphin as he came up for air around us, and those young girls giggling, as they were talking about some boy, and those drunken buddies, going from spot to spot, and having a time, and those Hispanic familes still listening to their music, and we still hunted on our little piece of territory on that fishing pier, and we were still there, as the people slowly drifted away, slowly dragging their things away, and slowly the strollers weren't there anymore, and there were just a few diehards out there on that fishing pier still looking for something but they didn't know what it was they were really looking for, maybe just acting out age old questions out there, in the darkness with the sea, and that dolphin underenath those man made lights, with just the Father and myself, and it was like he didn't want to come home that night, as we stayed out there till there was only the silence of the wind and the silence of the sea as the tide began to come in, and the wind blew against your face, and your body started to tire, but you couldn't even tell what time it was out there, in the darkness, in the ocean wildenerss in this small sleepy gulf town, that doens't seem to exist anymore, only in my dreams, and there is only the old man and the sea out there on that silent fishing Pier, fighting for survival like those little vicious fish underneath those man made lights, and that dolphin like some kind of mermaid from another planet, underneath that pier circling, telling us something, but I don't know what it is, some kind of question, that we don't really hear anymore, the calling for the sea, the calling for eternity, and the old man and the sea that never wants to leave, and maybe he'll be out there forever, but only in my dreams.


Jack Tales

Those triples and those Jack Tales in weird symbiosis and Long Hard Hitters moralizing to me

engrained in the confusion of existence

coming for me

coming for personal understanding

and steady manifestations of the same thing

played out on the eons

stars to the concords

sequencing like DNA


out of this world

inward and outward

and in fathoms

but really just to the small

really just small understandings

small things about yourself

that you really want to know

really want to try and understand

meaningless moments

in the circle

in the triad

those triples of this life

past present future

life death and in between

the sky and the earth and

the darkness

young kind of old and


to discovery

the yin and the fucking yang

played out

in the trepidations

and plagues

that are coming for me

taking me to the afterlife

but only after I get some understandings

about this here life

and its after effects

when I'm gone

and not coming back

not rented to the highest bidder

but to the lowest

flows and ebbs

the sphinx

the mysteries

like elysium

fathoms and tapestries

cycles like seasons

on the endless


but wonder at the beauty

dont never forget it

go back the grind

to eternal bliss

eternal bliss at death

at it allegiance

and its giving

at you the animal

as the planets move and you look

up into the stars

into that SUN of RA

that after living and

ever living

the serious movements

the serious demonstrations

turbulent harpsichords

turbulent displays

triumphant displays

giving it overflowed producing it


in the wonder

underneath where those fairies are

singing to darkness with their little dances and


where Jack saw them

and talked with them

until they went back into their little mounds

and Jack played with himself

whack a mole his cock

thinking about those little Fairies

in their darkness

he thought about his own faults and deficiencies

as a human being

but then he wondered if they were deficiences at all

just apart of his nature

and Jack accept it as apart of himself

and just did what the little fairies told him really

nothing less and nothing more

but he did want to participate in life so

he did so

those were all the things that he wanted out of life

but then maybe he would forget how to live

and wondered about that as well

but the Sphinx rose over him and over it all

with his riddles and her voice

as Jack ventured near and far

looking for the answers to this life and the next

and he met that riddle head on

he met it at the beginning and at the middle, and

at the end, and all the hardness and the softness

in between, and thousands of years in between

did Jack see as he went

and he met the dragon down under the sea

with his legions of fishes and sea creatures

and Diamonds, in his eyes, like flashes of Lightning,

and he see and play his old fiddle

to that dragon underneath the sea in displays of

Lightning and Thunder,

did he display it, as that dragon underneath the sea with

eyes like fire, as that dragon

gave old Jack a Diamond as big a round as his head,

and jack was very covetous of that Diamond,

as he gaze up into it, and found himself in a deep well,

where a Creature he had never seen before was guarding over

that well, that well that sat under that ocean, for that Diamond

from that Dragon brought him here, and there was some acorns and nuts

in that water and Jack thought they might be good, as he took some bites

of those nuts that the Strange Monster had dropped in the well

and told him to eat, that Strange Monster that had blood on his lips,

and looked like a Giant and that there Giant challenged him,

to play a ball game to the Death, for if he lost that Giant told

he wouldnt never see his family again,

but if he won that he would let me see the Spider Woman, on the other side

of the world,

so Jack told that there Monster, that there Giant with Blood dripping

from his lips, and he told him he would play his old Ball Game,

and they played and that Giant shook the earth with his playing,

with his Blood a dripping from that Ball as he shook the earth,

and Jack was playing and he was losing bad, till he saw, a Big Eagle

swoop down from the sky, with Lightning in that old Birds Eyes,

and Jack did think it strange to himself, to see that old Bird take off with

that Ball, and take Jack up there with him, and didnt he see the whole place

out there in the Sky,

and that Big Bird dropped him off at the Mountain,

where the Spider Lady was,

and old Jack thought to himself, here we go again,

another Monster for him what to out wit, and

find some more knowledge that he was looking for,

but didnt you know it, that Spider Lady was the most Pretty

woman he had ever gazed on before, and that Spider Lady told him

about another old Friend she knew, but old Jack was awful tired,

and did he just wish to go on home so he could see his Ma

and told her about all the wonders that he did see went he sat out

just to go get him some firewood, so old Jack schemed something from that old

Spider Lady, he schemed up something to trick her good, as he told her,

he knew a big old Giant and wasn't he the most handsomest Fellar you ever did see,

and that Spider Lady needed her an old man to tote her firewood around for her,

dont you know so she fell right in Jacks old scheming, as he got out that Diamond, and told her to look real hard till she saw that old Giant, as Jack lit out like you wouldn't believe.

Yes Sir, he did. He lit out back home, and told his Ma about all those wonders he did see,

but she just through up her hands, and told him she had some stew on the fire, and had

been waiting for the kindling, so she could cook the rest of that stew, as Jack

sat and wondered lookin far out to those hills, about all those wonders he had seen.

Did he wonder. Yes Sir he did.


those blues

Good night Irene good night

the layers if relationships in life in the dark and in that midnight

I'll see her in my dreams about an hour ago that's right when you were yelling

and screaming at each other

Here's your damn tickets he said

Get out and never come back

That's what I said Irene

That's right

And nothing left but our emptiness

About desolation and lonely

Like you in empty apartment rooms

Long and long away from her

Let's fight like the damnedest

And forget it all happened

Be sure thats just the way

It works Irene

Because I'm saying where did you sleep last night


Girl of wretched existence beating the brains against walls and steering wheels from a distance

In those pine trees wrapped in silver on translucent highways and byways

On skyways Irene

In pines and tapestries

Electric woven in the darkness

With out on brand of madness

Given away for nothing and our own destruction

Yelling at each other for nothing Irene

Singing for nothing and tore and cut each other because of where did you sleep last night

Up in those lines that look down on us from that plane as it gathers in the fog and the rocky flight

There we were together

With memories like rages and current as you go against it and against each other over and over again like physical displacement furthering that current of destruction

Of pines and memories

Gave to me

It was ever apparent

In that look she gave me

Oh Irene. It you saved in that moment that I thought them damn dark thoughts about you Irene like you were gone and never to be found buy only in my dreams

And darkness of demented sexuality

and Of emotions

Never to be uttered

But together again



Where did you go

About a longs ways away from here did you go

Up in the darkness sky

In those electric lights

Seen from an aeroplane

Over that city in them pines

And on those lights of a million highways and byways

Where did you go

And when are you coming back

Probably not for a while

My my girl

Dont lie to me

It's going to be a while I know

Solemn rainy night in Georgia

Long days work

Busting your ass for what

In what angle

Can't really see it

Lonely over telephone

Can't really get at life only live it

In true tones

Different people everybody

All jumbled up

Thrown together

Sometimes not understanding

But still there existential

Moments are there


To and fro

You go like a loop


People talking

But alone


Listening to music

Talking on the phone again and again

With your own problems

Tearing you apart

But still there in those hushed tones

Of this life moving and you giving only to be taken away

A watcher of this life

In the bus

At work going

With your family away

Over phones and videos you see

Life but do you really or a forced

It's raining outside

You cook and clean

For the self

Everyday occurrences

In a new South lonely

Trivial existence

In a blurred tapestry

You are caught


I'm a city like back in the day

It occurs to you

But it leaves you before you get there completely

Alienated from the most basic human afflictions

Love and pain

Over blurred lines

Fleeting relationships

Mere acquaintances

Many faces

But get along in spaces

Away from each other

Buy maybe that's just me

In hushed displaced tones

High out of your mind

Because of what you can't remember

Songs on repeat as you go to work

Body on repeat as you die slowly and are afraid of everything

About it

Anxiety of modern occurrences

Violence of what to come

People can't see


To the real occurrence

Judge for what is real

But you can't because you are blind


And out if touch

Comic in relief

Fathoms of your own mind

Songs to your own mind

On the way to work

Silence in your own head

Alienated from ones own body

And scars

Keep in all together

So you can keep it from falling apart

On your drive to work

Tired and worn

Displaced at your own existence

Tortured soul

Forgotten sworn forgiveness

Solace in your car

Solace in exhaust fumes and

Anxiety and your own loneliness

Cast in another light

Cast so that you might truly understand what it means

To do this everyday

worn down blues

feeling tired and worn down all the time

all the way down to the ground

almost in the grave

or is that just how it is after being driven down by life

tortured and subdued

clawed and restored and sorted too

its always there when you go down

its always there when you see for yourself

how this thing really works

when you see what life is really like

when your in this life

for what seems like not really that long

because its not really

its but a short little journey

to nowhere


and nowhere for too long

until your thrown back in the grave

sentenced to a short and rather lonely life

you see how it is

your burnt down and then your on down gone

going forth to somewhere but you just dont know where

its somewhere

in the sky

and in the darkness

probably not that far away

maybe closer than you think

an unkept place

maybe just like the lonely room where you are now

you own personal tomb

for the wayward and the lost amongst the brow

a place in this short life

to get away from it all in its shortness and impropriety

and disgusted contempt and love you have for the world

in which you invest in and sentence down upon you

and you know about directions in this life,

and you know about the empty death things that is there

an empty vessel

the skeleton

that is the march of sweet time

placed but no really heard

worn down

fathomed in currents

and placements

just like you thought it was and given to the proper authorities

you might one day meet your maker

if you trust in the maker

if he or she doesn't deceive


but you saw him

he was displayed in an empty vessel

he or she is you

you are the empty vessel

like the walking dead you go about life

driving in your car

something hustled up

in a blur

those directions

and those decisions about where its all going

and thats what you thought about

when you were meeting friends who you havent

seen a while

you were thinking about those directions

the curvy and listless current of this

life as it wounds

around your thumb

and expending itself

and releasing itself,

in those winding currents

and you thought about this as

you sat on a friends couch

and you thought he was dying the other day

as he texted from his hospital bed

a friend who is alone

in some hospital bed in the city

that city of damn many people

who dont really give a damn

those blur people

and we talked about the old days

be gone days

good times

but talking how life catches up to you sometimes

and nothing you can really do about it

just is what it is in that blur people

highways and apartments

like mists in the darkness

both worn down by life,

in this blur and out of the element

out of tune

with that moving on

but talking about those days that went behind

as you made those decisions

and you lived with themselves but we are out of sorts and hanging by little threads

on these highways and blurs and torments

to you and demands upon you and given to you

because you are the one living

this life and not someone else

as you carrying on because you have to

because its what everybody else does

as you sat on that couch

and just talked because you havent seen each other in a while

and there you were

and both of you still alive

and your friend out of the hospital

and you a living person

not the zombie in his tomb forever presented himself

disgusted at the mere sight of himself

rolling rocks up hills and back down again

presented with his own mortality but disgusted with his own presence

falling down and inward

given way to nothingness but

but there you were still living in amongst the blur

talking about them old days

sitting on couches

struggling to get by

things closing in on youngsters that arent young anymore

and having those scars of life led

and on screens



like bits

and in cars

in neighborhoods with families

and you with you friend from way back

with scars on your faces

from the life that you have lead

and bleed out and given up

all the course of the years

that are showing on both your faces


old Gs from days gone by

sentenced to the curses from the decade that was

still players in this game

still hanging on for something

trying to make it in this world

and even though we changed

and done grown up and moved away

and came back

and still grasping and

still hustling

still meeting different people

on different jobs

but still have love

for the game as it is played

poorly and without remorse


like ghosts that don't know each other

ghosts over computer screens

that get into touch

with each other from the years

and those people that have moved

on with families or died, or great or gay

or straight, but have changed

for it all

faces like yearbooks that pass

changes but still young

and in them days that really dont seem that far away

like a blink of an eye

on this grind

that is life, that is trying to kill you

trying to place you in the grave

and you think you have moved

on and you think you have changed

but maybe you havent as much as you think

as you talk about looking at yourself in the mirror

and not recognizing that person for who he is and what he became a lot time

ago in them wild years, over the years with scars to prove it

as you laugh about some shit

and forget about some shit

tell yourselves some shit to keep it all moving on down the line

invested in the future like you were invested in the past

and maybe not at all

but changes shit,

its been a lot

but maybe none at all

hard to say because all these years have passed

lead you on down the road

running from the curse

running from whats coming

and always coming

even though you try not to see it

as you tell your friend, that young G

that is now old and out of sorts

looking for those decisions and wondering where his

life all lead too,

in that hospital bed


and wanting connections

in them old days

over text

over something that didnt exist,

something that was there, in those youngster days

as you talk about it

and just glad to still just be living one more day,

changes shit,

there they are, as you go back to the grind that is killing you and killin us all

making us fat and happy and decrepit

but it is what it is

and what it will always be


like scars showing us where we been

but more and more alone everyday

and wondering where the time went

and if we can have it back

a longing for them days

a longing to go back to those days

but they are gone like memories and blurs

in highways of lives and decision made

in this worn down life,

grinding life,

two young G's

played out and changed, wondering where the time


it went away and never coming back

just in scars and worn down faces

of friends,

in angry rants, on telephone and over text

about the shit that is going down in this world


all alone,

in this blurred out world

and not understand

and trying to find that direction

but there isn't any

its just life

gone past,



star wars and out of sorts 60th birthday

BACK FROM TEXAS, Back from the Family as your Dad turns 60, and it makes you that much older, Back from my Mom's gray haired Hippy friends, back from being drugged up at STAR WARS, back from that little boy again, that little monster as you played Batman and Mr. Freeze as he has grown up and talks to you about “I built Mamma a new apartment, but it's on fire, and I have the firetruck right here to save it.” back from that Train that you rode through that park in San Antonio where that little boy was trying to stick his head out of the train and get it knocked off, back to feeling hungover as you met your Dad coworkers at his new job at the Texas Government where they are young and millennials and the little boy was kissing the Hispanic secretaries, and a nice restaurant where your non stop Mother got us reservations a place with no kids menu as the little boy played on his Ipad and we worried if he was going to tear up the place, Back from the place where you Grandmother isn't around anymore except in the ground over by the park where that train was riding around over, back from your Moms Hippy Friends that came to the 6oth birthday party and are still in Bands, as they played their guitars in my moms new swanky apartment with the older wealthy country people who probably didnt like these guitar playing hippies playing like it was outside at a campfire, and they were handing out pot brownies and drinking whiskey, and once again you went on the BINGE, and you couldn't help yourself, you told yourself before you went, that you didn't want to drink that much or get messed up, but it didn't help yourself with your anxiety that comes out in your drunken life of the party redneck self that binges to hide his insecurity and his golden god syndrome, but my bored Mother who has retired from her job and moved back to the great red state of Texas has been bored lately I think since she has moved back into this next realm of her life, that aging realm, that retired realm, but in her boredom, she through a surprise birthday party for my Dad who doesn't really go for that type of thing, but will indulge her, but with my mother is always turns into some kind of reunion for her old college friends and it was a strange mix at my dads birthday party, there was his side of the family who I hadn't seen in two years maybe, they’re a bit more conservative, a bit more so called Texan, my crossed eyed older Cousin with a drinking problem with his older women who always take care of him, “Its nice to see you, Ryan. How long has been damn it. You got to come up and see my Spread. I'm telling you it's damn nice up there.” and meeting his new girlfriend who had just gotten over Cancer with thinning hair and a supporter of Donald A. Trump, but it didn't matter that night because everybody put all that away for just a little bit, and my Moms old College friends, what an assortment they were, bringing there guitars, with there long gray hair, now college professors, and there was one of her friends his name is Derek and I new him since I was a kid, and used to take road trips with my parents, and shorter guy, with a soup patch underneath his chin, a musician, who plays the accordion, and the guitar and every year holds soiree in Big Bend National Park in the Desert, and he speaks real slow, but I always had good memories of him but that's all they were was memories really, because I don't know him anymore really, because were talking about things now and not when I was a kid, talking to this binge drinking Redneck kid grown up, but its just like were strangers in a way, because in a way i'm strangers to all these people, because i just don't see them that often, as it started off kind of awkward but then everybody was mixing together, as the alcohol was flowing, and they got out the guitars, and my moms friends were passing out pot brownies, as we listened to their music as they serenaded us with their guitars like it was a hippy shindig out in texas, and with your drunken self, talking big to your cross eyed cousin as you sang and let yourself go in that hippy serenade with the accordion, and in the circle as you hung out with your moms friends on your Dads 60th birthday party, and you told stories, with your crossed eyed redneck cousin and his new girlfriend, and your lesbian cousin who went on the Oprah show, and your other cousin who had been in prison on meth charges but has two good kids and works for a trucking company now, but we were telling stories and that's what they do, in between binges and addictions and so forth, and lesbianism, you have those memories, and its good to get around and tell some of them, some of them you never knew before or never heard before, like my Dad finally opening up about his own Dad, and telling some of those horror stories about how his Mother and Dad fighting when they were drunk all the time, and in the military, I always thought of it kind of like the Great Santini or something, but maybe not quite that dramatic but maybe a little bit darker, but its good to hear those things so you can put your identity quest back in order, and think about those things about your identity through your Dad and his wayward family of addiction and madness and stories, but it was all mixing together at that little shindig in their new apartment, as my Mother begins her pseudo retirement and boredom, and my Dad struggles to fit in with his new job being the old man manager trying to deal with those millennials who have their own schedules and their own way of doing things, at his job at the Texas Government and water management down on the San Antonio River, dealing with the youngsters with their arrogance and their creativity, but it was all mixing together at that party, and people put away all their non sense for one night, all their anger, and their politics and all that jazz, to eat pot brownies and sing music with guitars and accordions, and I talked to those aging Hippies who were all about California and the West, and some of them were College Professors, and Teachers, and they have an album and they are still doing there thing, as we sung like we were in choir with those aging hippies and that addicted family from my Dads side, with those people for Trump, and those for Bernie, until my Dad got tired of all that folky music with guitars and I passed out on the Couch, till out of sorts from just getting off a plane, and coming into town, and then when you woke up and that little boy was there playing with his toys and playing his imaginary games, just like you and your brother did back in the day, and now since my mom has moved back to the promised Land, her own personal place of Heaven that state of Texas, she has another job, beside trying to write some book on what she did her Thesis on in History about some rancher out in West Texas, a real hoot as they say, some real character out there in the middle of nowhere, but now it is her job, to take care of that boy, be his teacher and his day care, and god bless my moms soul she has as much energy as that boy does, and more, dragging him around to all kinds of places day after day, and probably seeing things he never even dreamed of, because most of the time, he just sat around with my brother who did his homework and sat in his haze, but was more of a home body, and doesn't get out much sometimes, so my mom is showing that boy the world now, and he sleeps nice and easy let met tell you after a day with my mother, and she even took him with us when we went out to eat at some fancy mexican restaurant down in San Antonio where we went to see my Dads job, and meet all his Millennial coworkers, and we went to some place, where he usual goes with the bigwigs at his job, those higher ups, that actually my Dad gets along with better, because he is the same age as they are, and he has that experience that they have, so he gets along with them just fine, but not those Millennial folks like me or partly, as we led that little boy around at my Dads job, and all the secretaries were oohing and ahhing over him and giving him candy, as I talked to those Millennials or attempted to but I was a bit under the weather, from that night before, and from the weekend long binge I had on pot brownies but more on that later, more on my out of sorts state of mind later, more on my loneliness from my family later, and disconnect from another place, to another time later on, but as I lead that boy around with him holding my hand, as we went around and met everybody, and those Millennials who don’t like my dads old school managerial style, from a different time and place, but then we went to the fancy Mexican place where people were in suits and big wigs making deals, and there we were because my mom thought it would be a great place and it wasn't too bad, but there we were a hungover and out of sorts aging son, and the little boy in a place where they didn't even have kids menus, but we just gave him a IPAD, and they fangled up some high chair out of thin air, and he did alright and the food was good, and then we took him to the train ride that goes through a park in San Antonio and the boy does love trains, and it was a cloudy and overcast day, and my heart was kind of gloomy from what happened that night before, as that train goes around from the zoo to different stops like the botanical gardens, and maybe even over by where my Grandma is buried, and back to that time where my life got off that proverbial track but here I am, riding that train with that little boy, that great lover of trains, because we have been on a few of them now, and soon that will pass in the realm of memory, to be talked about at drunken parties maybe for the ones that are still alive to pass on those stories, because that's what its all about right, but I kept telling him to not stick his arms and legs out of the train before they get knocked off, as we looked at the trash strewn in the scrub oaks and the driving range where they were nailing golf balls in that overcast sky and that train even stopped so that teenager could make a fueling pit stop, like it was a real damn train, but that was what the boy wanted, on that overcast day, with your overcast countenance, hanging up in that sky somewhere, as you came back in that traffic and the boy slept, and you drove back to a place that was different now, a place that you didn't quite recognize anymore, that place where your Grandmother used to live, on an exit on that highway, that you don't get off on anymore, on that Highway 35 coming straight out of Mexico, you don't get off on that exit anymore, you don't see that house anymore, in the summer of green lawns, and your Grandmother with her cut off pants in 1950's style, and Ronald Reagan views, but its not there anymore, as you go back to that apartment that sits on the river like a retirement home for my Mother, and its just not the same anymore, and that was the theme for me at this 60th birthday party for my Dad in that new apartment, because that night before, we and my brother went to see Star Wars, and I had been waiting to see it forever and he had already seen it, so he was just going to see it again for me, and they have a new movie theater a Drafthouse type movie theater, where you sit and eat and drink and be merry, a very adult movie theater, where there is no commercials before the movie really, just funny you tube videos and made up stuff, and hipster tarantino type things, and it didn't use to be there, it used to be another movie theater there, a regular movie theater, where one time you had puked in it, because you had the flu, but it was different now, but the problem was those damn pot brownies those aging hippies and college professors had brought with them, you had been nibbling on them for a couple of days after that party, and you thought they didn't do much, and weren't too bad, so maybe you could eat a little bit more, just to see Star Wars, that movie that your mom had waited in line for back in the 70s, with those aging stars that came back for one more round, when my Moms friend s were young and in college, as that generation aged on the screen, and you were there with your brother, who you don't talk too much with anymore, and you don't see him too much anymore, and your out of touch with him anymore, who eats pot brownies like they were going out of style, but there you were trying to get some brotherly bonding, when it happened, you felt kind of funny in that movie theater, a little out of sorts, maybe its because I have been having more anxiety lately, when I had a sort of mental break down before, and thought you were dying, and going to the hospital and trying to find out what was wrong with you, and maybe those pot brownies didn't do you too well as you were sitting there watching Star Wars, in that movie theater, that used to be another movie theater, with people you didn't recognize anymore, in a place that wasn't that same, as you told your brother you had to go to the bathroom, but really you went outside and just sat out on a park bench outside of that movie theater where they have a bar connected to it, and you told the portly be goggled hipster that you were stepping outside and if that was ok, and that you didn’t feel well, and maybe you had that flu just like you had before along time ago, but you didn't really have the flu you were just tripping balls and had anxiety from here to eternity, as you sat that park bench just staring at nothing, staring at that parking lot that was only thing that was the same and calling up your girl that lives a million miles away and confessing you were messed up, and totally out of it, and feeling embarrassed, on that park bench outside, and her telling you to stay calm like this was some kind of freak out, and your brother in there just watching the movie, and wondering where the hell you are, as you walk to that bookstore they have and has been there forever, except that book store now is a kind of warehouse, almost like an amazon warehouse, which is a smart move, but this isn't any borders anymore, this is something else, as you thought maybe you were in the twilight zone as you were tripping balls, and out of sorts, on those damned pot brownies, a curse if there ever was one, a pox upon you brownie, but maybe it just wasn't the brownie per say, it was the state of your life, the state of change that never stops, it never rests, you never have time to appreciate it before it is gone, forever moving, like that plane you keep getting on, and every time you get off now something changes, and it hard to accept, but it is the nature of the world. You can never step in the same river twice, somebody once said. You can never go home again, somebody else said, but as you sat on that park bench outside that movie theater that had changed, tripping balls, and confessing on the phone with your long distant girlfriend. And paying your bill and not going back into the movies because you couldn't concentrate, and your brother kind of disappointed, but not really because he had already seen it, as you went back to that apartment and your Mom and Dad had a laugh about your brownie and Star Wars experience and you can tell what Generation that they came from, that Hippy Guitar playing and addicted broken family generation, but you had a laugh, and then you were back on that plane, back on the movement, back to the grind, out of sorts but just rolling with it, moving it with it, because you don't have a choice, as your Dad gets older, dealing with those millennials and your Mother retires to write about west texas hoots, and you brother is about to have another kid, and you there want stasis in life, a stopping of life, but it ain't going to happen my friend, and the boy who was a baby is talking about Mr. Freeze and Batman, and you know that you either get on that horse, or you get damned thrown off, and that's just the way it is, nothing more and nothing less, and you can't go home again for truth. So get on that highway or get off, that just the way it is.



The PriMORDIAL COW at the beginning of creation, the primordial waters, giving its flesh in the beginning of the world, and there lies that celestial Krishna boy milking that cow giving his hands and palms in the milk that flows all over creation, and the body and the breasts of the woman as she flows from his hair, and becomes the primordial waters, and the rays of light come from his hands as he milks that celestial cow, that becomes the world and all of the universe from his hands of that celestial hero, with his dark and blue skin, and yellow eyes of the Sun, as he sees through it all, with his hand milking that primordial cow at the beginning of creation that becomes the milky way, and the star, and the planets that form out of his hands as he strums that harmony with those hands, strums those cosmos with those rays of light that come through his eyes and that goddess of those primordial waters that flows from the strands of his hair, that cow keepers son, that boy from the dirt, and the tree that stands behind him, and the cow as he takes the flesh from that cow and makes the strands of the dirt, as his hands play on the utters like he is playing a musical instrument with that harmony and that order does he strum those stars in motion and order as he milks that primordial cow, and the OMMMMMMM, and the sounds that are nothingness, at play in this celestial moments that is in all moment , and in all time, in the flowing waters, in the primordial ooze, like some sewers, like some teenage mutant turtles where that planet does rest on their backs after the stirring of those waters as he milks those udders and rests it on those teenage mutants turtles backs and the river, and the goddess, and the tree, and the cow, and the flesh, and the giants from the waters, as the acorns fall from that tree, into the waters as the goddess comes out of the waters, and the sperm, and the sea foam, as she walks she does create, from her steps are the flowers, and she drowns herself in those waters to become something else, as she sacrifices herself in those waters, and she walks in backwards around those waters, and creating that primordial ooze like ninja turtles on backs, and the waters, are churned like butter, they are the like gold strands of her hair, as that cow comes out of those waters with that cow herder, and the giants, and the third eye does see from the boys head, in blazing fire comes from his head with that head dress of skulls does he see death through his third eyes that are blazing out from the flow, from the churning of that ooze from where she steps like flowers upon the nothingness, upon that matter and space, and churning and reviling of that primordial ocean, and the darkness, with that light of that dirty cow herder, and the light from her hair, and her darkness, as she takes the sperm of the milk, from the cow herder, and fucks him that little blue Krishna man, and does create the others, the other beings, the manifestation of all eternity, from the flesh, from her steps into the light, from the flow and waters from these strands of his hair, into that light and in those colors, and flowing udder churning together like the milk that stands at the edge of the chaos of the nothingness of that eternity, of the space and stars and the way, as it does churn creating other worlds from the musical instruments with that harmony and that order that boy does bring into creation as he does play, as he milks that cow, eating of the flesh that becomes all the islands and the green and the tree that comes from those notes, that comes from that chaos and the nothingness as that little blue Krishna boy does play and mingles in the water of the flesh from that primordial cow and in the light that comes from his fingers and from his playing, as they mingle together to become in the world and the stars and the night, as he churns, as he plays, as she steps across the emptiness, to make light, to make the waters of this abyss, the ultimate, the nothingness, the creation, the sound, the sperm, the waters, the seed, the egg broken, the sounds in the vacuum, the negative, the nothing, the everything, the churning, the nothing, created from her steps, from the foam of that primordial cow at the beginning of time, underneath the tree, it was adam or it was eve, playing hymns, underneath the light, and the waters and the stars, for all eternity, over and over again, to the eons, to milky way of that cow at the beginning, in those waters churning up his sperm, inside her womb from till eternity, again and again, both becoming something and nothing in her waters like flowers steps into the light is this infinite conception and contraception that she should have used with that little blue Krishna boy at the beginning of time but there would have been nothing right, played out and the sameness of creation over and over again, and nothingness, that plays and churns and plays and damn darkness and the snake that is there, darkness and death that is inside, as it churns together in the light, and in the darkness at the beginning, as that little Krishna boy plays his song and milks that primordial cow in the light, and she steps towards him without that contraception through the strands of his hair that does flow and is those waters of immortality as they churn at the beginning, and at the end, with that primordial cow, for all eternity, with the strands of the notes that he did play in harmonic accord did he sound as the planets moved like piano keys he did sound as he milked those cows utters, and she did stand back in the strands of his hair without her contraception to conceive the waters that did make creation and order as he played those notes like the chorus and the understanding that did ensue as he did play those notes and that milk that did churn like butter on the ooze of those ninja turtles backs, as he played those notes on the order and the harmony and she did stand back to listen, looking with her sharp but dark eyes as she laid down to listen in the strands of his hair, as she did listen to the forms and order with her dark eyes that did see the nothingness that came from the notes and the harmony and the sounding of the stars and the planets and the river of the milky way that did form from those utters as that little blue Krishna boy did give sound to the harmony in mathematic interludes and processions that did come from those notes that did display themselves as she slept with her dark eyes that did gaze upon him, as he played the notes and had the harmony and the flesh of the primordial cow that did become the cosmos at the beginning and at the end, as she slept in his flowing hair to becomes the waters and to conceive like adam and eve at the beginning and at the end, as he played those stars and those planets in that order, as she waited with that contraception to conceive to come into being, from the order from the chaos from the nothingness, from the sound, from OMMMMM of that piano, like keys he did play on that primordial cow, as she did sleep in the strands of his hair, waiting with dark eyes gazing, as he played the harmony and light from those cow utters, that dirty cow keeper, that blue Krishna boy at the beginning and at the end.

golden sayings


I have been investigating the Stoic Philosophy lately. I think all the turmoil this past year has got me more thinking about mortality but also how to live one's life in a good and decent way. But also how to deal with the anxiety that comes with everyday existence. How do you deal with the things that life presents to you? How do you cope with what life throws at you? These are the things that I have been thinking about lately. It started for me when I began reading Marcus Aurelius and his book the Meditations. I chose it from random on my list of cell phone books.

Begin each day by telling yourself: Today I shall be meeting with interference, ingratitude, insolence, disloyalty, ill-will, and selfishness – all of them due to the offenders’ ignorance of what is good or evil. But for my part I have long perceived the nature of good and its nobility, the nature of evil and its meanness, and also the nature of the culprit himself, who is my brother therefore none of those things can injure me, for nobody can implicate me in what is degrading. Neither can I be angry with my brother or fall foul of him; for he and I were born to work together, like a man’s two hands, feet or eyelids, or the upper and lower rows of his teeth. To obstruct each other is against Nature’s law – and what is irritation or aversion but a form of obstruction.”

I believe that to be so. Everyday your going to meet some challenge out there, or your going to meet someone whose going to give you a hard time and what is there to do about it. I think the only way is to accept. Accept what life gives you. Accept with Courage and Strength what life throws at you because it is all apart of the great Logos.

What is this word Logos? I'm fascinated with it. It perplexes and enthralls me. I think I could talk about it all day long. To me it is a word like the Tao in Taoism or Dharma in Buddhism. Things that encapsulate the Universal. It comes from Heraclitus the pre-Socratic Philosopher. What an interesting guy he is. One of the first who actually wrote a book on Philosophy.

This Logos holds always but humans always prove unable to understand it, both before hearing it and when they have first heard it. For though all things come to be in accordance with this Logos, humans are like the inexperienced when they experience such words and deeds as I set out, distinguishing each in accordance with its nature and saying how it is. But other people fail to notice what they do when awake, just as they forget what they do while asleep .” There is Spirit or Pneuma and there is the Logos. The word of God. The Divine Reason that inhabits the Universe. Imbedded in us all. They called Heraclitus the Mysterious One because he spoke in riddles and sayings that are seemingly deliberate to confuse but make you think. Kind of like Lao Tzu. To bring it back to the Eastern side of things. One things I like about Stoicism is that it's very down to earth and common sensical to me. Very basic and simple. Live with virtue and live according to nature. But what does that mean? Sometimes it is very Vague. But it does allow you to fill in the blanks for yourself.

Some People like to criticize the Stoics? Saying it is very Manly and it just means “suck it up” and don't worry about things, but that seems pretty simplistic in understand what some of what they're talking about. It's funny how when they say the same things in Buddhism its taken for the truth but when the Stoic say the same thing its unemotional or wrong in some way. But it is the same notion that one must be past emotion and not let it rule you. In Buddhism it means to go beyond the cycles of this life. In Christianity it means to be one with Jesus and God in absolute Love and the same in Islam to be union with God like the Sunni. In Taoism it means naturalness and Wu Wei, no action, to think without thinking, and in Stoicism and Greek philosophy it means moderation and virtue to not be ruled by passion, to have love but not be ruled by it. There the ones that came up with the idea of cosmopolitanism. The idea that we are all connected. All human beings are all connected together. There a things called Hierocles Circles. Which I do find effective to think on and use. Which is basically a circle of attachment, a circle of relationships, where you view the people around you, and maybe your family, and the people that are closer to you, and then maybe your city or neighborhood as the circles go out, and going further and maybe your state and country and then further, but then the goal is to bring the circle closer together. Which does seem very New Age but I find it a effective to think like that, no different than to emanate compassion towards all sentient Beings in Buddhism, but who knows if any of things are effective at all. They seem to help me, but then again I keep doing the same things and not really ever get any better, but it's hard work to be a better person I think, it's not easy.

And then there is my man Epictetus. It's funny how I had heard his name before but never even thought to look into him. Maybe because he is more a hero to more conservative folks with him being inside more the Western Canon than outside of it. I read the book Man in Full by Tom Wolfe, and he had a character that lived his life by his works, and he talked about him all the time, but I still didn't even think to even look the guy up and see who he was. I guess it was just my own bias thinking that because Tom Wolfe was talking about him that it just wasn’t for me. Not that he's not a great writer which he is, but more in the sense that he is a conservative and I thought the guy must be in the same vein as he was. But in a certain way I couldn't have been more wrong. His Golden Sayings I think might be one of my all time favorite philosophy books in the “Western Canon”. I do have to say on a side note that I think the idea of Western anything is kind of ho bunk, just because you have northern and southern Europe, and everything in between, it's like saying India and Japan are the same place, but I guess when Caesar hit that English Shore, then I guess we were conquered by the West so we must have been influenced by them right. But back to my man Epictetus. What a strange and beautiful thoughts come out of him. I can see why conservatives might like him, because he talks about God a lot in his works. I think its easy for a Christian audience to understand him and to get what he's saying. I mean because the Stoics influence Christianity and all the terms in the Bible like Logos and other terms and in their practice.

But God hath introduced Man to be a spectator of Himself and of His works; and not a spectator only, but also an interpreter of them. Wherefore it is a shame for man to begin and to leave off where the brutes do. Rather he should begin there, and leave off where Nature leaves off in us: and that is at contemplation, and understanding, and a manner of life that is in harmony with herself. See then that ye die not without being spectators of these things ” but when Epictetus talks about God let's not get it twisted he's talking about Zeus and the Gods of the pagan pantheon, and also he's talking about the Logos, and a more universal conception of God, but it does fit in the Christian conception of God as well, so maybe they are half right. And also the Military I think like's Epictetus and the Stoics because he was a tough minded guy. I think because he was a former slave and that influenced his thought and where he was coming from because he talks about no one being able to take your freedom and your virtue away from you because it is inside of your self and his master even broke his leg and he walked around with more a limp for the rest of his life, so yes he had been through some major crap in his life and it comes out in his philosophy. He is more of a Cynic to me than a Stoic but sometimes they go hand in hand. The Cynics were a sect of renunciation for sure. One of the most famous was Diogenes of Sinope, the man who lived in a barrel his whole life, and told Alexander the Great to get out of his light, and looked around cities with a lamp in broad daylight looking for virtuous people but couldn’t find any. But the Cynics were more along the line to give everything up, and live outdoors and harangue passerby’s about the sins of their life and how they were living, which once again does come back to Christianity, and their influence on possibly the life of Jesus and his batch of followers. But let's just say that Epictetus was more of a Cynic to me, and more a philosophy of renunciation, to give everything up and live a life dedicated to virtue. And some of the things we talks about really is used in Psychology today. They use it in Cognitive Behavioral Theory, in which you think about how you reacted to things in your life, and how you can change those things in that life for the better, so it can be kind of negative in the sense of thinking about death a lot, but its the acceptance of death as naturally part of life. Like one examples says that you should look at your child and know that he is going to die and accept it for what it is. Which can be a fatalistic way to look at the world but it is also a very realistic way of looking at the world.

I think for me why I find the Stoics and the Cynics to be interesting and why it pertains to my way life and thinking is the notion to live life according to Nature, to your own Nature. I do think this is where the Stoics and the Cynics differ, and you know get all nerdy on this Greek Philosophy obscure non sense that doesn't matter anyway. But the Stoics were more about common sense and living moderately and living with your nature, and doing your manly Duty for Rome, you notice not to many women around in these parts of Philosophy east or west, the only women back then they even talk about are Sappho and Aspasia, and Oracles and Vestal virgins and mad Empresses, but that's the way it was back then slaves and women repression for centuries, ain't Democracy grand. But back to living your life according to Nature. Their in line is the big difference between Stoics and the Christians. Because that entails still having sex and practicing your pagan ways but doing it with moderation and doing it with virtue. Still embracing life, and “being apart of the Great Festival of Life” so sayeth Epictetus, but doing it moderately and doing it with manly duty and things like that. But maybe were just talking about apples and oranges and they come from the same fountain and they come from the same tree, like Hinduism and Buddhism. But they are different but they are the same.

But does it really make a difference? What is human nature? Are you just going to live your life according to that human nature that has been set down from time immemorial. I'm not really sure. You can read all these books and try to understand stuff but does it really matter. People are going to do what they are going to do which is live life on the daily, arguing and talking and getting into problems and dying and having fun and laughing and having kids and living out that drama on the daily but maybe somewhere in there is some sort of harmony that I can't quite put my finger on because let's face it some people seem to be pretty content and happy but maybe I'm not one of those folks or maybe I haven't quite found it yet. I'm just going to keep doing things that I was proscribed by my nature that was shaped by my upbringing and moving around and getting into fights and getting drunk and so on on so forth and maybe there is nothing I can do about it but be my utterly self destructive self, but deep down I do believe in the ability to change circumstance and to be better that better person, or what the hell would I be living for anyways to be better. But maybe what I'm saying is I don't need a book to tell how to live right, and live with common decency and maybe that's what I like about Epictetus and Mister Marcus is that you have to act, and kind of like Zen Buddhism in a sense that nothing is taught everything is intuitive but that on for another discussion on some other tip. But gosh dang it I just have to much of that Dionysus in me, to be a Greek nerd again, too much Epicurean in me, too much damn drunken Irish to throw in a stereotype, to be too damn much of a Stoic or Zen any who, and maybe there in lies the problem, because sometimes you got to throw caution to the wind, and let it go, and to quote a great man named of Zorba the Greek:

Damn it boss, I like you too much not to say it. You've got everything except one thing: madness! A man needs a little madness, or else...he never dares cut the rope and be free.”



LET THE DEMONS ROLL let them get inside of you let them move and be apart of you let them get at you, they are apart of you, let yourself bathe in the sunlight, let it be known, let if feel you and touch you because it is apart of you like the darkness that roils and coils and moves within your skin, giving you a chance, playing upon your tapestry emotions, jubilant and cursed you are, roiled, beckoning, becoming, you are, given to strange trepidations, you are on this stage, this stage where everyone is looking at you, its called human society, it creases you, as you ride it, it is the wave that comes and goes and it over you, it is the battle within, you are in, shadows come and come before your head, it is the cult of the head, the scalp as you take it with bloody teeth, that heart of the head, bleeding, the place where you reside, that place that is resides between your ears, surrounding by midnight and heaven, which do you choose, or that grasp matter between your ears, take the scalp, take the head, display in the undercurrents of your life, tack it up on that pole for all to see, in your mausoleum, on display, amongst the artifacts and given over to death, you are, roll with it and ride with the darkness, and senses and feel in between your toes, gangster for joy, gangster for the devil, angel for heaven, angel for hell, annotated, destroyed, combatant, with a helmet on, a combatant in this game, of pictures and lies, residue, burnt mangled destroyed hallucinated, given, destroyed but back together again, screaming, madness, joy, happiness, satisfaction, these are the keys from which life emanates from, coming for your head, disease, scared, anxiety, cursed, destroyed, symbols, graves, houses, bedrooms, pleasant memories, dark memoirs, all wrapped up in the head, cuts, that run deep that turn into forgived light that morphs like fucked up chess pieces in a dank and decayed forests that leap like frogs in jungles of the mind, lions, tiger oh my, they swim through your entangled darkness, that is where you live, in the head, in the blood, take the scalp, take the head, give away for free, give it away for satisfaction of the statue quote, there it is, sweeping amongst your own darkened swamp, of notches on your belt, playing in that movie of your own, displayed, cut up, entangled, dangled, displayed, from the all to see, displayed cut up corpse with your head on a pike for all to see, criminal, destroyed, let the demon rolls in big gulps, churning in the waters drowning, falling, over stories, of buildings, drowning, coming up from air, a rope, you grab, a hand, pulling you by the scalp, hurts don't it, it does, it truly does, as you scream, growing pains, at old age, growing decayed, light and dark and blood and skin and bones, on display for all to see, this is given but not destruction but for life, but for it all, but for the currents that enveloped, and journey to the ends of the earth, a journey , a cosmic sweating that comes and go and release like songs, song magnificent, all over again, forever on the verge and the cusp of something that you can’t quite place, because it is in that jungle with the weeds and tangle and lion and bears and oh my, on my, dank dark place, the place of the soul release in some infinite place, in that darkness struggle for light, against a window, struggling for life, hard roe to hoe, hard places to grind on demons, rolling up hills, same, same, same, over and over again, place of the soul, place of the blood, place of the heart, dark, light, madness, disease, tapestry, rolled out that red carpet, blood, to see and to dance upon as you walk with that head in your hand by the scalp blood dripping from the tangled, blue and coagulated, strangled, coming up to the light, with fingers drawn but blind with head in hands, coming out of that jungle, with lions and tigers and bears oh my, reaching for the light, coming for it, and will meet it in the end, will meet it in the end, will meet it in the end, the place of the soul, where it resides, in the jungle, in the current, where the demons roll out red carpets for you, and where the angels reach down fingers for you. As you grasp. Struggle and strangle for breath, with your head in your hand, with your head in your hand, where the soul reside and where the demons roll, where the demons roll. Where the demons roll. Where they care not to go. Where they care not to go. Into the darkness, and into the light.


god's last words


“Things are tight, ” the man
said, tightening his
quasi-friendly grin.
“We can’t give you a
job, we can’t give you
any money, and
we don’t want these here
poems either.” He
tightened his tie. “Fact
is, the old cosmic
gravy train’s ground to
a halt. It’s the end
of the line. From now
on there’s going to
be no more nothing.”
He went on, lighting
a cigar: “We don’t
wish we could help, but
even if we did,
we couldn’t. It’s not
our fault, by God, it’s
just tight all over.”
He brought his fist down
on the burnished desk
and lo! from that tight
place there jetted forth
rivers of living water.


After everything quits,
things continue
happening. The phone
rings. A knock comes
at the door. Lightning
flashes across the bed
where you bend, looking
at the dictionary.
Asleep, you keep waking
from dreams. The surface
of your life keeps
being broken, less and less
frequently, at random.
Raindrops after a storm:
surprise: the ghost of awe.


Of course there is a loud
and multicolored doom
on the street. But it is
the deafening absence
of your voice over which I
am straining to make you
hear me, at whatever corner
you are lost: Take me
with you in the traffic.

MOON (excerpt)

A man squats by the railroad tracks tonight
eating a moon fragment: not cheese
at all, but a honeydew melon. His hands
are fuzzy. A train roars past. In the
lighted windows men and women stand
with pewter cups raised. Tea slops out.
Then it is dark again. Moon-eaters have
no time for such foolishness. The silence
is not absolute, though, because the world’s
longest accordion, the world’s longest
musical expansion bridge, is playing
somewhere. I am up in my office
watching the glitter of my last cigar sail
out the window, over the shrubbery, down
into the darkness where summer is
ending. I keep office hours at night so
nobody comes around to bother me. Not even
you. The moon comes around, though. I want to
drag it down and hand it to you and say, “Here,
this is lovely and useless and it cost me
a lot of trouble. You can tie it up on
the river behind your house, and go down to
look at it whenever you like.” The trouble is,
you don’t want it tied up, and you are
right. This is no new problem. Eight hundred
years ago a man heads home from the
Fair, pushing a wheelbarrow full of real
moon pies. For ten years he has been
stealing wheelbarrows, and nobody even
suspects. Well, what is all this? you
want to know. Right again. I could
say I don’t know myself because the evidence
is not all in, never will be. I could say it’s
the unfinished moon poem I’ve always wanted
to almost write. Well, what is it all about? you
ask. What does it mean? You have me
there. It means, whatever this is between
you and me, I hope it’s not over, and good-by.


Coming home from beer with a beer
I hear the brain cells popping off
one by one like firecrackers

The stars going out one by one
leaving the sky black

God sweeping the last stars
under the celestial rug

Muttering not Good riddance
to bright rubbish but (more kindly)
Out of sight out of mind


I’m not going to
dignify Mozart
or metaphysics
any longer by
pretending they touch
me. I won’t even
say I like these leaves
except as they swirl
against a special
emptiness. Nothing
is relevant since
losing you is what
my life is about.


Mind if I put up
a park bench
in your mind?
I mean, if
the mind is a park,
why not have a poem in it?
After all, when
you get through
buying hotdogs &
getting a load
of the swans
you’ll want
some place to
sit down. It
ought to be fairly
comfortable by
the time a few
generations of
transient assholes
have worn it
smooth, & the paint
off – though
the original idea
was to advertise
my product: my own
green life, now
flaking into winter.


Oh hush up
about the
Future: one

morning it
will appear,
right there on

your breakfast
plate, and you’ll
yell “Take it

back,” pounding
the table.
But there won’t

be any


I awake, three in the morning, sweating
from a dream of possums.
I put my head under the fuzzy swamp of cover.
At the foot of darkness two small eyes glitter.

Rain falls all day: I remain indoors.
For comfort I take down a favorite volume.
Inside, something slimy, like a tail, wraps around
my finger.

Hear the bells clang at the fire station:
not hoses, but the damp noses of possums issue

Passing the graveyard at night
I wish the dead would remain dead,
but there is something queer and shaggy about these

From the grey pouch of a cloud
the moon hangs by its tail.

At the cafeteria they tell me they are out of
I am furious. Who is that grey delegation
munching yellow fruit at the long table?

I reach deep into my warm pocket
to scratch my balls; but I find, instead,
another pocket there; and inside, a small possum.

My friend’s false teeth clatter in the darkness
on a glass shelf;
around them a ghostly possum forms.

At an art gallery the portraits seem to threaten me;
tails droop down out of the frames.

I screech to a stop at the red light.
Three o’clock, school’s out:
eight or ten juvenile possums fill the crosswalk.

Midnight at Pasquale’s. I lift my fork,
and the hard tails looped there
look curiously unlike spaghetti.

When I go to the closet to hang my shirt on the rack,
I have to persuade several possums to move over.

Drunk, crawling across a country road tonight,
I hear a shriek, look up, and am paralyzed
by fierce headlights and a grinning grill.
I am as good as gone!


I put on a shirt
with a couple of
gone buttons and a
pair of pants my wife
hates and walk into
the living room and
sit down in a dull
chair. In this way I
acknowledge nothing’s
going on. If I
wanted to really
suffer I could go
lie down in some shit,
but that transgresses
the fine line between
propriety and
masochism. If
I were any kind
of poet I’d go
stick up a Jiffy
Mart or, Say, the First
Bank of the Cosmic
Then I could buy a
red plaid jacket with
a rooster tie and
stumble out into
the clear autumn air
crowing “Guilty! Life,
I’m your beautiful

New Orleans

for Ralph Adamo

From the air it’s all puddles:
a blue-green frog town
on lily pads. More canals
than Amsterdam. You don’t
land — you sink. When
we met, you, the Native, shook
your head. Sweat dropped
on the bar. You said:
“You’re sunk. You won’t
write a line. You won’t make
a nickel. You won’t hit
a lick at a snake in this
antebellum sauna-bath. You
won’t shit in the morning if
you don’t wake up with
your pants down.” And you
were right: Three years later
I’m in it up to my eyebrows,
stalled like a streetcar.
My life is under the bed
with the beer bottles.
I’ll never write another line
for anything but love
in this city where steam
rises off the street after
a rain like bosoms heaving.

for Bob Woolf

Now I don’t care about hum-drum
order any more than
you do. I sympathize
with Huck Finn’s taste for
the mixed up. This is no
tight ship. I wouldn’t
want my moments run off on an
assembly line like toy ducks. That’s
not the point: it’s been
raining possums for a month. And now,
when I’m absolutely up to my neck in
a whole bathtub of concerns, you
walk in unannounced, wearing
an ETERNITY sweat-shirt and leading some
kind of out-of-date dog on a leash, and
shake my slippery hand and tell me
“Just normal, thanks.” Well, no
thanks. I’ve had enough. I’m going to
pull myself up over the side, and get
all the way out of my mind.



changes are going down

THE CHANGES ARE A GOING TO COME, THEY"RE COMING DOWN, but it's just about your life and nothing else, because I'm a moving out of the old Parents abode, and my Parents are finally moving back to that beloved state of Texas, that heaven on earth, with green pastures of plenty and dust and red state maniacs, and such, but they do have those beautiful and bountiful wild flowers and gusts of wind down the great plains that might knock your house down, but that means some changes for little old me.  That means I'm moving out of the proverbial basement and onto some green pastures of my own.  It's not like I haven't lived on my own before, but this time there is that sense of permanence in that change to my life and sorry style, you catch my drift, as my words drift to no one in particular maybe a few folks out there but mostly just the sound of silence and electrical currents, but expression is a beautiful thing and on I go.  I mean this time I got to pay my own way, and my Grandmother ain't helping me out, god rest her soul, and I got to stand up on my own two feet like everybody else in this world and stop being that sorry ass, if you don't mind my french.  I mean I do alright, just living out the days, ingesting fumes at the worldport, not doing no harm to nobody, which is a lot in these violent days, but I still got that American thing up inside of me, that southern man thing that comes out at fellow employees, like this African dude that I got into it with a couple of days ago, I think it's that stress of working all the time and working to death and unfulfilled and all these changes that are a coming down.  But I was trying to get out of there and go home and throwing all those bags on the ground( I mean your bags on the ground I presume) and he took offense to that which he should, and I took redneck on him and told him to come get some, and in my Southern masculine ways, but also in that bi polar genteel ways of this pseudo homeland I apologized after the occurence with a handshake, and in his smattering accent, "you have to worry about the passenger, they can see you." and to this I was embarrassed, but when part of your blood is boiling(the other part being midwest corn fed in my obesseion with identity that has no meaning more on that later) from part of your southern american identity.  What are you going to do? and you are a frustrated malcontent orator of your own thought and ego.  What are you going to do? but shake hands and go about your business of these life changes and such and see what's coming down the pipe next.
       I don't mind change I really don't.  I've moved around a bit, and envision myself some sort of Gypsy implanted from the father because he was in the military, but the other part of me doesn't care to much for moving either, that part of me that is tied to the land(romantic identity bullshit, excuse my french again), and those regions of this country and those places where I've lived.  When I was a kid, a young man it always shook me up and I usally got into fights before I moved somewhere else like one time I tried to beat up one of my friends when I lived up in Ohio, and it actually was in a Barn with bat crap and hay, and he were playing some game and I was moving the next day, and I took to scraping and took to punch him, but then felt bad and before I left went to his house and apologized, is there a pattern, maybe so, but who gives a damn right, just got to sort it out in my own head and cuss so more, you know, because I wasn't raised that way you know.  But maybe it's just that violent American nature by birthright,  born from the frontier, to die in starvation in modern fucked up America of freedom and madness, and cursed till the end of it's days, but it's not too bad I guess, there still some of that good Lincoln American out there somewhere I guess(more romantic bs, french so on), but anyways enough of all that, not to get all deep into something I got no clue about.  I don't know where I've been or who I am, but I'm on my way anyways, so who cares right.  
     I've been packing up my stuff for that move, to that apartment that's all of fifteen minutes away, oh my gosh.  But I've been going through those life memoires in this rhetoric essay about the self and the ego of me and mine, and going through those boxes stacked up with enough dust and mold from that dank basement, to kill me and a couple of other fellows as well, going through those childhood toys and old homework and papers or what's left of them, and those dank mutilated books stained from fire, from those former beliefs of dark French poetry which you still subscribe but maybe not quite as fervently as you once did before in your older age, with you Adult mutilated Self still attached to those baseball cards and comic book heroes, like your younger Brother with a kid, still obsessed with those Legos and him and that kid now three years old and a terror of the terrible threes and twos, sitting on the floor together and putting those Legos together, like two big kids obessessing over those Legos.  I'm not sure if it's that Modern Male that can't grow into that Adult male, or maybe it's just everybody always looks back
at those childhood years with bliss, or maybe it's just that people from that middle class upbringing just look back at those years, or are able to, but I'm not sure about any of that, to get off that side track once again.
      But my Mom came back from Texas that state of heaven and wild flowers and dust, and she came back to get that house in the subdivision in that Georgia woods ready to sell and she is attempting to pack all the junk that has been collecting for 20 odd years in a couple of odd weeks and I think she's crazy for doing it, but that's just how my parent's do things, not like me and my slow moving ways.  But my Dad is now working in San Antonio and he's working for the city government in Computers and he's not that old college student anymore, forever living off Student Loans.  He's come Full Circle from harassing college students and professors to get in gear, to harassing goverment office workers to get in gear, and turned my old life upside down, but it's good for me, but I just wish I wasn't so damn tired all the time and worn down from the grind and rat race out on highways and in the skies, to use my French once more, in this profanity laced oratory in showing this crooked damned life.  I'm always thinking about who we were before and if you are that person in those photos, from middle class family trips and with your cousins and at friends birthday parties? Who is that person in those photos? Is he the same person that exists now? Or is it someone else. To these questions I answer I got no idea on that one.  I guess that's what moving does to you.  It makes you recant on what happened before in that life.  I think it's hard to make sense of it because it's like trying to nail a dot on a moving frame, or maybe a box that just won't stop moving and is only gathering dust and mold and all that junk.  But who the hell knows(french), I'm just along for the ride, on that journey with no end, on that journey to the blackness, across the great divide on that River Styx, to see what happens, or maybe that's just some more of utter bs, and some french, but whose to tell, onwards I say through this essay with no end.
      And then I moved out.  In a flurry and in a flash and in a rush.  How much bad writing can you take? Hard to tell but let's find out.  But I had all my stuff piled up in that dank basement.  Boxed up and taped up in my anal old age and anxiety where I like everything in order now, but to be honest I didn't have anything but cursed books.  Heavy as can be.  And as I argued with my Mom with my frustrations and blame on her because I got to finally grow up, but it is what it is.  But I had some help.  Our next door neighbors, our family friends, for going on sixteen years that we counted, but one of their daughters husbands which I used to know to make it even more confusing, came over to help.  And to make it even more strange, we used to be friends when I was in middle school and he lived in our subdivion way back in the day when he was just that Hispanic kid from New Mexico just moving out to the sticks and the edge of the ciy, and when we were playing basketball in our driveway and remembering when my more popular and preppy friends were making fun of him in that same basement, as Jimmy from New Mexico(will call him that) was acting like Beavis and Butthead on my flip out Sports Illustrated football phone(oh ya way back, no spring chicken here, got to get a subscription for that one) "Ah your wife just called, she's dead dude.  Huh ha. Huh ha. Huh ha." as those preppy friends laughed at him and called him wetback behind his back, but they were just those southern middle class kids just being kids, and Jimmy with his gold Catholic cross on his neck and dark black hair going down his neck, and his wild ass brother with buck teeth and more chunkier from skinny Jimmy with the monotone voice, who was wilder and erractic and ending up going to prison and fighting my small blonde brother in the driveway and me throwing with off and then remembering silent Jimmy with the cross walking back to his house in those subdivision memories way back in the day. But now there was Jimmy with the cross around his neck walking in that subdivision again, a little bit chubbier like his brother used to be, and with a beard like a Catholic Priest with a thick neck because he likes to lift weights now, "like the meathead gyms, those are the ones that I like" he says later, but now we've met up again, after he married that family friend's daughter, and maybe he got the last laugh because now that wetback Jimmy(facetious) with the gold cross just graduated from Harvard with a master's degree in Divinity and Philosophy and all that, and they have a baby on the way, with those family friends who are Religious and Republican and from the Sixties, defying those cultures wars with some complexity in which we are now embroiled, because they are those moderates, in this extremist times, who are open to Jimmy the Wetback(facetious) with that gold chain and from a messed up divorce, from working at McDonalds to being accepted into Harvard and into this Republican Christian family, that say Grace before meals as they hold hands, and don't watch TV that much, but such is how life really is, in this mixed up world of ours on that edge of cities, but as Jimmy with the Beard like a Catholic Priest with a meathead neck, comes walking through the cul-de-sac to the UHAUL I had rented earlier and back in front of our basement in this subdivision of memories of friend of youth with different faces and birthday parties in middle school, and fishing in subdivision ponds, and mountain biking on railroad tracks, and messed up things in my life, and pain and delving into the shadows and blood of the mind, in that basement of drunken poetry and drugs, and brother flunking out of school and fires in that stained southern woods with plastic subdivisions moving to plastic apartments, and there is Jimmy walking up to that UHAUL looking like a Catholic Priest and not some skinny New Mexican kid with a cross around his neck moving slow like a bear and talking slow like he always did.
         I had already begun the fumigation as I wore a mask on my face becaues I'm highly allergic
to dust and mold which I just found out from my anxious emergency room and blood testing, as you see non reader what I've been going through lately from all this change going down.  It has all come Full Circle, as I leave the dank basement for another plastic apartment in the humid woods of Georgia and cursed flags, and edged out metro areas with shopping malls and different colors and faces, as Jimmy with the Gold Chain grabs some boxes, and we make small awkward small talk through the sweat of my mask and dust from the boxes and memories, and since him and his wife, my family religious friend, just moved back to Boston to live with her Parents, and they have a baby so he needs some money and my mom is paying him, because even though he graduated Harvard in Divinity that just don't guarantee employment in this here country or anywhere really, but it looks like Jimmy with the Gold Chain is an expert packer of UHAUL trucks from all that moving from Boston back down here saying, "If we put all the boxes against the wall, I think we can fit everything." and me not really saying anything, just nodding my head with my mask on in the burning humid heat, as I'm ready to go, and just moving anything and everything as I move all the things I have in this world in my possession, and not having much or wanting much in my Zen of packing philosophy of moving light and nothing, to move and to travel with with no heavy things, except those tons of boxes of heavy ass books that might kill you and Jimmy with the Gold Chain to move them because I have packed them in Giant Home Depot boxes like an idiot that weight damn(french) near a ton, and moving these heavy ass boxes, in this damned(french two times) Georgia Heat, might kill old JImmy if were not careful and all that diploma from Harvard in Divinity won't matter two shits now will it if you die in the Georgia Heat loading boxes now will it(as that profane oratory just gets worse now).  
     As we stammer and move boxes and try to make small conversation, because we haven't seen each other that often really since those subdivision memories of back in the day, acutally we hadnt seen each other until Thanksgiving last year or so, we met for the first time since we were kids, since playing basketball in the driveway and he walked away in the dark after I tossed his brother who just got out of jail, and they're he was as I offered him a Coke, and Jimmy saying he doesn't drink those anymore, and he'll just have some water that is lukewarm as we shrug our shoulders at each other, and I agree because we are both on that weight loss thing,  and both trying to exercise and eat right because we gained some weight since those youthful days the both of us, him doing more the lifting weights meathead thing, and me more with my mountain bike, trying to still be a kid and the youth that I can't quite escape from, as I pour him some of that luke warm water, as my crazed mother going circles trying to get her junk out at the same time I'm trying to find mine stirs us in the right directions to pick up the right boxes, and seperate the junk from the old family furniture from when people lived and died right in the same damn(again) house and furniture lasted till when they died and beyond and not that plastic junk that I buy because of it being light and that busts apart the minute you try to move it into that UHAUL, which did happen to me by the way, but I just dont' want that solid wood buty only boxes of books to kill and torture me please that's all and just accumulated trash and other junk for me please, and those books that torture me and plague me and look at me and weigh me down, and can't give them away to Goodwill for the life of me and get away from them, and wishing they were all ebooks, or in the garbage, but all those voices, all those burned blood books of ribald french poetry looking back at me, putting that curse on me, and Jimmy saying he brought a ton of books back from him from Harvard, and me thinking I bet he did, and Jimmy saying he had to get his friend(not a paid friend of loneliness and memories oh Jimmy of the Gold Chain) to help them move down twisting flights of stairs in that dense snow of Boston and Cambridge, in those old Bostonian Squares in that Northern City of trains and junk, not up those stucco cement stairs in plastic apartments, of wooden glades on spring creek names, in highway Hell in this Bible Sun Belt city, as we got in that UHAUL truck and we were on our way 15 minutes due south, for that big move, away, away all the way down, but closer to the airport and the job, and the city, and the plastic mall, in urban manifestations, this wetback(facetious) Harvard grad of gold chains and dark hair down with me driving through these woods as we talked, and went past farm houses and fields, and new Grocery Stores and we drove those 15 minutes to those plastic apartments on Spring Creek Ways and on highways of Hell on Shopping Centers and old Main Streets and railroad tracks and churches and tortous things of flags done gone by.
      But if felt good to talk about some intellectual junk with a like minded individual, to be understood with an open mind and open heart on that UHAUL ride on strange highways in this edged out city with everything is strange and dynamic now more than what it used to be or that is what it seems to me from seaching on Facebook I guess.  As I drove feeling like an old out of touch Truck Driver in that UHAUL, partaking in notions of Malcolm Gladwell in a Big Fish in a little pond obsessions with schools and how it was at that big school up in the snow and my own notions of getting outside that western civilization towards eastern things, even though I talked about Latin Literature and how I was into that right then, but being able to say something about it and communicate, as you were sweating and feeling weird and out of touch like some kind of out of body experience as you drove tied up in that move as your world seemed to kind of lean in a way, in sorrow and in surprise as you drove in that UHAUL and talked notions through exurbs and farms and toward that apartment with a gate you can't seem to figure out, that gate so they can keep out or keep in the criminals and the crazies(especially since I'm moving in) but I've never really been in a gated place before with Californian swimming pools next to you as you park that UHUAL in front of your building with its trimmed grass and trees and start to unload all those damned(french) books with old Jimmy of subdivisions and change with you with his beard and not his skinny self anymore, and your out of place west texas mother saying hello to every third person about how her too old son is moving in and right next door to this not really caring city attitude people on the edge of this city who are like whatever, those working class black women working at the Waffle House, and crew cut national guard soldiers going out for a night on town, and a Hispanic dude with his young son teaching him how to ride a bike, a blond Californian girl coming back from that Californian plastic pool, as me and Jimmy of the Gold Chain bring up those million pounds of tortous books up those stucco cement stairs of loneliness in the city, in that burning heat, sweating and dying out there in the Georgia Sun, to move your sorry life forward.  to another precipice.  and the stress of all that, those things that are normal for everybody else, but not normal to you, you the dank basement dweller, going out into the fresh plastic air, to see how it feels.  to a new world were maybe people are not so friendly, out of the confines of the old woods and good old boy high schools of days and confused days, to those immigrants working at the Chipotles, not giving a damn, just get your burrito and get the hell type of days, but just working for a better life, but faster maybe, getting lost in commuciation at the Mall, on the edge, along Highways of Hell and Byways.  stuck in traffic.  in a million out cars.  going and moving. and seeing. cultures shrouded in silver.  and still there.  but where it is I'm not sure.  at the Crackle Barrel along the Highway.  at the Walmart.  people just living in a blur.  out their lives.  living. moving.  demographics.  herd. you chaning to another local in a plastic Californian place.  of land and dreams and nightmares and violence. in underspoken tones.  always there. but not there.  as you drink cold ice water with Jimmy from the here as he texts his new wife and you argue with your girlfriend of planes and texts and not there but there.  over the phone. of Carribean food and another family to feed you and go to that airport and feel the sadness of moving over time zones and never be but in wisps of voices, and your inability to grow and to accept it as it is, can't do it, be a man but still living like that kid, obessed with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or something, and not accepting that death, can't do it, can't be a man, a something, a suburban grub, running in still motion, that you can't get past, some mad dream, that holds you back, like some cowboy on the range, get to come on home, come off them rails, take off your boots and stay a while, get a house, and a car, a white picket fence and live a little bit just like everybody else, like JImmy of the Gold Chain from Divinity School at Harvard, wanting to grow up and be that Catholic Priest or that teacher or some kind of Cornel West, as we go out to eat after its all done, and we moved all those tortured boxes of sweat in the Georgia heat, and go to a Sports Bar as you talk about Mexico with your west texas mother in that sports bar, at the mall, talking of ruins and wanting to go there and ancient cultures in these plastic elusive places, feeling somewhat elusive still, feeling out of it, as you sleep over at your Parents old house after you go back to drop of that UHAUL truck exhausted from the heat, and Jimmy of the Gold Chain walks back to that family friends house, like it was back in that youth, but were different people now as he walks back silent like a New Mexican Indian Priest with his beard just like that night when I tossed his buck tooth brother after playing basketball, walking away, can't really see back then anymore in those subdivision memories of ghosts, too elusive, and then you wake up tired and mad and not knowing who you are, and wanting to fight because your moving again, and you get angry at your Mom for no reason, and your mad at the world in which you live and created for yourself, wanting to flee into loneliness like you used to do, with that car loaded up, like you thought you were in some kind of movie, but it ain't really like that, because your just getting older, and maybe its a movie that you can't quite pin point, that you thought you were living but you weren't, and you can't remember it because it's gone and it's on the move, like those subdivision memories.
      And maybe you drive those 15 minutes down that country exurban road, and maybe a song comes on the radio.  Nowhere man are you listening.  Nowhere man. and sometimes it happens like that, that a song come on the radio and it just hits you at the proper time and in that proper moment.  And it was like that.  Going to nowhere.  You are nowhere inside.  And you want to be proper.  In a proper place, and normal but maybe that's just a pipe dream, because there are decisions made and things that happen and you got to accept them in the loneliness of this modern life, driving on the commute by yourself with echoes of highways in your ears, and echoes of the past with subdivision ears.  elusive ears with stained hearts.  and dankness in basements and now in plastic garden villas with swimming pools like dried up sun cow, plastered and parised to nowhere except this life and in between thigns, and below them.  catering to yourself, in lonely apartments, with people coming and going, and ground up like coffee with lung disease, but it's all for fun and kicks right, a kick in the pants, of youthful memories and Jimmy of the Gold Chain drinking luke warm water with your frustrations to kick around a while, and all those anxieties of money and worries that pile up, to let go, and see what happens, because you ain't in Kansas no more son, but maybe you are, because it's just 15 damned minutes down the road, excuse my ribald french.  


At Melville’s Tomb

By Hart Crane

Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge

The dice of drowned men’s bones he saw bequeath

An embassy. Their numbers as he watched,

Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured.

And wrecks passed without sound of bells,

The calyx of death’s bounty giving back

A scattered chapter, livid hieroglyph,

The portent wound in corridors of shells.

Then in the circuit calm of one vast coil,

Its lashings charmed and malice reconciled,

Frosted eyes there were that lifted altars;

And silent answers crept across the stars.

Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive

No farther tides ... High in the azure steeps

Monody shall not wake the mariner.

This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.

For The Marriage of Faustus and Helen

By Hart Crane


The mind has shown itself at times

Too much the baked and labeled dough

Divided by accepted multitudes.

Across the stacked partitions of the day—

Across the memoranda, baseball scores,

The stenographic smiles and stock quotations

Smutty wings flash out equivocations.

The mind is brushed by sparrow wings;

Numbers, rebuffed by asphalt, crowd

The margins of the day, accent the curbs,

Convoying divers dawns on every corner

To druggist, barber and tobacconist,

Until the graduate opacities of evening

Take them away as suddenly to somewhere

Virginal perhaps, less fragmentary, cool.

       There is the world dimensional for

     those untwisted by the love of things

     irreconcilable ...

And yet, suppose some evening I forgot

The fare and transfer, yet got by that way

Without recall,—lost yet poised in traffic.

Then I might find your eyes across an aisle,

Still flickering with those prefigurations—

Prodigal, yet uncontested now,

Half-riant before the jerky window frame.

There is some way, I think, to touch

Those hands of yours that count the nights

Stippled with pink and green advertisements.

And now, before its arteries turn dark

I would have you meet this bartered blood.

Imminent in his dream, none better knows

The white wafer cheek of love, or offers words

Lightly as moonlight on the eaves meets snow.

Reflective conversion of all things

At your deep blush, when ecstasies thread

The limbs and belly, when rainbows spread

Impinging on the throat and sides ... 

Inevitable, the body of the world

Weeps in inventive dust for the hiatus

That winks above it, bluet in your breasts.

The earth may glide diaphanous to death;

But if I lift my arms it is to bend

To you who turned away once, Helen, knowing

The press of troubled hands, too alternate

With steel and soil to hold you endlessly.

I meet you, therefore, in that eventual flame

You found in final chains, no captive then—

Beyond their million brittle, bloodshot eyes;

White, through white cities passed on to assume

That world which comes to each of us alone.

Accept a lone eye riveted to your plane,

Bent axle of devotion along companion ways

That beat, continuous, to hourless days—

One inconspicuous, glowing orb of praise.


Brazen hypnotics glitter here;

Glee shifts from foot to foot,

Magnetic to their tremulo.

This crashing opera bouffe,

Blest excursion! this ricochet

From roof to roof—

Know, Olympians, we are breathless

While nigger cupids scour the stars!

A thousand light shrugs balance us

Through snarling hails of melody.

White shadows slip across the floor

Splayed like cards from a loose hand;

Rhythmic ellipses lead into canters

Until somewhere a rooster banters.

Greet naively—yet intrepidly

New soothings, new amazements

That cornets introduce at every turn—

And you may fall downstairs with me

With perfect grace and equanimity.

Or, plaintively scud past shores

Where, by strange harmonic laws

All relatives, serene and cool,

Sit rocked in patent armchairs.

O,I have known metallic paradises

Where cuckoos clucked to finches

Above the deft catastrophes of drums.

While titters hailed the groans of death

Beneath gyrating awnings I have seen

The incunabula of the divine grotesque.

This music has a reassuring way.

The siren of the springs of guilty song—

Let us take her on the incandescent wax

Striated with nuances, nervosities

That we are heir to: she is still so young,

We cannot frown upon her as she smiles,

Dipping here in this cultivated storm

Among slim skaters of the gardened skies.


Capped arbiter of beauty in this street

That narrows darkly into motor dawn,—

You, here beside me, delicate ambassador

Of intricate slain numbers that arise

In whispers, naked of steel;

                                     religious gunman!

Who faithfully, yourself, will fall too soon,

And in other ways than as the wind settles

On the sixteen thrifty bridges of the city:

Let us unbind our throats of fear and pity.

                                           We even,

Who drove speediest destruction

In corymbulous formations of mechanics,—

Who hurried the hill breezes, spouting malice

Plangent over meadows, and looked down

On rifts of torn and empty houses

Like old women with teeth unjubilant

That waited faintly, briefly and in vain:

We know, eternal gunman, our flesh remembers

The tensile boughs, the nimble blue plateaus,

The mounted, yielding cities of the air!

That saddled sky that shook down vertical

Repeated play of fire—no hypogeum

Of wave or rock was good against one hour.

We did not ask for that, but have survived,

And will persist to speak again before

All stubble streets that have not curved

To memory, or known the ominous lifted arm

That lowers down the arc of Helen’s brow

To saturate with blessing and dismay.

A goose, tobacco and cologne

Three winged and gold-shod prophecies of heaven,

The lavish heart shall always have to leaven

And spread with bells and voices, and atone

The abating shadows of our conscript dust.

Anchises’ navel, dripping of the sea,—

The hands Erasmus dipped in gleaming tides,

Gathered the voltage of blown blood and vine;

Delve upward for the new and scattered wine,

O brother-thief of time, that we recall.

Laugh out the meager penance of their days

Who dare not share with us the breath released,

The substance drilled and spent beyond repair

For golden, or the shadow of gold hair.

Distinctly praise the years, whose volatile

Blamed bleeding hands extend and thresh the height

The imagination spans beyond despair,

Outpacing bargain, vocable and prayer.

A Name for All

By Hart Crane

Moonmoth and grasshopper that flee our page

And still wing on, untarnished of the name

We pinion to your bodies to assuage

Our envy of your freedom—we must maim

Because we are usurpers, and chagrined—

And take the wing and scar it in the hand.

Names we have, even, to clap on the wind;

But we must die, as you, to understand.

I dreamed that all men dropped their names, and sang

As only they can praise, who build their days

With fin and hoof, with wing and sweetened fang

Struck free and holy in one Name always.

Repose of Rivers

By Hart Crane

The willows carried a slow sound,

A sarabande the wind mowed on the mead.

I could never remember

That seething, steady leveling of the marshes

Till age had brought me to the sea.

Flags, weeds. And remembrance of steep alcoves

Where cypresses shared the noon’s

Tyranny; they drew me into hades almost.

And mammoth turtles climbing sulphur dreams

Yielded, while sun-silt rippled them

Asunder ...

How much I would have bartered! the black gorge

And all the singular nestings in the hills

Where beavers learn stitch and tooth.

The pond I entered once and quickly fled—

I remember now its singing willow rim.

And finally, in that memory all things nurse;

After the city that I finally passed

With scalding unguents spread and smoking darts

The monsoon cut across the delta

At gulf gates ... There, beyond the dykes

I heard wind flaking sapphire, like this summer,

And willows could not hold more steady sound.

from The Bridge: Quaker Hill

By Hart Crane

Perspective never withers from their eyes; 

They keep that docile edict of the Spring

That blends March with August Antarctic skies: 

These are but cows that see no other thing 

Than grass and snow, and their own inner being 

Through the rich halo that they do not trouble 

Even to cast upon the seasons fleeting

Though they should thin and die on last year’s stubble.

And they are awkward, ponderous and uncoy . . . 

While we who press the cider mill, regarding them—

We, who with pledges taste the bright annoy 

Of friendship’s acid wine, retarding phlegm,

Shifting reprisals (’til who shall tell us when

The jest is too sharp to be kindly?) boast

Much of our store of faith in other men

Who would, ourselves, stalk down the merriest ghost.

Above them old Mizzentop, palatial white 

Hostelry—floor by floor to cinquefoil dormer 

Portholes the ceilings stack their stoic height. 

Long tiers of windows staring out toward former 

Faces—loose panes crown the hill and gleam 

At sunset with a silent, cobwebbed patience . . . 

See them, like eyes that still uphold some dream 

Through mapled vistas, cancelled reservations!

High from the central cupola, they say

One’s glance could cross the borders of three states; 

But I have seen death’s stare in slow survey 

From four horizons that no one relates . . . 

Weekenders avid of their turf-won scores,

Here three hours from the semaphores, the Czars

Of golf, by twos and threes in plaid plusfours 

Alight with sticks abristle and cigars.

This was the Promised Land, and still it is

To the persuasive suburban land agent

In bootleg roadhouses where the gin fizz

Bubbles in time to Hollywood’s new love-nest pageant. 

Fresh from the radio in the old Meeting House 

(Now the New Avalon Hotel) volcanoes roar

A welcome to highsteppers that no mouse

Who saw the Friends there ever heard before.

What cunning neighbors history has in fine! 

The woodlouse mortgages the ancient deal 

Table that Powitzky buys for only nine- 

Ty-five at Adams’ auction,—eats the seal, 

The spinster polish of antiquity . . . 

Who holds the lease on time and on disgrace? 

What eats the pattern with ubiquity?

Where are my kinsmen and the patriarch race?

The resigned factions of the dead preside. 

Dead rangers bled their comfort on the snow; 

But I must ask slain Iroquois to guide

Me farther than scalped Yankees knew to go: 

Shoulder the curse of sundered parentage, 

Wait for the postman driving from Birch Hill 

With birthright by blackmail, the arrant page 

That unfolds a new destiny to fill . . . . 

So, must we from the hawk’s far stemming view, 

Must we descend as worm’s eye to construe 

Our love of all we touch, and take it to the Gate

As humbly as a guest who knows himself too late,

His news already told? Yes, while the heart is wrung,

Arise—yes, take this sheaf of dust upon your tongue!

In one last angelus lift throbbing throat—

Listen, transmuting silence with that stilly note

Of pain that Emily, that Isadora knew!

While high from dim elm-chancels hung with dew,

That triple-noted clause of moonlight—

Yes, whip-poor-will, unhusks the heart of fright,

Breaks us and saves, yes, breaks the heart, yet yields

That patience that is armour and that shields

Love from despair—when love forsees the end—

Leaf after autumnal leaf

                                  break off,



from The Bridge: Southern Cross

By Hart Crane

I wanted you, nameless Woman of the South,

No wraith, but utterly—as still more alone

The Southern Cross takes night

And lifts her girdles from her, one by one—

High, cool,

             wide from the slowly smoldering fire

Of lower heavens,—    

                       vaporous scars!

Eve! Magdalene!

                      or Mary, you?

Whatever call—falls vainly on the wave.

O simian Venus, homeless Eve,

Unwedded, stumbling gardenless to grieve

Windswept guitars on lonely decks forever;

Finally to answer all within one grave!

And this long wake of phosphor,


Furrow of all our travel—trailed derision!

Eyes crumble at its kiss. Its long-drawn spell

Incites a yell. Slid on that backward vision

The mind is churned to spittle, whispering hell.

I wanted you . . . The embers of the Cross

Climbed by aslant and huddling aromatically.

It is blood to remember; it is fire

To stammer back . . . It is

God—your namelessness. And the wash—       

All night the water combed you with black

Insolence. You crept out simmering, accomplished.

Water rattled that stinging coil, your

Rehearsed hair—docile, alas, from many arms.

Yes, Eve—wraith of my unloved seed!

The Cross, a phantom, buckled—dropped below the dawn.

Light drowned the lithic trillions of your spawn.

ADDENDUM for the thoughtsOh Southern Cross there you stand bound by time and wretched in your stars and stained with blood you stand upon thy capital, you don't sing anymore of men in gray, but you are upheld in misery and deformity, do they curse your very name of hangings and burnings and wretched affairs for which you did attend to, hoods and blood is on your hands upon the grave did you attend over battlefields and over graves, smells and bones withered, maggots, your time is at had, to be over, to move along, castigated, burnt, shaped not by the present but by the past, you still stand, but why, why is names of misery do you still fly, killin and rapes have you seen enough in your charge, do you decree, and beseech me to my very soul, you are not the got of freedom in which I seek in these pine barrens, because where did she lay and sleep last night but in dark currents in the bosom of the hold of a ship over passages and stained with retribution and words and speeches, from which you cant see for you are blind, and your are scarce, and wrong in these fights, in these past, and my own eyes are weary from looking into the bloody palm of your existence, I am weary from you touch, from song, from our fiddled grace that you extend your hand with, and try to chop me off on the second investigation, in the the mind and the burial in which you need, but you still stand there at the capital, you still stand at houses, and on cars, you still stand on hateful grace, you still stand, when is enough is enough, in disgrace and in blood you still stand, but not forgiven, not at all, not unsightly seem, do you still stand to haunt me like muddy waters, to haunt time and place and in the past, without grace, hung upon the cross and burned, and given to unsympathetic curses and stretches of hands upwards, but you still resist, and beseech, and given retribution and solace for no one in particular, except to callous over my mind, and give me sorrow before you can give me death, for I want death, at your hands, wrapped in your malignancy, that your ardor gives, that stench you bestow upon me like your misplaced gazes, give me up, sing of me no more, release me from your bondage I am yours no more, and never was, you time is at hand oh southern cross, of hills and barrens and river and fields of blood and morning, when we will see you no more, but still you stand there looking at me, and looking over me, still you stand, in blood, and wretched approval of your deeds that have long since been past the time from which they will ache and call me no more, give me solace, give me death, those yells are gone, but are they forgotten in those hollows and creeks and over bloody fields where you lost that battle that can't be won, in my own darkness, and my own heart you are dead, but I cant quite got you away, no more how small and graceful your gaze and touch has become, I can't seem to let you go, you see to stand there, in a gory that you don;t deserve, in a battle hymn that you cant hear, because you are deaf, to the times, dead to the times, withered and burnt like frayed bodies that you have mutilated and cursed in the sweetness of your voice ever there after, did come over shores, and fields in white bright balls of disease, and grace like bow weevils did you come and go, in blood and intestines, hanging out do you stand, like bones, dust and briars, gone, forgotten, staring, with a gun pointed at me, and laughter, for me, cursing through your mouth, and taunting me with your flesh, and madness, and bosom, and nothing anymore, because you are a dead symbol at that capital, do I decree, through hills and valleys on the tops of buildings, the people who held out there hands with waters falling dirty and decayed, bitten and bleed out in scars, and mutilation from your withered skeletal touch, dead to this world and the next you stand to mock me, like a bird, hiding, ready with that gun and a knife to cut my throat in torture, but you will not leave me alone, forever there in dreams and in my nightmares, that cross burns into my sole, to plague me unto your touch you wretched flag, you malignant disease, that I cant rid myself of, because there you stand, taunting me with death, and madness, and the southern cross and all the demon that you bring there in, lay in repose and die and plague me no more.



Sketches from the Worldport number 1001
in the darkness of the bus that moves people from a parking lot past the security fences that are inside the airport, it does this on the hour, and on the minute, day after day, people are crammed inside this bus, the flight attendants chatting away amongst themselves, and the pilots silent to themselves maybe checking their phones and looking tired, the mechanics elbowing themselves in the ribs and joking to themselves, and the gate agents complaining about the customers they had to deal with that day and what places they liked to work, as a effeminate man gestures and talks to another lady, “I cant stand working over here, they are just so crazy over here. I rather work over there on my soul. It's just something about over here I don't like. I don't know what it is.” with his thinning body and thinning hair as the bigger woman asks where he likes to work the best, “I don't know. I can't really say. I like some things about over here, but I'd rather be on C. It's just better over there.” as the conversation drones out with the hum of other voices, as some of the workers in their orange vests are talking, and maybe there is a man who sells smoothies in his Giant Cooler and makes money on the side, an older man, with a bearded stern face, who has a look of a Professor, someone you would mistake for a school teacher if it was another place, on his boxy frame, as he talks to an older fellow like himself about the nature and the process of how he goes about making his smoothies and his icies by which he sells up at the worldport in the cooler which he brings up there everyday making those extra dollars but for what reason does he want to make those extra dollars because he lives alone this man does and eats his food alone as he watches old movies from a different time and place like the Ten Commandments “Those were the classics. They don't make movies like those anymore,” who makes these icies to sell during the summer time, “First I go to the store, and I pick out my fruits, I make sure they are fresh, then I get them all blended up and let them sit in the freezer for a bit, “ as the other man just nods his head as he listens to the process during the night, interested but also tired as the man goes on about his process, because this professor like older man with the beard and the stern face does tend to lecture other people some times as he goes about his day like telling other workers to get out of his way as he is trying to get his bags so he can take them to where the belt brings them to where the people can get their bag, “But they have to be fresh, and then I taste them, but if they don't taste right I just throw them out.” and as the professor like man with his stern eyes drums about his lonely process in the night of the bus, people are getting annoyed at the bus driver who is eccentric and yelling at another employee who is standing up in the packed bus, the bus driver is an older lady, a lady with a big face and a mole on her cheek and maybe wearing a wig “Sir, you have to sit in a seat. Those are the rules.” as she told another one of those workers with their orange vest to sit down because he couldn't stand up because those were the rules and that he had to sit down, and the tall muscled worker from the country side maybe with a curved hat and maybe they call him Big Country with his chewing tobacco and red face, didn't want to listen to her, until somebody told him sometimes “Come on Country We want to get home sometime tonight.” and he laughed and sat down, and that old Lady bus driver, with her big painted face and heavy makeup, and her beauty mark, looking like she was still living in another time got that bus moving again through the darkened parking lot as the people rumbled about her, saying she was crazy, but maybe she is just taking care of an older invalid husband, and living on borrowed time, as she goes about her rounds, and going by the rules, as the bus keeps going on that route in the darkness, but in the back of the bus away from all the hub bub of the crazy bus driver giving people a hard time there are people talking and sleeping and getting on their phones like flashlights on peoples faces in the darkness and in that darkness there are people talking to each other. There is a tall skinny flight attendant just getting off the plane and new to her job looking fresh in the face and worried about trying to find a parking spot in this sea of cars that look out underneath those streetlamps in the shimmering darkness like as far as the eye can sea out there with planes coming and going on the hour into the night just like this bus that is going, as that skinny flight attendant looking like a deer in those headlights, on her frail but long brown haired frame with an angular nose with a kind of a Midwestern bent to her countenance tries to strike up a conversation with another flight attendant next to her that she had worked with on the plane and they had both got on the same bus. “It was really nice flying with you. I really hope we can do it again. Thanks for giving me all the pointers. I'm still learning.” as he looks at her and smiles to himself thinking she might not last at this job and as that skinny tall midwestern flight attendant is fretting about where she parked there is some people talking behind them, there is a young woman, talking to a man, that young woman is tired from working all day long. She is short and dark skinned, with a plump but lively face, her words are slow and country and maybe she is from the wrong side of town as she talks to that taller light skinned man, a man that seems like he had seen it all before, he's got a bald head, a sharp face like a card shark in a way, he might be from a big city up North like Detroit, as he asks her something, as the din of conversations are going on around them, some workers talking about sports or where they're going on their off days, or playing games on their high powered cell phones, or watching some show on those same cell phones, and that flight attendant in front of them are still talking as she still wonders where she parked as that dark skinned small girl and the sharped faced man behind are still talking after working in the bowel of the airport all day, and sitting in that break room where they had been conversing before they got on the bus “You ever thinking about getting married? You ever been married before” in his sharp Northern voice but with still a little bit of smoothness to it, “I thought about it. I guess nobody want to marry me.” as she is smiling like it is a joke. “I get lonely. Sometimes I just want to somebody to go to the movies with. Sometimes I'll be going by myself and just eating popcorn and sitting in the back all by myself.” as she talks in her real slow voice, in a drawl of this southern city, a monotone to it, like she is slow, and uneducated you might think, but something there in that drawl of this city and slowness that giver her beauty and sadness as she talks and smiles at that man that has seem it all, knowing that he is hitting on her, as he starts talking to her again, looking slyly at her with his sharp face and bald head in the light of the overhead bus light, “Let me tell you something. I've been married. I like this bachelor life. Don't anybody tell me what to do. I do what I want. If I feel like going to the movies and seeing a movie. I don't have to hear any whining about the movie were going to see. If I want to take a trip. I don't have to hear about somebody not wanting to go somewhere. I just go. And I can tell you what soon is my oldest is out of the house. That's it for me. I'm going to be going all over the place. Doing what I want. I cant tell you that. I like this bachelor life Girl.” as he gets down telling his words of wisdom, his little soliloquy to that dark skinned girl sitting next to him on the bus, with his sharp words and his sharp face, as she drawls on in her slow country accent, “I just get tired and want to get out of the house sometimes. That's all. But I got to take care of my kids. My oldest daughter she always wants to sleep with me now. I try and tell her to go sleep in her bed, but she always comes back and knocks on the door saying she wants to sleep with me because shes scared and I'm like ok.” and he gives her a sharp look with those dark eyebrows of his on his wiry but strong hunched over frame in his seat, “You got to break them of that. You can't let her do that. Shes got to learn. I always told my son he's got to do something for his self, because I'm not going to do it for him. He's got to be his own Man because his Daddy is not going to do it for him.” as the bus driver with the heavy makeup on her face, stops the bus for the first stop, as young men listening to music on their headphones stand up to get in line in the middle aisle of the bus, looking at the young flight attendant that is still talking to her other coworker and trying to find out where she is, as that effeminate man that was comparing the different places to work up at the worldport says, “Ill see you later Sally. I hope they don't kill us tomorrow. You know how these people are up here.” but those two that were getting into the depths of their lives in this slow prodding bus that makes these trips forever, making the rounds every day, with that crazy bus driver with the painted face, making these stops, and saying “Can I see your badge please. You need to sit down back there Gentleman.” as it all goes on as she moved to go to the next stop, as that short dark skinned girl from the country of this city with her slow moving ways and voice, is still talking to that sharp faced and sharp eyed man on that wiry hunched over frame, as a lot of empty seat were around them but they were still sitting together talking, as others had moved to get their own seats on the bus, so they could have their own personal space on this bus, on these cramped buses were you can smell the sweat of the other person sitting next to you on the bus after a long day, as they continue their conversation as the bus moves to the next stop in the gargantuan parking lot, that sketches with cars as far as the eye can see during the day, and at night looking like endless rows of streetlamps in that parking lot with a million odd cars for all the workers at this worldport, as that fight attendant in front of them continues talking and looking out the window into that parking lot wondering where her car is and feeling more lost by the second in this strange southern city with the strange voices in the darkness of the bus, her slim and tall figure in that red suit of a flight attendant is staring to be more fidgeting with darting eyes from her beak like face and straight auburn hair, as she grows more worried with that other man sitting next to her, a small man of a flight attendant like herself, close cropped hair, and somewhat a metro style, as he can tell she is starting to get more worried but in a way he doesn't care because this is old hat for him and he doesn't really care in his city suburban ways, “I'm so tired and I can't remember where I parked.” as her eyes dart back and forth as you can tell her nervousness, “Where did you park? I parked at C7, I think.” as he says something, as he looks at his phone, and she is worrying about whether she will remember where she parked her car, because in her profession, she might be gone for days, on her trip, and then she cant remember so she writes down the letter and she tries to remember it, but maybe as she gets that veteran vibe of the man with the metro style, and maybe she'll find it as she tries to remember and make small talk. “How long have you been working for the Company.” she asks, and he goes on about how the pay scale works and how he is making more money and how she'll get used to it, as more people start to get off the bus, and that small dark woman is telling more about her problems with her kids and with her Mamma, but now they are getting tired and getting ready to get off the bus as they are some of the last people on the bus besides that man who sells smoothies with his Giant Cooler as he gets up to move the Cooler off the bus because its his stop as he still is droning on to that older man as they both get off the bus together still talking about his process of how he makes those smoothies to sell in the loneliness of his life as they both say goodbye to that crazed bus driver, “Have a Good Night Sir” as they continue to talk as he drags his cooler to his car, and the rest of the people are getting off the bus because its the last stop and maybe you see in the darkness that midwestern flight attendant as you get in your own car, and you see her wondering about the parking lot in the darkness looking for her car, with a exasperated look on her face full of worry and tiredness, after her day of stress and learning on the job, with those darting eyes on her tall frame in her red uniform, wandering around that parking lot in the darkness, and maybe you see that single mother and that sharp faced man continue talking as that woman in her red suit passes them with that exasperated look on her face as she crosses the street and she almost gets run over by those cars that keep coming in the darkness past the security boxes with the sleepy indifferent security guards as she asks them for help in finding her car, but she gets those indifferent looks as she searches for her car in the darkness, as the crazy bus driver with the mole on her face and wig on her head goes back to make another round, in the darkness, as that flight attendant searches and the bus keeps on moving until the next day at the worldport that begins all over again.


Dark Night of the Soul


Once in the dark of night,
Inflamed with love and wanting, I arose
(O coming of delight!)
And went, as no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose

All in the dark went right,
Down secret steps, disguised in other clothes,
(O coming of delight!)
In dark when no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose.

And in the luck of night
In secret places where no other spied
I went without my sight
Without a light to guide
Except the heart that lit me from inside.

It guided me and shone
Surer than noonday sunlight over me,
And lead me to the one
Whom only I could see
Deep in a place where only we could be.

O guiding dark of night!
O dark of night more darling than the dawn!
O night that can unite
A lover and loved one,
Lover and loved one moved in unison.

And on my flowering breast
Which I had kept for him and him alone
He slept as I caressed
And loved him for my own,
Breathing an air from redolent cedars blown.

And from the castle wall
The wind came down to winnow through his hair
Bidding his fingers fall,
Searing my throat with air
And all my senses were suspended there.

I stayed there to forget.
There on my lover, face to face, I lay.
All ended, and I let
My cares all fall away
Forgotten in the lilies on that day.

In a dark night

With longings kindled in love

oh blessed chance

I went forth without being observed

My house already being at rest

Through darkness and secure

By the secret ladder disguised

oh blessed chance

Through darkness and in concealment

My house already being at rest

In the blessed night

In secret that none saw me

Nor I beheld aught

Without any other light or guide

Save that which was burning in the heart

That which guided me

More sure than the light of noonday

'Where he was awaiting me

Him whom I knew well

In a place where no one appeared

Oh thou night that guided

Oh lovely night moreso than the dawn

Oh thou night that joined

Lover with beloved

Beloved in the lover transformed

Upon my flowery breast

Which I kept whole for himself alone

There he stayed sleeping

and I was caressing him,

And the fanning of the cedars made a breeze

The breeze from the turret

While I was parting his locks

With his gentle hand

He was wounding my neck

And causing all my senses to be suspended

I remained myself and forgot myself

My face reclined on the lover

All ceased and I abandoned myself Leaving my concern

forgotten among the lilies.

The Spiritual Canticle

Where have You hidden Yourself,
And abandoned me in my groaning, O my Beloved?
You have fled like the hart,
Having wounded me.
I ran after You, crying; but You were gone.

O shepherds, you who go
Through the sheepcots up the hill,
If you shall see Him
Whom I love the most,
Tell Him I languish, suffer, and die.

In search of my Love
I will go over mountains and strands;
I will gather no flowers,
I will fear no wild beasts;
And pass by the mighty and the frontiers.

O groves and thickets
Planted by the hand of the Beloved;
O verdant meads
Enameled with flowers,
Tell me, has He passed by you?

A thousand graces diffusing
He passed through the groves in haste,
And merely regarding them
As He passed
Clothed them with His beauty.

Oh! who can heal me?
Give me at once Yourself,
Send me no more
A messenger
Who cannot tell me what I wish.

All they who serve are telling me
Of Your unnumbered graces;
And all wound me more and more,
And something leaves me dying,
I know not what, of which they are darkly speaking.

But how you persevere, O life,
Not living where you live;
The arrows bring death
Which you receive
From your conceptions of the Beloved.

Why, after wounding
This heart, have You not healed it?
And why, after stealing it,
Have You thus abandoned it,
And not carried away the stolen prey?

Quench my troubles,
For no one else can soothe them;
And let my eyes behold You,
For You are their light,
And I will keep them for You alone.

Reveal Your presence,
And let the vision and Your beauty kill me,
Behold the malady
Of love is incurable
Except in Your presence and before Your face.

O crystal well!
Oh that on Your silvered surface
You would mirror forth at once
Those eyes desired
Which are outlined in my heart!

Turn them away, O my Beloved!
I am on the wing:

Return, My Dove!
The wounded hart
Looms on the hill
In the air of your flight and is refreshed.

My Beloved is the mountains,
The solitary wooded valleys,
The strange islands,
The roaring torrents,
The whisper of the amorous gales;

The tranquil night
At the approaches of the dawn,
The silent music,
The murmuring solitude,
The supper which revives, and enkindles love.

Catch us the foxes,
For our vineyard has flourished;
While of roses
We make a nosegay,
And let no one appear on the hill.

O killing north wind, cease!
Come, south wind, that awakens love!
Blow through my garden,
And let its odors flow,
And the Beloved shall feed among the flowers.

O nymphs of Judea!
While amid the flowers and the rose-trees
The amber sends forth its perfume,
Tarry in the suburbs,
And touch not our thresholds.

Hide yourself, O my Beloved!
Turn Your face to the mountains,
Do not speak,
But regard the companions
Of her who is traveling amidst strange islands.

Light-winged birds,
Lions, fawns, bounding does,
Mountains, valleys, strands,
Waters, winds, heat,
And the terrors that keep watch by night;

By the soft lyres
And the siren strains, I adjure you,
Let your fury cease,
And touch not the wall,
That the bride may sleep in greater security.

The bride has entered
The pleasant and desirable garden,
And there reposes to her heart's content;
Her neck reclining
On the sweet arms of the Beloved.

Beneath the apple-tree
There were you betrothed;
There I gave you My hand,
And you were redeemed
Where your mother was corrupted.

Our bed is of flowers
By dens of lions encompassed,
Hung with purple,
Made in peace,
And crowned with a thousand shields of gold.

In Your footsteps
The young ones run Your way;
At the touch of the fire
And by the spiced wine,
The divine balsam flows.

In the inner cellar
Of my Beloved have I drunk; and when I went forth
Over all the plain
I knew nothing,
And lost the flock I followed before.

There He gave me His breasts,
There He taught me the science full of sweetness.
And there I gave to Him
Myself without reserve;
There I promised to be His bride.

My soul is occupied,
And all my substance in His service;
Now I guard no flock,
Nor have I any other employment:
My sole occupation is love.

If, then, on the common land
I am no longer seen or found,
You will say that I am lost;
That, being enamored,
I lost myself; and yet was found.

Of emeralds, and of flowers
In the early morning gathered,
We will make the garlands,
Flowering in Your love,
And bound together with one hair of my head.

By that one hair
You have observed fluttering on my neck,
And on my neck regarded,
You were captivated;
And wounded by one of my eyes.

When You regarded me,
Your eyes imprinted in me Your grace:
For this You loved me again,
And thereby my eyes merited
To adore what in You they saw

Despise me not,
For if I was swarthy once
You can regard me now;
Since You have regarded me,
Grace and beauty have You given me.

The little white dove
Has returned to the ark with the bough;
And now the turtle-dove
Its desired mate
On the green banks has found.

In solitude she lived,
And in solitude built her nest;
And in solitude, alone
Has the Beloved guided her,
In solitude also wounded with love.

Let us rejoice, O my Beloved!
Let us go forth to see ourselves in Your beauty,
To the mountain and the hill,
Where the pure water flows:
Let us enter into the heart of the thicket.

We shall go at once
To the deep caverns of the rock
Which are all secret,
There we shall enter in
And taste of the new wine of the pomegranate.

There you will show me
That which my soul desired;
And there You will give at once,
O You, my life!
That which You gave me the other day.

The breathing of the air,
The song of the sweet nightingale,
The grove and its beauty
In the serene night,
With the flame that consumes, and gives no pains.

None saw it;
Neither did Aminadab appear
The siege was intermitted,
And the cavalry dismounted
At the sight of the waters.

The Living Flame Of Love
Songs of the soul in the intimate communication of loving union with God.

O living flame of love

that tenderly wounds my soul

in its deepest center! Since

now you are not oppressive,

now consummate! if it be your will:

tear through the veil of this sweet encounter!

O sweet cautery,

O delightful wound!

O gentle hand! O delicate touch

that tastes of eternal life

and pays every debt!

In killing you changed death to life.

O lamps of fire!

in whose splendors

the deep caverns of feeling,

once obscure and blind,

now give forth, so rarely, so exquisitely,

both warmth and light to their Beloved.

How gently and lovingly

you wake in my heart,

where in secret you dwell alone;

and in your sweet breathing,

filled with good and glory,

how tenderly you swell my heart with love.

La Noche Oscura Del Alma
San Juan De La Cruz


laugh to keep from going crazy
The adventures and travails of going to the doctor everyday of your life, and being an Anxiety filled individual the very days of your life and leans, man, oh man, I don't even know where to begin. It doesn't really matter that much, just in my own life. I mean people are going through much more and worse than what I have been experiencing lately, these odds six or seven months. But I know what it feels like.  I know what they're going through now more than I did, especially if you don't know what's wrong with you and you just wonder if you'll ever be the same. I know my brother was going through some stuff one time and he found out he had thyroid problems and I just shucked it off in my own machismo way that it must just be some stress or depression and thryoid isn't that big of deal.  But as I've gone through this here journey from doctor to doctor I know it truly and utterly sucks and that is for sure as I lay on that MRI table wondering where it all went wrong, trapped inside a god awful machine, and of course being claustrophobic and having those fears of tight places and just wanting to get out but drugging myself up with Xanax(like I have been recently and being perscribed everything under the sun but just loving my Xanax to get me through it all says the addicted brain personality) just to get through it and break free from being trapped in that Torture Box.  I did that MRI in some Clinic In North Georgia, that's how bad it's been, I've been banished from the City Doctors and my Family Doctor and I've fled up North (not that far) for the only people that will take me (and make money off of me). And not to say my Doctors from Emory University and other presitigous places of learning aren't right and its all just in my head, and maybe I am becoming a hypochodriac of sorts, maybe all the dying of my Grandmother got up inside of me, and I started feeling that real anxiety that had always been there before, you know from massive amounts of drugs and cocaine ingested during my youth, that makes me think I'm dying.   But I had a SuperStar Asian Cardiologist near my house, not that he has to be Asian, he could be anybody, but in this case he was a young Asian dude, from one of those presitgious schools, in the top floor of that new hosiptal we have in my County, that heart doctor at the top of his game looking out over the highway, that brought all these people here and me out on the edge of this sprawled out city, that Superstar doctor that I see advertising in our little newsapeper about all the fancy things we have avaiable to us now, “I really don't think there is anything wrong with your heart, but you are a mystery.” in his leather shoes and swede pants giving me a quixotic look in his kind but throughful manner, as we sit in his office and me in a leather chair, thinking about what it must be like to be him with some young wife, and living in some big house, and don't ask me what's wrong with me, I've been to them all, all kinds of doctors, young ones, fat ones, Nigerian doctors who hate my guts, Indian doctors, old New Jersey doctors wearing cowboy boots and prescbiring me my Beloved Xanax just for the heck of it.  I've been to see them all, on this loathsome adventure, into the Wonderful World of Medicine in America, and now I'm broke, and still working, and barely hanging on, but really is that even unusual in my life, but not really, but now I understand. Now I understand all about OEDIPUS. I understand all about the Spinx. Which is a funny thing to say but I understand. Because you never know when you might need help. You never know when things might just fall apart and crumble into your hand. You just never know. One day you could be riding high on the hog, and the next somebody is kicking dirt in your eye, and punching you in the stomach, because that is how life does you, and ain't it a bitch, just saying it for the pun, no offense to be taken. But Now I'm out in North Georgia getting MRI's at out patient clinics they put out there, because I've been banished from the SuperStar doctors with their leather chairs and offices with great views of highways. But they good doctors out there, but sometimes they get a little disorganized, like the ladies taking my Blood in my Lab, who are talking on the phone all the time, and don't even care what they're doing, country as all get out. But you could find that anywhere I guess, “We need you to get up here and take another lab, You didn't finish the one you had.  Just come in any time you want.” as I asked them a thousand times about did I miss another one I should have taken, and then they call me up the next day saying I got another one. But they're the only one that will take me now. I've got in to many arguments with Nigerian Pulmonolgists and Doctors with fancy leather chairs are tired of me at this point, and I'm a little worn out myself. I'm withered and worn right now and drained of all the blood in my body from all the Blood tests. But my Girlfriend from another Country is helping me get through this, helping me to keep living life, holding my hand when I nearly pass out from fear of needles and have to drink animal crackers and apple juice to get through it, and taking notes when I'm at the doctor, and when I'm drugged up on pills which is a little less now than what it was, she wipes the drowl from my mouth, not really but you get the point. Maybe I'm just a morbid person, that suffers from fear of dying. Its tough. To think about. It reallys is and maybe it did overwhelm me, and getting an unknown form of sickness is not helping me either that is for sure. But I'm probably going to die of Cancer from all the Tests I've been through, but lets keep it on the postive and not worry about all that right now.  Don't sink yourself into pits of self loathing and denial, just keep right on going.  No more of that dark humor. No use really.  Your not helping yourself.  Just pop some more pills you'll be ok.   Now I just go fishing to try and forget about all this. But that would be nice except I'm a damn sorry fisherman. Me and the fishing line just do not mix. I just cast out into a North Georgia lake and get caught on a branch, and twist my line all up and that's it for me and I just sit there and enjoy the view. I mean I know all about fishing, all about fish, read books about it, studied those fishes patterns and lives, but can't fish to save my life. But oh well you have to do something right. Or maybe it's just this work thing beating me down to an utter pulp. Maybe full time employment is just not for me. I can't do anything anymore. I cant think. I cant sleep or eat without being up at work. My life has become the damned airport. I think I would rather me homeless sleeping under a bridge than work full time in any place of employment. But maybe not. Mabye the rat race is not for me. Maybe I can't have those responsbilites that others have. Maybe I can't even wipe my own arse. Maybe it's not that bad, have some positivity. Don't go down into the negative. Dont' throw youself into a lake because you fishing line gets twisted. Come on, Man think of the brightside. You could be stuck in an MRI machine, as you have your quarter life crisis, and the tough North Georgia lady tells you got another 15 minutes, and “just hold still right there, you Doctor needs to do a little more,” and just kill me right now and get it over with quick, maybe they can put a laser in the machine for the suicial patients and they can just off them in there and wouldn't it be so nice. No don't go down that road. Just a little bit of black humor for you that's all. But then me and my Mom who went with me and sat in the waiting room texting her old College Friends from the Seventies in Texas, those good old hippy days like out of a Linklater movie, as I got that Water Torture in that MRI machine, but after we went to a Southern Diner in North Georgia, like the Waffle House before they had Waffle houses, with the old waitresses, that serve you fried Bologne sandwiches, and fried pies on the grill, and I sat there on that small town Square and those Trains were passing and it all seemed surreal, from the tops of Hospitals with Superstar doctors to sitting watching trains passing through a small town, maybe I just got dropped off in the 1950's with some segregation, and all the white folks know each other, and are eating fried bologne sandwiches, in that small cramped place, where you can hear everything, and everybody knows your name, and where that small town life really doesn't exist anymore, but I could kiss that fried pie and fried bologne sandwich, beccause I'm still here and I'm still kicking and they released me from that water torture, that big lady from North Georgia stared at me with her awkward stance, and said we could exit to our right, as my mom was still texting her college friends, and I told her I wanted to get the hell out of there, and go watch Trains through transposed small towns, that don't exist anymore. But I got to stay positive, that all you can do. Kiss that fired bologne sandwich and be thankful you're still walking around. And you can fish and be frustrated, and you can get grind up like mush at a full time job you hate, but got a girl you Love, and some mountains trailing in the distance, but know this my friends, like John Lennon said once, the bes t laid plans of mice and men,because you can't plan for nothing because you don't really know whats going to happen down the line. I doubt he said that, but you got to think positive. Take it from me. Its all you can do to keep from going crazy.


When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be

When I have fears that I may cease to be

  Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,

Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,

  Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,

  Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

  Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

  That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

  Of unreflecting love—then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Ode on Melancholy

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

      Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd

      By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

              Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

      Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

              Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;

      For shade to shade will come too drowsily,

              And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

      Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

      And hides the green hill in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

      Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

              Or on the wealth of globed peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

      Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

              And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

      And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

      Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Ay, in the very temple of Delight

      Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

              Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

      Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;

His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,

              And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Bright Star

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

        Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

        Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

        Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

        Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

        Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

        Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

        My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

        One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

        But being too happy in thine happiness,—

               That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees

                       In some melodious plot

        Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

               Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

        Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

        Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

        Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

               With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

                       And purple-stained mouth;

        That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

               And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

        What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

        Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

        Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

               Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

                       And leaden-eyed despairs,

        Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

               Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

        Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

        Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

        And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

               Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;

                       But here there is no light,

        Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

               Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

        Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

        Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

        White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

               Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

                       And mid-May's eldest child,

        The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

               The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

        I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

        To take into the air my quiet breath;

               Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

        To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

               While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

                       In such an ecstasy!

        Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

                  To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

        No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

        In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

        Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

               She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

                       The same that oft-times hath

        Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

               Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

        To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

        As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

        Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

               Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

                       In the next valley-glades:

        Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

               Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?


What Dreams May Come and Emergency Room nightmares

Going Deeper into that Life and addendum of the Emergency Room just for Kicks and Giggles I Flew on a Plane. I advanced in Life Experience and Such things the moved me towards that adulthood from which I long for, and we moved deeper into each others lives, from when that first time I went to Canada that summer that seems like a long time ago, in another life almost, but this man right here is afraid of commitment and thinking he's still that Lone Wolf and Cub and not thinking outside of his delusions, but that all seems but a beautiful dream right now, as I sit on the bed in the midst of the throws, and drugged demons of anxiety and fear, for I was laid low, so low I didn't think I can get up anymore, and I went to the EMERGENCY ROOM for the first time since I was a child with asthma because not being able to breath and still not knowing what the fuck is wrong with me, and just laying low and swinging low, going to work and seeing things on the news that just lays me even more low in that depression and anxiety that has its pox upon me and then some. But lets talk about what happened before all this went down, lets talk about going on that plane in sweltering summer of madness and disgust, but really was beautiful, and it was so hot up there in Canada where it's not supposed to be, like a Heat wave or something, as I stayed at my girlfriends house, as we moving deeper but at the same time moving further away through the space time continuum, whatever that means, both treading water so to speak trying to find our way through this maze in life, trying to find that contentment, as she is still staying with her parents from that Island Nation, of calypso rhythms, and garden beauty of flowers in your mind, and darkness from another continent, but anyways they didn't have air conditioning at her parents house, because you know it doesn't really get that hot up there that much, but of course when I go up there thinking its going to be grand, it get so hot I'm sweating my damn ass off, about to die, and they are like I thought it was hot where you are from, but I was like we got AC every place we go down there in our cars and in our parking lots, as her mother that aging older woman who I talk with through sign language and laughter and food, as she calls me “My Son” mainly because I eat anything that comes near my face, like Conch, and Fish and Plantains those wonderful Island things, that my girlfriend shuns hating on her “Momma's” food, for the more staid Canadian fare but that's how she is, as that Mother dotes on me as we laugh at each other and try to communicate but only pointing and laughing as she shows me things on the internet from where she's from, and she sings to herself songs from that Island Nation, and her slow moving ways as we wait on her as she drives us around, and my girlfriend of the distance and space continuum of planes and such, gets mad as she talks to her mom in another language as I just sit there looking out the window, not knowing what there talking about really, as her Moms hums something, a rhythm and a beat from somewhere else, somewhere of flowers and birds, and darkness, from somewhere not in the Snow, but actually it's kind of like that now, in this Heat, and her Garden that she tends to with the blooms of flowers in their Queens like neighborhood of immigrant Italians and Arabs and Island Folk, and as I tried to cook some barbecue for them from where I'm from don't you know, but then the little barbecue they had didn't get hot enough really, and then we argued me and her, and then that Mother had to knock it over because I was burning the sausages that my girlfriend wanted because she didn't want to eat that food from that Island Nation, but all that was on the first day, because I was there and it was her “Momma's” birthday and they were having a surprise birthday party for her, and almost like a reunion with her cousins coming and her Mother friends were going to be there, and it was going to be “meet the Folks” time for me, at a nice restaurant downtown, with her Family all dressed up nice like going to Church but maybe a Communion or something, but her Mother thinking it was just going to be her Sister and us, kind of not really thinking anything of it, in her normal gown of flowers, as he were having trouble finding the place, but she was just strolling, in her Island way, through this city, as her Sister couldn't find her keys, and we were arguing about where the nice Hotel was, where the nice restaurant was, as her Mother from that Island Nation in this Big Canadian city just strolled like she was somewhere else, saying to me “My Son” as he laughed some more, and she was talking to some couple on the street, asking where it was, as the daughters raced past her, busy trying to find the place as the Mother just strolled from a different tune, to a Island Beat all her own. But we got there, with one of her cousins sneaking around so that she wouldn't see her, and then everybody said surprise or something like that, as I had to do a round of kisses on cheeks, to everybody around the table, although some my Texian folks do kiss a lot on my Dads side, but not like this round of kisses, for everybody and everyone, as these folks of different complexions and different hues, and they were grilling my girlfriend, for not telling them about me, in her secret ways, because she is a lone wolf and cub such as myself, but it was interesting meeting the Folks, although the language was an inhibitor for further talking, because an older gentleman who was the father of one of her Bubbly cousins, a wild child in her tight dress and makeup, living that city life, and that young generation of smart phones, and facebook, but he doesn't speak English, so it was very quiet at our table, but with her Mother siting at the end of the table like a great Matriarch, getting love from all her family members and her old Friends who she gossips with, and saying things that I don't know what their talking about, but she is loving every minute of this, being the center of attention, seeing her Family together because that's all that matters. That Family of Island Folk dressed in their finest, these professional people, her cousins, a flight attendant taking selfies with all her boos, and the regal Sister and the kids and the professional cousin my girlfriend doesn't get along with, her kids running around chasing each other, but she is a professional and her Engineer Husband in their mini van in Canada, as we all gathered around for pictures with the photographer they had hired, but finally at our table we started talking and the young dude across from me starting speaking English and we talked about the World Cup and he used to do some boxing, and the father of that Facebook girl next to me smiled and a said something about the food, and he laughed not knowing what I said, in his tight Euro Pants and glasses at this nice restaurant with the Buffet, and it seemed like a dream especially now in my bed, like I'm dead to this world and the next, seems like a bright sort of life, those sweet and beautiful things in this life, that spread out like Carpe Diem before you, like some Robin Williams movie of your youth, living that life to the fullest, and you wondering where it all went to, like what dreams my come that are lost, in the movement, like that moment you and your girl went to the Beach at the State Park they got up in Canada, like on a Lake, but really the River, reminding you of the Lakes they got here where we use to go for Birthday parties and such, but not like that, more majestic in its view, not some damned Georgia Creek, as you drove out in those Canadian suburbs, along the highway, and buying a swimsuits for each other, and on the Beach, one of those things in life you want to live over and over again if you could like out of one of those Movies from the Youth, as you ate Veggie Sticks and she was afraid to show her legs, and your hairy chest and belly with your Farmers Tan in that surprisingly warm waters of Canada, as she did some tanning and you swam, with the college suburban Canadians throwing footballs, and the mix of immigrant folks enjoying themselves, and you drove to a secluded spot and took some pics on your smart phones, and some older people were there giving you dirty looks just like you were back down South, but it felt good that day, that seems like it was ten years ago, as you drove back along that Canadian highway spread out, of pharmaceutical warehouses and box stores, and you went back and the Island Mother was gone, and you took off her bathing suit, and the bed was creaking, and you fucked for a little bit, and laughed with your awkwardness, with each other even though you know each other, but that was a day in the Summer of Dreams, and the breeze wafts back towards your romanticism and your deathly Post Mortem on your bed, trying to be positive, and over reacting maybe because your getting older and trying to understand some death and aging because of that Grandmother maybe but just trying to appreciate those things while they're her and trying to say you'll do things different now, trying to change your ways, and appreciate those things for the fullest like some Carpe Diem, while you got them, in the sunshine of those Canadian State Parks and a gathering of an Island Family, with all the hues, but all those things just gone in that sun of that Canadian State Park, into those sick lights of Hospital, in the damned EMERGENCY ROOM, that damned brand new hospital, in this damned bumpkin county trying to be something it ain't, with their new airports and city halls built in the middle of the woods to nowhere and nobody, but excuse my negativity, at my present condition and such, where the sleepy girls checked you in, in their non chalant manner in the middle of the night, as you waited with your Dad who drove you up there, and it all comes back to you from when you were a kid, putting the clip on your finger, and the needle in your arm, and it was dark and it seemed deserted as you waited and maybe a shrunken faced girl put her head on her boyfriends shoulder as they waited, and maybe your basketball coach came in the sliding doors as you waited and you and your Dad shook his hand, but then that was all, and you felt bad, because you didn't say something to him, like “How you doing Coach or something like that.” but you just didn't feel up to snuff that night when you were in the Brand new Emergency Room, and his son had the same condition you had, or the same symptoms, and they even put him in the same room next to his, but it was just a hand shake between you and Coach, because the past his flitted away, just like that old Hospital they had that was next to the small town that was on the edge of this city of highways and distance with all those ramifications of not knowing anybody, with all those different kinds of people from everywhere else, with the good and the bad (as sometimes I wish they would just keep building, and building and destroying and changing, like something crazy, some New York city skyline built upon these old woods, but its not going to happen, and then I get all nostalgic about how it was back in the day, of those old high school years, those small town years that drifted away, when it was smaller and maybe people knew each other more, but I don't know if it ever really was like that really, but I would say I don't know anybody around here anymore, but maybe that's because your older and you move away and you come back, or maybe its because those people have moved away to be replaced by more people from somewhere else, but I'm not really sure) just like the clinic I go to from when I was a kid, maybe it was always like this, and maybe I just didn't notice, but it seems different, like they have Russian ladies taking blood, and Spanish women leading me to my room, and Lackadaisical Californian nurse practitioners talking to me about what allergy medication to use, and they seem so busy and rushing around, and taking forever for you to get in and see the doctor before they usher you out and you forgot to ask a question and your off to the pharmacy to get drugs in the 24 hour pharmacy that never sleeps next to the honky tonk bar from yesteryear, and liquor store, and the chicken wing place that has been there forever, but maybe its just me getting old, and feeling the effects, and feeling the change, and trying to pick things out of the current that never stops, just like that 24 hour pharmacy, plucking them out, as they go on past on that highway, like that newly built hospital in what used to be woods, for acres and acres, and piles of dirt with signs for sale, and acquired properties ready for development, but back to that night, where they were friendly in that old County way, back to the old Hospital, an older man who actually reminded me of a dude I went to school with who is actually a Surgeon now, in Oklahoma or somewhere, or that is what Facebook has told me, but he had that same puffy red face, and affable manner, as he joked with my dad sitting there in his relaxed why while I'm a about to pass out from stress a get from my Mother who carries the same personality trait, “Just relax your arm. I'm really good at this, believe me I get a lot of practice.” as more people come into the room, the registration people, and blood test people, and another nurse who cracks jokes with the puffy faced man, “But she's the real pro. She doesn't like how I do it.” as the shorter lady with short hair and a pointy nose in her lab coat in her 50's maybe, turns to him and laughs, “He likes to do it the easy way. But you don't want me to do it.” as I tell them I really don't like needles, as my Dad keeps on talking to them and saying something like, “She's the real masochist. She really enjoys it.” in my Dads outspoken weird humor, as he sits and read his archeology books because he is about to graduate from College, the old student learning a new trade because his trade has been banished to technology that replaced it, as I turn on the TV, and just listen to the hum of it, and another Lady comes in, an older Lady short and squat with a limp and a red misshapen face maybe as she pushes those wheelchairs around, the X-ray Lady, from that old Hospital, to wheel me past, all the whirring shining new equipment, and the shiny new floors, (but quiet compared to the second time I went to the Emergency Room again, in the middle of the day, when the place was crowded with people going everywhere, and car crash victims getting another check on with bruised bodies, and older patients with relapses, and a young man in a wheel chair, with his head sunken down, an immigrant kid and his father talking to the doctor about the seriousness of his condition, and taxi drivers picking up people, “Did somebody just call a Taxi?' as they wheel an older country white Lady into the Taxi driven by that African dude looking for somebody, and the nurses were different as they rushed in and out, and we had to wait forever and that Black Girl Doctor with her small dreads and forceful voice like something out of a TV Show, because you could tell she was used to handling trauma cases and maybe from a bigger city somewhere else, telling me “Just looking at what you told me. I don't think that's what's going on. But were going to look at the tests and see. OK.” as she goes out of the room to the next patient as they crowd the rooms now, with the assortment of human ailments, and things that are happening out there in this county and in this world, out there somewhere, in this new hospital and new place along that highway stretching out) but it was all quiet now as that older Lady pushed me down the now silent rows of whirring medical equipment that wasn't whirring no more, just shining in the emptiness of it all, “You know what, my Husband and I eat whatever we want to and were as healthy as anybody?” as we had been doing some small talk about pushing people around, and about how nice the hospital is, as she wheeled me down to do the X-rays, “I tell people it just about who you are. It don't matter about what you eat. It's just that everybody is different. Some people can eat whatever they want to and some people can't.” as I told her I had high cholesterol, and I wish I was like that, but I just couldn't do it anymore. “Now wasn't that fun. I told you it was going to be fun didn't I. I hope you get better.” as she wheeled me back to my room, where my Dad still had his nose in his archeology book, and I just laid there like a zombie in the dark listening to the sound of the Television, that came out of the remote control, but now I'm sitting her and still feeling it, still feeling the mysterious nature of the body and of life, and of getting older, and you just never know, you never know how much time you got in this world, as the current keeps on fluttering, like the fluttering of the heart before it stops, and it keeps on changing this world and you can't do nothing about it, just the way it is, and for some people it just keeps going and for some it just stops, but there's those beautiful moments up in Canadian State Parks and singing Island Mothers humming to themselves in her garden of Summer Blossoms and not Summer Violence, before the deluge, before the sick lights of those hospital wards in the middle of the night, those lasting and fleeting moments in this floating world on a string, of movements and courses that change, but you got to gather them while you can, those petals fluttering through it all, catch them while you can. In this summer of violence. In this summer of change. Catch them while you can.



AFTER leaving Broad River, the land rises very sensibly, and the country being mountainous, our progress became daily more difficult and slow; yet the varied scenes of pyramidal hills, high forests, rich vales, serpentine rivers, and cataracts, fully compensated for our difficulties and delays. I observed the great Aconitum napellus, Delphinium perigrinum, the carminative Angelica lucida,*

and cerulean Malva.

WE at length happily accomplished our line, arriving at the little river, where our hunters bringing in plenty of venison and turkeys, we had a plentiful feast at supper. Next morning we marked the corner tree, at the confluence of Little river and the Savanna; and, soon after, the Indians amicably took leave of us, returning home to their towns.

THE rocks and fossils, which constitute the hills of this middle region, are of various species, as, Quartsum, Ferrum, Cos, Silex, Glarea, Arena, Ochra, Stalectites, Saxum, Mica, &c. I saw no signs of Marble, Plaster, or Lime-stone; yet there is, near Augusta, in the forests, great piles of a porous friable white rock, in large and nearly horizontal masses, which seems to be an heterogeneous concrete, consisting of pulverized sea shells, with a small proportion of sand; it is soft, and easily wrought into any form, yet of sufficient consistence for constructing any building.

As for the animal productions, they are the same which originally inhabited this part of North America, except such as have been affrighted away since the invasion of the Europeans. The buffalo (Urus) once so very numerous, is not at this day to be seen in this part of the country; a few elk, and those only in the Apalachian mountains. The dreaded and formidable rattle-snake is yet too common, and a variety of other serpents abound, particularly that admirable creature the glass-snake: I saw a very large and beautiful one, a little distance from our camp. The allegator, a species of crocodile, abounds in the rivers and swamps, near the sea coast, but is not to be seen above Augusta. Bears, tygers,*wolves, and wild cats (Felis cauda truncata) are numerous enough; and there is a very great variety of Papilio and Phalina, many of which are admirably beautiful, as well as other insects of infinite variety.

THE surveyors having completed their observations, we sat off next day on our return to Augusta, taking our route generally through the low lands on the banks of the Savanna. We crossed Broad River, at a newly settled plantation, near its confluence with the Savanna. On my arrival at Augusta, finding myself a little fatigued, I staid there a day or two, and then sat off again for Savanna, the capital, where we arrived in good health.

HAVING, in this journey, met with extraordinary success, not only in the enjoyment of an uninterrupted state of good health, and escaping ill accidents, incident to such excursions, through uninhabited wildernesses, and an Indian frontier, but also in making a very extensive collection of new discoveries of natural production. On the recollection of so many and great favours and blessings, I now, with a high sense of gratitude, presume to offer up my sincere thanks to the Almighty, the Creator and Preserver.

HAVING completed my Hortus Siccus, and made up my collections of seeds and growing roots, the fruits of my late western tour, and sent them to Charleston, to be forwarded to Europe, I spent the remaining part of this season in botanical excursions to the low countries, between Carolina and East Florida, and collected seeds, roots, and specimens, making drawings of such curious subjects as could not be preserved in their native state of excellence.

DURING this recess from the high road of my travels, having obtained the use of a neat light cypress canoe, at Broughton Island, a plantation, the property of the Hon. Henry Laurens, Esq. where I stored myself with necessaries, for the voyage, and resolved upon a trip up the Alatamaha.

I ASCENDED this beautiful river, on whose fruitful banks the generous and true sons of liberty securely dwell, fifty miles above the white settlements.

HOW gently flow thy peaceful floods, O Alatamaha! How sublimely rise to view, on thy elevated shores, yon Magnolian groves, from whose tops the surrounding expanse is perfumed, by clouds of incense, blended with the exhaling balm of the Liquid-amber, and odours continually arising from circumambient aromatic groves of Illicium, Myrica, Laurus, and Bignonia.

WHEN wearied, with working my canoe against the impetuous current (which becomes stronger by

reason of the mighty floods of the river, with collected force, pressing through the first hilly ascents, where the shores on each side the river present to view rocky cliffs rising above the surface of the water, in nearly flat horizontal masses, washed smooth by the descending floods, and which appear to be a composition, or concrete, of sandy lime-stone) I resigned my bark to the friendly current, reserving to myself the controul of the helm. My progress was rendered delightful by the sylvan elegance of the groves, chearful meadows, and high distant forests, which in grand order presented themselves to view. The winding banks of the river, and the high projecting promontories, unfolded fresh scenes of grandeur and sublimity. The deep forests and distant hills re-echoed the chearing social lowings of domestic herds. The air was filled with the loud and shrill whooping of the wary sharp crane. Behold, on yon decayed, defoliated Cypress tree, the solitary wood-pelican, dejectedly perched upon its utmost elevated spire; he there, like an ancient venerable sage, sets himself up as a mark of derision, for the safety of his kindred tribes. The crying-bird, another faithful guardian, screaming in the gloomy thickets, warns the feathered tribes of approaching peril; and the plumage of the swift sailing squadrons of Spanish curlews (white as the immaculate robe of innocence) gleam in the cerulean skies.

THUS secure and tranquil, and meditating on the marvellous scenes of primitive nature, as yet unmodified by the hand of man, I gently descended the peaceful stream, on whose polished surface were depicted the mutable shadows from its pensile banks; whilst myriads of finny inhabitants sported in its pellucid floods.

THE glorious sovereign of day, cloathed in light refulgent, rolling on his gilded chariot, speeds to revisit the western realms. Grey pensive eve now admonishes us of gloomy night's hasty approach: I am roused by care to seek a place of secure repose, ere darkness comes on.

DRAWING near the high shores, I ascended the steep banks, where stood a venerable oak. An ancient Indian field, verdured o'er with succulent grass, and checquered with coppices of fragrant shrubs, offers to my view the Myrica cerifera, Magnolia glauca, Laurus benzoin, Laur. Borbonia, Rhamnus frangula, Prunus Chicasaw, Prun. Lauro cerasa, and others. It was nearly encircled with an open forest of stately pines (Pinus palustris) through which appears the extensive savanna, the secure range of the swift roebuck. In front of my landing, and due east, I had a fine prospect of the river and low lands on each side, which gradually widened to the sea coast, and gave me an unconfined prospect, whilst the far distant sea coast islands, like a coronet, limited the hoary horizon.

MY barque being securely moored, and having reconnoitered the surrounding groves, and collected fire-wood, I spread my skins and blanket by my chearful fire, under the protecting shade of the hospitable Live-oak, and reclined my head on my hard but healthy couch. I listened, undisturbed, to the divine hymns of the feathered songsters of the groves, whilst the softly whispering breezes faintly died away.

THE sun now below the western horizon, the moon majestically rising in the east; again the tuneful birds become inspired; how melodious is the social mock-bird! the groves resound the unceasing cries of the whip-poor-will; the moon about an hour above the horizon; lo! a dark eclipse* of her glorious brightness comes slowly on; at length, a silver thread alone encircles her temples: at this boding change, an universal silence prevails.

NATURE now weary, I resigned myself to rest; the night passed over; the cool dews of the morning awake me; my fire burnt low; the blue smoke scarce rises above the moistened embers; all is gloomy: the late starry skies, now overcast by thick clouds, I am warned to rise and be going. The livid purple clouds thicken on the frowning brows of the morning; the tumultuous winds from the east now exert their power. O peaceful Alatamaha! gentle by nature! how thou art ruffled! thy wavy surface disfigures every object, presenting them obscurely to the sight, and they at length totally disappear, whilst the furious winds and sweeping rains bend the lofty groves, and prostrate the quaking grass, driving the affrighted creatures to their dens and caverns.

THE tempest now relaxes, its impetus is spent, and a calm serenity gradually takes place; by noon they break away, the blue sky appears, the fulgid sun-beams spread abroad their animating light, and the steady western wind resumes his peaceful reign. The waters are purified, the waves subside, and the beautiful river regains its native calmness: so it is with the varied and mutable scenes of human events on the stream of life. The higher powers and affections of the soul are so blended and connected with the inferior passions, that the most painful feelings are excited in the mind when the latter are crossed: thus in the moral system, which we have planned for our conduct, as a ladder whereby to mount to the summit of terrestrial glory and happiness, and from whence we perhaps meditated our flight to heaven itself, at the very moment when we vainly imagine ourselves to have attained its point, some unforeseen accident intervenes, and surprises us; the chain is violently shaken, we quit our hold and fall: the well contrived system at once becomes a chaos; every idea of happiness recedes; the splendour of glory darkens, and at length totally disappears; every pleasing object is defaced, all is deranged, and the flattering scene passes quite away, a gloomy cloud pervades the understanding, and when we see our progress retarded, and our best intentions frustrated, we are apt to deviate from the admonitions and convictions of virtue, to shut our eyes upon our guide and protector, doubt of his power, and despair of his assistance. But let us wait and rely on our God, who in due time will shine forth in brightness, dissipate the envious cloud, and reveal to us how finite and circumscribed is human power, when assuming to itself independent wisdom.

William Bartram


waltzing and crying at the same time

The Wake, and the Waltz, and suburban strangeness, in the context of alienation and as my mother said, the circle of life
, because that young kid my brother had has reached the terrible two stages, and picks up everything in his path, as that Grandmother sits in her room like a Zombie in the context of the mythological element, gone from this world, and the wake has begun or maybe that is how I just cope with it in my own sense, with the drink, and Some of the Colorado Rocky Mountain green grass through a valley with a Wild West Movie coursing through it, because my Brother took a trip, a recreational trip, that he had been planing, to take the little boy to see a train, a real train, and also stop off on that new Tourist Destination, up in the Mountains of Wealthy Ski resorts, and the the old West squaring off in a tug of war, a like my Mom said the Little Boy is a SHINING LIGHT to keep you from that darkness, as I felt that darkness siting there outside in the Sunshine on my first day off that plane and the mad house airport, with a million people trying to cram in one of those planes, but feeling out of sorts and out of touch with that depression and grief, with the face of death their looking at you, and yes the circle of life, is there in the human tragedy that is on display there, the human element that courses through the veins, as you sat on the back porch and losing that touch into the darkness, into the face of it, dissolution from which we must all succumb someday, in the past or the future, a sequence of events that line up like the branches of the tree, the great grandparents fall away, to the little ones running a muck, and grabbing and laughing and hollowing and muttering and stumbling their way through this new found world of sensations and crying, and wiping snot of the boys face, as you put him up in that tree, that tree with that sunshine moving through it ever so gently with the warm WIND COMING OFF OF THERE< TIME WORN AND GENTLE UPON THE FACE OF THE LITTLE BOY< IN YOUR MALAISE, in the depression that is natural to life, MELANCHOLIA is how the Greeks described it once upon a time, or long time ago, that people had to face these things, as you drank another one to the memory of a person, in pictures and in stories, that are the eternity, the only thing that does truly exist, in the glint of the eye, in the sunshine and the laughter of that mischievous boy, wild and first staring in this world. Up in a tree. Without a care. As you dissolve with your emotions into the drink and the bottle and time honored customs. Of suburban television watching and death and not wanting to face it head on. Too much for you to feel. Or maybe the distance and the joy that must go carrying on living and face the next day. In the sunshine of a rocky mountain valley in the West. In the Isles. In Valhalla. So take a drink for the personal Wake of your own making. In the depression of the sunshine. On the other side. Singing to those Blue Eyes crying in the rain. Singing with the beer in your hand. While your picking out songs for a CD for the funeral. That sweet music to the ear. Smoking to numb the pain and return to the land of living. But before all that went down, and happened you went to the Model Train Show with the young boy who loves Thomas the Train and Friends. As your Grandmother sat in that bed like a Zombie. The life leaking out of her as you walk past. Brittle and Frozen. A Mask of Death. A Coma. The Darkness. Drank it all in. But that Young Boy was there. The Circle of LIFE. And you take that boy to the train show. In a small town. Little miniatures of towns and highways and things from the past in this MINIATURE LIFE. Skid Row. And Beetlejuice. And Small Churches and Graveyards and scenic routes and Truck Depots and Oil Refineries and steely eyed Texans mixing with Teams in their Team uniforms giving each other high fives as they get out the Glue Guns and the magnifying glasses looking like welders going after their Model Train set they had in their basement when they were kids. As a slouching Texan is auctioning and trading and swapping with another nerdy man with glasses and shaved off eyebrows sticks his head up through a train set, is bargaining with that slouching Texan with his long slow words. “I don't think I can go that high there buddy.” as that nerdy man with the thick glasses who is busy gluing some of his tracks and fixtures together on that train track and some of those miniature trees in that miniature world. “You think you're going to get a PT95 for free? I don't want to get ripped off. Hey Jerry hit the switch on the Sante Fe?” as they were getting some of there things ready to go because it's closing. “I don't know if I can go that high” as he keeps on repeating himself, as a sick looking older lady in deep purple mascara, keeps asking people over and over again if they want to buy a Raffle Ticket, like she was trying to sell her body on skid row down on that miniature train set. And an old man with a beard and his train overalls and hat on, looking for that SANTE FE, as that little boy is transfixed just gazing at those trains in their miniature worlds, as my Brother carries him around and he is just staring and like “OHHHH” as my Mom is saying it back to him, as that older Lady with the purple smeared mascara on her seat trying to give away raffle tickets, as we walked past her and one of my Moms friends from back in her Hippy Days now living in Austin used to live in LA, “That old Lady is creeping me out? And we all kind of laugh, but a laugh of awkwardness, just thinking about my Grandmother in her Bed, a Zombie like that Lady in their selling Raffle Tickets, in that miniature Train World, as we piled that boy back in the car, but that was Before it Happened, before my Grandma Passed, and I was sleeping in my bed that I used to be in when I lived with my Grandma and my Brother, when I was jobless and didn't really have anywhere to go, just a bum, mooching of my Grandma and Parents, and traveling the damn countryside in a Jeep Cherokee, just being a bum, looking for places that didn't exist, but I was sleeping and not wanting to be bothered which is my lazy stitched, but my Mom was crying, “Mother passed this morning.” and then it was dread of the day that you didn't want to come, and what was going to happen now, and was my Mom going to fall apart, and you just sat there kind of numb with your Aunt, the quiet blonded hair skinny Sister and Daughter who never speaks and slept in the bathroom next to my Grandmother when she was just bed ridden and hacking and dying really, and still trying to watch Sports and Football, and not really thinking that it could happen just trying to act like it wasn't there in that Suburban shunning of the ritual and the death that was playing itself out even though you didn't want it to be there, and now it was there, and to be honest I felt like cracked that day in the sunshine of Texas and heat in the Winter, and my Brother came with his wife, and she climbed in with her body next to her, and me and my Brother smoked some Mile High, in the backyard, and watched the undertakers from the Company of the Caretakers take her away, as he said a Prayer with Woman we didn't know, a chaplain for the hospital, but it didn't seem to have a connection, because my Grandma didn't go to Church and didn't care for all that, and she kind of lived that way, except for going Bowling and her friend George from Dust Bowl Oklahoma, who at the same time got Senile, and would sit waiting for my Grandma on her Porch, when she was inside watching TV and listening to Rush Limbaugh, but we had that young boy out there, in his Tree in the Sunshine, holding him up there, sipping on that Beer and listening to some Western Swing and Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain, and then it was the Funeral, in a warehouse type place, that does Funerals, I guess a FUNERAL HOME, next to an Bingo Place, and a Mexican Food place, in a Church that wasn't a Church, and director with a Crew Cut, as they Played that Western Swing and Waltzing across Texas, and some people came, in the Pews that weren't Pews, and some of my Mom's Friends were there, a Bald Headed Lady, another Hippy Friend, who got breast Cancer and her daughter had died from an infection maybe from Drug use because her Boyfriend was an addict and that Bald Headed Hippy from Alabama and a Military Family tried to kill him, but she had seen her fair share and her and my Dad had been arguing trying to tell him not to argue with everybody but he didn't take that to well, but my Dad got up there and shed some tears talking about how he had taken care of my Grandma and junk which was surprising to say the least, and my Mom rambled saying how all friends thought her Mother was so good looking, I said something, which was a hard thing to do I got to tell you, but I did it and you couldn't understand me really, in my mumbling Texas trailing voice just like my Mom, but I said some things, before that Lady Chaplain who we didn't know got up there, and said a Bible Verse, but it seemed Empty, it seemed awkward in this Funeral Home with the Pews that weren't Pews, but my Grandma outlived most of her Family, her Sister like her Twin who she didn't really speak to, had already passed in her San Antonio Condo from a bump on the head, and she wasn't never the same, but it kind of fit my Grandma and how she lived in a way, she was kind of isolated there in that suburban Texas town, watching her Television and going Bowling, but there were a couple of Norwegian Texans up from Waco who we had never met before, a couple of German Texans, who just seemed like people from the South to Me, like a Lady who was short and fluffy, and a little Spitfire if there ever was one, and full of Energy who was my Grandma's cousin who she used to play with when they were young, “Now you come on and ride with me Sweety. We got things to talk about.” and I think she thought I was more outgoing, and not the sullen man that I am, and fluffy my on self now from gaining weight and working, as she told me some stories as we all were driving, the few of us to go eat at that Mexican Restaurant across the way, “Now Daddy would be waiting on PORTER when he would knock on the door, and Rod would answered while Mother was in the other Room, and he said something that Porter would always tell a story about, Rod said his Mamma had,” But I can't even remember it now, but she was the little historian on her side, with all her Pictures, and we rented a room in Mexican Place and we looked at Pictures of Norwegians, and took Tequila shots with my Mom's Hippy Friends “Can we get some Patron over her Senor,” that Bald Headed Lady from Austin said, with her British Rocker Husband and her Rocker son, Austin who wasn't there, and I talked to a cousin from Dallas, who had done some research on that side of the Family, and we exchanged emails and Facebook, and it was Fun, to get a small Family together, who really will never talk after that, and haven't talked after that, because we are all distant from each other, all alienated for each other, and spread out over kingdom come, and it was just like Grandma really, she lived in her house, and she watched Television, and Sports and went Bowling, and listened to the Radio, and wasn't perfect, but she liked to go Waltzing a long time ago, and she was a good looking woman a long time ago, but it was almost like you couldn't get too sad, because you know that you had to laugh, and you had to take a shot and keep it moving on down the line, because all you got is memories, and it keeps moving, for it is just that circle of life on down the line, as the little boy laughs up in his Tree in the Sunshine, as you break apart to put yourself back together again, and keep on Waltzing on down the line, waltzing into that SUNSHINE, going on that circle in this life, and doing that ritual, that were all doing, from the melancholia, back to being happy through those stages and through those patterns that you just can't get out of, as hard as you want to try, and as hard as we want to change, and evolve and eat a PEACH, but you can't move out of this HUMAN THING, that was got us all pinned down, pinned down into the ritual, of life and death and then some, but there some darkness in that light, theres a little boy, growing up in a truncated world of SORROW and LIGHT, but it is what it is, it's that CIRCLE of LIFE and a kitchen that is going to get SOLD, SOLD to the highest Bidder, the auction for Death, dividing up what's mine, possesions for the AFTERLIFE, possessions for the GRAVE>possessions you can't take with you when you can't breathe, when you are afraid, because you don't kow where you are going, when you take that final journey into that nothing, into the darkness, to be drowned in a current that has no end, ANXIETY and ANXIOUS and LIFE, there it is, but you watch your MOVIE on the Screen, and you smoke that GRASS and drink your beer and hold that boy up in that TREE and in that SUNSHINE while he's laughing and looking down at you and your afraid that you might drop that small boy, and you sing a song in your own way, and you try to pass it off like it's not there anymore, and you can't get your hands dirtier than they already are, go back to your staid life, but in all honesty I think everybody starts thinking about these things when you get a little bit older, it's just won of those stages, because you see it happen in front of you, and you can't help but feel the realness of it, even though you don't want to, and that's just the way it is. And I'm just going to keep on WALTZING, and that's all there is really, can't do nothing else



Beyond the Years


Beyond the years the answer lies,
Beyond where brood the grieving skies
   And Night drops tears.
Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise
   And doff its fears,
And carping Sorrow pines and dies—
   Beyond the years.


Beyond the years the prayer for rest
Shall beat no more within the breast;
   The darkness clears,
And Morn perched on the mountain's crest
   Her form uprears—
The day that is to come is best,
   Beyond the years.


Beyond the years the soul shall find
That endless peace for which it pined,
   For light appears,
And to the eyes that still were blind
   With blood and tears,
Their sight shall come all unconfined
   Beyond the years.

In Summer

Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art;
'T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.

Signs of the Times

Air a-gittin' cool an' coolah, 
   Frost a-comin' in de night, 
Hicka' nuts an' wa'nuts fallin', 
   Possum keepin' out o' sight. 
Tu'key struttin' in de ba'nya'd, 
   Nary a step so proud ez his; 
Keep on struttin', Mistah Tu'key, 
   Yo' do' know whut time it is. 

Cidah press commence a-squeakin' 
   Eatin' apples sto'ed away, 
Chillun swa'min' 'roun' lak ho'nets, 
   Huntin' aigs ermung de hay. 
Mistah Tu'key keep on gobblin' 
   At de geese a-flyin' souf, 
Oomph! dat bird do' know whut's comin'; 
   Ef he did he'd shet his mouf. 

Pumpkin gittin' good an' yallah 
   Mek me open up my eyes; 
Seems lak it's a-lookin' at me 
   Jes' a-la'in' dah sayin' "Pies." 
Tu'key gobbler gwine 'roun' blowin', 
   Gwine 'roun' gibbin' sass an' slack; 
Keep on talkin', Mistah Tu'key, 
   You ain't seed no almanac. 

Fa'mer walkin' th'oo de ba'nya'd 
   Seein' how things is comin' on, 
Sees ef all de fowls is fatt'nin' — 
   Good times comin' sho's you bo'n. 
Hyeahs dat tu'key gobbler braggin', 
   Den his face break in a smile — 
Nebbah min', you sassy rascal, 
   He's gwine nab you atter while. 

Choppin' suet in de kitchen, 
   Stonin' raisins in de hall, 
Beef a-cookin' fu' de mince meat, 
   Spices groun' — I smell 'em all. 
Look hyeah, Tu'key, stop dat gobblin', 
   You ain' luned de sense ob feah, 
You ol' fool, yo' naik's in dangah, 
   Do' you know Thanksgibbin's hyeah?

We Wear the Mask

We wear the mask that grins and lies, 
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— 
This debt we pay to human guile; 
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile 
And mouth with myriad subtleties,

Why should the world be over-wise, 
In counting all our tears and sighs? 
Nay, let them only see us, while 
     We wear the mask.

We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries 
To thee from tortured souls arise. 
We sing, but oh the clay is vile 
Beneath our feet, and long the mile, 
But let the world dream otherwise, 
     We wear the mask!

A Negro Love Song

Seen my lady home las' night,
    Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight,
    Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f'om huh eye,
An' a smile go flittin' by--
    Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine,
    Jump back, honey, jump back,
Mockin'-bird was singin' fine,
    Jump back, honey, jump back.
An' my hea't was beatin' so,
When I reached my lady's do',
Dat I couldn't ba' to go--
    Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun' huh wais',
    Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an' took a tase,
    Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An' she answe'd, "'Cose I do"--
    Jump back, honey, jump back.

Ships That Pass in the Night

Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing;
   I look far out into the pregnant night,
Where I can hear a solemn booming gun
   And catch the gleaming of a random light,
That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.

My tearful eyes my soul's deep hurt are glassing;
   For I would hail and check that ship of ships.
I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud,
   My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips,
And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.

O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing,
   O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark!
Is there no hope for me? Is there no way
   That I may sight and check that speeding bark
Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?


SILENTLY without my window,
Tapping gently at the pane,
Falls the rain.
Through the trees sighs the breeze
Like a soul in pain.
Here alone I sit and weep;
Thought hath banished sleep.
Wearily I sit and listen
To the water's ceaseless drip.
To my lip
Fate turns up the bitter cup,
Forcing me to sip;
'Tis a bitter, bitter drink,
Thus I sit and think, —
Thinking things unknown and awful,
Thoughts on wild, uncanny themes,
Waking dreams.
Spectres dark, corpses stark,
Show the gaping seams
Whence the cold and cruel knife
Stole away their life.
Bloodshot eyes all strained and staring,
Gazing ghastly into mine;
Blood like wine
On the brow — clotted now—
Shows death's dreadful sign.
Lonely vigil still I keep;
Would that I might sleep!
Still, oh, still, my brain is whirling!
Still runs on my stream of thought;
I am caught
In the net fate hath set.
Mind and soul are brought
To destruction's very brink;
Yet I can but think!
Eyes that look into the future, —
Peeping forth from out my mind,
They will find
Some new weight, soon or late,
On my soul to bind,
Crushing all its courage out,—
Heavier than doubt.
Dawn, the Eastern monarch's daughter,
Rising from her dewy bed,
Lays her head
'Gainst the clouds' sombre shrouds
Now half fringed with red.
O'er the land she 'gins to peep;
Come, O gentle Sleep!
Hark! the morning cock is crowing;
Dreams, like ghosts, must hie away;
'Tis the day.
Rosy morn now is born;
Dark thoughts may not stay.
Day my brain from foes will keep;
Now, my soul, I sleep.

The Change Has Come

THE change has come, and Helen sleeps—
Not sleeps; but wakes to greater deeps
Of wisdom, glory, truth, and light,
Than ever blessed her seeking sight,
In this low, long, lethargic night,
Worn out with strife
Which men call life.
The change has come, and who would say
'I would it were not come to-day'?
What were the respite till to-morrow?
Postponement of a certain sorrow,
From which each passing day would borrow!
Let grief be dumb,
The change has come.

A Bango Song

OH, dere's lots o' keer an' trouble
In dis world to swaller down;
An' ol' Sorrer's purty lively
In her way o' gittin' roun'.
Yet dere's times when I furgit 'em, —
Aches an' pains an' troubles all, —
An' it's when I tek at ebenin'
My ol' banjo f'om de wall.
'Bout de time dat night is fallin'
An' my daily wu'k is done,
An' above de shady hilltops
I kin see de settin' sun;
When de quiet, restful shadders
Is beginnin' jes' to fall, —
Den I take de little banjo
F'om its place upon de wall.
Den my fam'ly gadders roun' me
In de fadin' o' de light,
Ez I strike de strings to try 'em
Ef dey all is tuned er-right.
An' it seems we're so nigh heaben
We kin hyeah de angels sing
When de music o' dat banjo
Sets my cabin all er-ring.
An' my wife an' all de othahs, —
Male an' female, small an' big, —
Even up to gray-haired granny,
Seem jes' boun' to do a jig;
'Twell I change de style o' music,
Change de movement an' de time,
An' de ringin' little banjo
Plays an ol' hea't-feelin' hime.
An' somehow my th'oat gits choky,
An' a lump keeps tryin' to rise
Lak it wan'ed to ketch de water
Dat was flowin' to my eyes;
An' I feel dat I could sorter
Knock de socks clean off o' sin
Ez I hyeah my po' ol' granny
Wif huh tremblin' voice jine in.
Den we all th'ow in our voices
Fu' to he'p de chune out too,
Lak a big camp-meetin' choiry
Tryin' to sing a mou'nah th'oo.
An' our th'oahts let out de music,
Sweet an' solemn, loud an' free,
'Twell de raftahs o' my cabin
Echo wif de melody.
Oh, de music o' de banjo,
Quick an' deb'lish, solemn, slow,
Is de greates' joy an' solace
Dat a weary slave kin know!
So jes' let me hyeah it ringin',
Dough de chune be po' an' rough,
It's a pleasure; an' de pleasures
O' dis life is few enough.
Now, de blessed little angels
Up in heaben, we are told,
Don't do nothin' all dere lifetime
'Ceptin' play on ha'ps o' gold.
Now I think heaben'd be mo' homelike
Ef we'd hyeah some music fall
F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo,
Like dat one upon de wall.

The Masters

OH, who is the Lord of the land of life,
When hotly goes the fray?
When, fierce we smile in the midst of strife
Then whom shall we obey?
Oh, Love is the Lord of the land of life
Who holds a monarch's sway;
He wends with wish of maid and wife,
And him you must obey.
Then who is the Lord of the land of life,
At setting of the sun?
Whose word shall sway when Peace is rife
And all the fray is done?
Then Death is the Lord of the land of life,
When your hot race is run.
Meet then his scythe and pruning-knife
When the fray is lost or won.

The Mystery

I WAS not; now I am — a few days hence
I shall not be; I fain would look before
And after, but can neither do; some Power
Or lack of power says 'no' to all I would.
I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,
Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright.
Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move,
I grope without direction and by chance.
Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand
That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom.
But I — I hear no voice and touch no hand,
Tho' oft thro' silence infinite I list,
And strain my hearing to supernal sounds;
Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach,
And stretch my hand to find that other hand.
I question of th' eternal bending skies
That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;
But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes
On me, as I one day shall do on them,
And tell me not the secret that I ask.

Paul Laurence Dunbar



Sacrificial Rite

Beaten and starved and left for dead. Wrung out and given away for nothing. Forgotten in that forthright palm of the hand that is out stretched to face the sky. Looking and waiting for something that never comes. But is only felt. Only felt in those palms of those hands that is cut and is bleeding and dripping down your leg. As you fight for the day and you fight for the night. Give up for broke. Giving it all you got and them some. That is the feeling of closing your eyes and just playing. You play for the sake of it. You play to give it all away. With that strength and that energy that you don't ever seem to have any more. But don't if fell good to give it away. Don't it feel good to do it for free. Don't if feel good to bleed into the palms of you hands. Don't if feel good to close those eyes and give those offerings, those sacrificial rites. Don't if feel good to walk the plank. Don't if feel good to put that noose around your neck. And dance that damn fiery dance in the heart of the past. Running for your life in your dreams. That recurrent dream that find you in a strange city running over cobbled stones. Puking. Passed out by the river. Only maybe it wasn't a dream maybe it was only your life boiled over again from the brim of the bowl. Playing those currents from somewhere. Playing those notes that only you can hear because your coming from your own music of the self. That ego places into that eternal calling. Giving it all you got and them some when it was all collapsing around you and into you. But you are adopted into the tribe. You are expected and you are masked. And given away. You have the ropes around your hands. The pain is immense. The blood flows. You are hung up to dry. Burning in the sun. you are left for dead. Dried and withering you walk away. Never to come back. In a dream you are running. In a dream you are hung up to dry. In a dream you are someone else. In a dream you find something in the palms of your hands,. In a dream you were that other person looking at yourself. In a dream you closed your eyes and gave away something from your sole. In a dream your were a player in a bit part on some kind of stage. In a dream the noose hung from around your neck. As you salvage that pieces of your self as they burned you alive on that stake. Beat down and given away for free you stood out there and yelled cursed as those people with dark faces. As they pierced you and blood came running down your chin as you became that different person. You became something entirely that was not your self . In that dream you were the other. In that heat you dreamed, you screamed and were savage. In that dream you were eternal . In that dream you reached out your hand in the darkness. In that dream you reached for the higher note. And played in out and in something. In that dream you were stretched up to the sky something eternal. In that dream. You came to know something about yourself as you were sacrificed. As you bled. As you were beat down into the ground as you were buried and you came out alive and unhurt. But bloody. But bruised. With that damn heart of gold. Sun drenched and sun dried like a piece of bone. Like a rock underneath the palms of your hands. You weren't running no more in that dream. You had found something in the darkness. For the dread. Of you. For the life of you that flowed. And ceased and was given. And was gave. As your cried. And as you bled. And as you gave. Like nothing ever seen. Given it to them that were the dark ones. With blank eyes. That hung you to dry. And were parched of the throat. And spoke in the tongues of some one you couldn't see. But were stretched and danced and gave and fought in a grave of rocks. And bled and died within the blinking of an eye and were tarnished and were polished and were in that dream in that darkness on the highest mountain top and at that lowest thing in the grave. And so it felt. To do it. How it felt to seemingly transition to something else. To be something else. To be all those things. And all those peoples. Like mere characters in that play. That grave play. A harpsichord of demons. Awaiting the call for that thing. That was burned into you and trying to figure it out. Trying to be in your chest and failing heart. Trying to find in somewhere in those keys and in those notes. Feel it pulsating through you. Feel into those eyes. Change. Graduation of a different kind. A graduation of the blood and of that noose. Sacrifice. And torment. But beauty and life and laughter and patterns unseen. To get there. And to grow. To another calling. Stretched to the clouds and the sun. and to those people with starched eyes. Dance. To a different tune. Eternal fiddle tune. Cosmic in nature. Transitory. Fixed in the sky. There but not really there. Take it to the mountain top. Its there. Its there in you feeling and giving way. Its there. Just because. In the darkness. Burning in the fire of their eyes and in yours. Just another note. Just another life born up into this world to die and to live. The good with the bad they say. Transformed in the fire. Dying in the fires to continue. A different kind of thing. A kind of blue. A kind colored and yellowing hallow tradition scorched into your arm at the dying sunset. Burnt and scalded. Running no more. Knowing where your at. Knowing where that call is coming and from and heeding it and not a scowl on the face anymore. Transformation. To a new breed. A hard and ragged. A mustang. Running with the herd and accepted as that one. Dancing. Playing. Seeing and feeling. Just because. Because it feels good to release. To give and to fathom. Going through the fires and not running no more. Found something in that darkness. A heart of gold. A ragged and rugged truth from the being. From the divination. From the sacrifice. From the sun dance. You came out whole. Scorched bare feet. But whole like something from somewhere. From the I. That is the self. It is what it is. Laid bare. Naked. Before. Those strange gods. At the revival in the fire. Burnt. In the noose. In that dream. In that dream. Not fleeing anymore. A migrant you are no more. Transformed. Sacrificed. Burnt and scorched. But alive. A heart of gold. A heart given away at the dusk once more. Once seeing into those flames. Once more twisted. But imperfect. And sequenced. Touched. And notioned. And going. And at dusk. At the call of a wild sequence. Patterned. And realized. In meadows. In light. Blue. Inverted. Like hammered rainbows. Collapsing. Tusk. Killed. Ten fold times. In the swamp. Boiled. Baked. And basked. Frequented plenty of those place. Dollar bills in hand. Tones. Corpses. Rented. Alive. Golden arm. Cathedral. For that new tomorrow on the horizon. Keys. Places. Like fingers in those eyes. Blues. And Greens. Gaped and spread like butter. To the new invention. Going. Renting. Forming and foiling. That highest portion. Up on high. Running over greens blurred and demanded. But just a little bit. Just a little bit. Fallen. Down. Moaning and wailing. For the twice fold. Hung from a tree. Stabbed. But with whispers in the ears that I can't quite place. Can't quite see. But do know about it. Do know those sounds coming at the dusk bringing it with it on the wind. On the current. But laugh it off tripping in the meadows. In the sun. with the waters and the crossing. And jovial like that revival . Up on the mountain. Up not quite there yet. Because it is dusk in the darkness. From the rented place. On that arm with the little hairs. Devilish darkness mixed with the light. Cutting across it. Sequenced in the patterns. Hung out to dry. Symbols. Woven. Like a quilt. For the twice formed sunsets. Mutations. But still there. Figuring it out. Traipsing. Calling out. Foaming. Falling. Just to find that little place. Giving it away. To become something always new. A sacrifice for remembrance in a different kind of abode. But trapped. In the currents. Long crossings. Long going. Going down in the deep. A nightmare. Darkness. Floating jetsam. Seeing the sky. Floating. Like piece of wood making the long way around. Circles in patterns of returns. Never endings. Sacrifices. Never ending. Sacrifices. Never ending. Stroved. Blood gaped. Ropes. Whipping Post. Going out in them some. Circles. Small. Patterns. Sequences. Tiny. Gaping gapes. Strangled. Twice fold. Sun. darkness. Waters flowing. Going out forever. Circles. Patterns. Palms of your hands. Turned up. Circles. Patterns. Eternity. Eyes. Tribe. Sacrifice. Circles. Patterns. Symbols woven like a quilt. In that dream that you remembered. That dream were you were by the river passed out drunk. A dream that didn't have a beginning but only had a light at the long end of a tunnel. But you only spoke to it. Only yelled up at it. Only saw it for a second before it was gone. Only played hard at it before it was gone. Only saw it for a second before it fled the palms of your hands. Only for a little bit. Only in that dream. Moving. Looking for the pieces of your self. Looking for something. As you hang. Sun dance. Dangling. In your dreams. Burning and walking that plank. Going through the end to come to beginning. Floating jetsam that has no end. It crosses paths. And rents itself to new buyer. It gives itself away in small little apertures that can only be seen with the naked eye. An eye sliced and broken up on that plank. In the depth of that darkness and burnt like the sun on the cork pounding away in that Oblivion. Like a hammer. A rolling rock and a rolling fork in the road. He rolls on. The ego rolls on. Tarnished and polished with unholy heaven sequences and movements. Like bodies of planets and bits of personalities and frequent like places you have been before. Twice fold. And quartered and broken for something that is higher than the self. That is supreme with the moving of the bodies. In a hotel room. Lonely and giving. Behavioral patterns. Wild animal. Type things. Hung. Drove. Rovers. Over hills. Hunting on the paths. Of desire. Darks eyes. Wild and forgiving. But seeing nothing. But desire. Trying to learn. Behavior. Animal. Seeing things. In harp liked trepidations. Fears. And movements. Fear And loathings. Over and over again. You hang. You long. For that beginning . They tell you those masked figures with those dark eyes. Placed. And spoiled like dead meat. That illuminated quest. For the Holy Grail. Bring it to the party. Drunk and wiped. Out. Going just a little bit further. Till you fall.. till you fall. Till you go.. till they look at you no more. Tired of your swaying up on those ropes. Tired of giving it away. Going. Going. gone and saying til the blood drips off of you till you fall from the cliff. Still looking for the sky. Left for dead. Left for the looking. Left with nothing left to give. And there you will find it. After all that time. There you will find it. Left for dead swaying in the sun. there you will find it. Drowning. And floating jetsam. there you will find it. On the mountain top. There you will find nothing. In circles patterned of endless humanity stretched out the horizon. A dead animal thriced killed and sacrificed for nothing. Like the rolling of hills. Sand blues. And whipping posts. And tears shed. For nothing but the rolling and swaying to the sun. and giving. Like notes that can't frequently been thought over just discussed in those whispers over the blues externalized and moving and rolling and seeing past those things like the rolling out of rivers and saying in the sun. but finally realizing. You do it for the nothing and trusting. And the sacrifice that is all. Floating jetsam in the wind. In the sun. just swaying and rolling. Sweet to the touch. To the touch of life and death.


SUSHI in the Hill Country


      It was a skinny Gaunt Texas Lady for the sure. She came up to me while I was sitting on a bench that they were trying to sell outside of a brand new HEB grocery store. I was eating my Sushi from a Sushi chef that was inside that brand new Grocery Store. Right next to that Sushi Chef there was a lady with a microphone trying to make fancy soup and healthy entrees as she spoke in her microphone that was connected into her face like she was some kind of self help person at a conference trying to sell her latest book.
    “Would you like to try our fresh Quinoa Soup? We also have a delicious blackened Salmon? Do you see anything you like?” to the Suburban people and an older man in a cowboy hat who just kind of stared into the menu not knowing what to think about all this, as the lady with a plastic kind of smile on her face went back to cooking the food on the grill in front of her. I went to the Sushi Chef and another Asian Lady who were very serious as they prepared that Sushi like they were the real deal, and I got my Sushi as that lady with the microphone kept talking to the old man with the Cowboy Hat and his wife.
    “Do you see anything that interests you Sir?” and he just stared back at her.
    “No, Ma'am I don't. But thank you kindly.” My Dad was zooming around in his Grocery Cart with a that small little boy, just turned one years old, with his mischievous eyes who would start crying when it wasn't moving fast enough for him. And my Mother was trailing off behind him with her nervous and worried acting self looking for some other things and chasing after my Dad going a million miles an hour like he was burning the place up just to keep that small baby occupied but also just doing his normal stroll around the HEB grocery store because that's just how he is, taking his medication and anything else he can take to keep himself going and taking his College Classes and doing his midlife crisis thing. But I got my Sushi fro those Sushi chefs that were busy in that Grocery Store, busy making their food for those new customers.
     I got tired of following that hell raiser around with that little boy that played on his own Ipad for Kids with his special games as we drove in my Grandmothers old Cadillac and we tried to keep that modern mischievous boy entertained as my Parents bickered in the front seat about money or whatever they were arguing about as me and that boy stared out the window at some guy driving his Harley on the Highway and we both made VRRROOM noises and sang the Wheels on the Bus go round and round as we drove through the Hill Country.
     But as I sat on that bench that they were trying to sell along with some other lawn type things that were all on sale because it was winter but it didn't feel like it. It felt like spring in winter. It felt good sitting out there on that bench and eating my Sushi. It felt good feeling those warm breezes from down the Plains. It was just one of those blustery Texas days smack in the middle of January. Just thinking about how their used to be nothing out here. Just scrub trees and rocks and those tough farmers like from a Katherine Ann Porter novel or something. Some hard scrabbled German farmer making sausage that I saw by the piles in new fancy rows in that Grocery Store along with crab legs and organic Cheese. But I had busted open my Sushi roll and was getting lost in the Plastic that was encasing that roll of Salmon Sushi, somebody said something to me, somewhere up above me as I tore into that plastic container of Sushi. I saw an older couple standing in front of me looking down. 
      “What you eating on there?” she was one of those hard scrabbled Texas women, skinny and gaunt like the country around her. And I just told her in a blunt and matter of fact way myself.
      “Sushi.” and she just kind of repeated what I said.
      “Looks pretty good whatever it is you got.” as my Mom came out of the store with that mischievous baby boy trying to worm his way out of her arms as she carried him out of the store, whilst my Dad was checking out all those groceries he got while he sped around that store.
     “Well isn't he Precious? How old is he. Looks like he's about three years old.” and my Mom is like, “He just turned 17 months and he's a handful.” and my Mom thought nothing of it, because she was just talking to this skinny lady that seemed kind of bent over, with stringy gray hair, and kind of splotched skin and dabs underneath her eyes, a white T shirt from some restaurant and blue jeans, and her silent husband red hair and seemed a little bit younger and quieter like he was lead around on a leash from this tough Texas Lady, as he came back from getting a grocery cart.
     “You see this little boy he is only 17 months old. I haven’t' had any gran babies in so long that I forgot what's it's like to have any.” as that little boy went over and was getting on those old people carts that they drive around in the store, acting like he was riding one of those kid rides with the Rocket Ships or Carousel that they have at Walmart or something, as that skinny and taught Texas woman and my Mom were looking at some of the plants that they had for sale in front of that bench I was sitting on, as I was still inhaling my Sushi and not even paying attention just thinking about that wind coming down the Prairie and the aching in my belly, just smiling and pounding down the rest of that Sushi that I was eating on.
     “What kind of plant is this? It's really nice. I need something like this for our house.” as my Mom started to go on about the plant and that gaunt old lady from Texas was like.
     “I believe they call it Sushi. Or that's what it says on the tag here.” But my Mom read that tag again and she was saying something else looking at me like that not right is it, as she went over to that little boy who was swinging all over those motorized old people carts, and I was thinking it was weird too that I was eating Sushi, and they're was a plant name Sushi right in front of the bench that I was sitting on, out there were there used to be nothing but scrub trees and oaks and now their was this shopping center and this brand new Grocery Store with fenced in gravel and cactus and organized rocks like it was the zoo or something or maybe a Zen Garden, as that little boy was starting to get grumpy because my Mom was trying to pick him up as that fast paced Father was flying past us saying we had to go or we would be late, and that skinny Texas lady nodded her head.
     “Sorry for being so nosy. I know how it is. My Granbabies were the same way. Ya'll have a good one.” and my Mom tried to smile at her and told her bye, but she was too busy following that little boy around as he was crying and trying catch up to my Dad as I ate the last bit of my food in that plastic container, and hurried out after them as that gaunt Texas Lady walked in that shinny store with her husband, and we took that grumpy little boy out there and strapped him in his car seat and drove back home with my Dad driving about Ninety miles an hour and honking his horn the whole way we drove on the highway in that Hill Country with the scrub oak and the rocks and the wind coming down from the Prairie.



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