Hispanic nurse spits
and sits in her eclipse
backs down the alley
the woman in the green coat
crosses the same path
with another box of hats
And the bottles smash in the dumpster
Two white men in white clothes waving
big white trucks to back up
artists paint in their labor
whitewash & tape rolls
Days do fly
And the wingless try
morning keeps starting again
Tennis shoes hanging on a typical telephone wire.

Proposition 78137

I think the word, "art" needs to be dismissed from vocabulary.
For there is no more an appropriate reference for what is art, and what is not, art.
There is, however, a distinct identification of expression and work. A putting forth outside oneself, an in_terpretation of, what is, surrounding oneself.
There is no better expression than another expression. Yet, as always, there is a majority, a minority, and a who-gives-a-shit.
But, constant and true remains the root cause of what we call "art", which is expression and interpreting.

...to be continued

Found Media .
How ever many ships come in today, we hope the decision is ultimately passed on to the next generation. And now,
A portrait look at Marilyn Monroe.
Pretty soon them monsoon rains were coming in. As far north as Montana. High Pollution Advisory. High Heat Allert. Round the World. Simple pleasures in beautiful things made to last. It's our commitment.
Someone sleeps in a little hairy bed. With all nine cats. One begins to release fur from its throat over by the door, as a cat would.
They wake up with furrowed brows against each other! Every day! Bare naked fighting. Thunder and Lightning. They must be getting close.
They talk about it too much. Crying wolf about love. But the problem is that they don't hear. There is no unification. There is trial. And there is some long hope.
The night comes like the creeping clouds of the monsoon. Deep yellow red. Rains looms around the corner of the sky.
A telephone call rings.
He tips his hat.
She bows in the drugstore, once a month
Pretends like a little boy.

Carriage house caretaker,
Listen I'm here to tell you about the land.
Nothing more than the white early settlers sheep and crops grazed across the yard. This balchony was added in the late 40's. There's roaches in the walls. Keep the crickets around. The old alley was never a dump. Leave your air conditioner running. At 80 in the daytime. 73 at night. When will the time come? I'm hard up for fruit, of the devine candle. Something sweet to light it up.

Alphabet Prose

Good evening audience!
As the helicopter flutters above my house this Fall night, I find something written from a pen of mine. It was written as a game, to rehearse the written verse. To catagorize the alphabet and put the brain in check. Write one continuous prose that flows from A and ends on Z. If you know your ABCs, won't you play my game please?

Here's an example for the kids!

Apple Bernard Canyon dresses elephants, french goats hibernate inside jumping kangaroos leading mounted nomads operating particularily questionable rods stubborn tired unforgiven valves while xraying you zombies.

Missing the Picture

Back in 1999, a shrimper boat named Shellfish went down under the Savannah River.

The Captain pulled out alone that day. It was a Sunday. The weather was overcast and balmy as usual. Towards the coast, blowing off the Atlantic, big freight cargo ships make their way in, huge and slow. Their undertow can be ruthless. The Captain of the Shellfish needed a lucky strike. Solo, he could earn five times more, but risk his life and his boat. The idea was to throw three anchors. One from the starboard side, one from the larboard side, and one off the bow.

Sheer Edges

^^^^^^^^Scribble^^^scribble^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^..........^^^staircases^^^^^^^^*******************motion**************^^^^^^^^^^meteorites^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~~~~~~~~~~~feeble might tower down cradle of wealth>>>>>>>^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~~~~~off into oblivion^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~~~~~~~~miners town^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^creaking bark^^^^^^^^^~~~~~~sweethearts^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~~~~~~~~~~~~>.............^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^sometimes luck strikes^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ they find meaning, this filthy mess washed off^^ your lips are cracked and bloody^^^^^^^^^dragging your sillhouette couch and porch chairs and stairs cliff dwelling^^^finger prick^^^dining out^^^shepards pie^clear sky^ dark days over head projector^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^Useless analytical^^^^^^^^^ crawling horses on carpeted houseboats/giving grief to grief and relief to death/and one emotionless rambling could sell for a dollar to bum washing windows in doorway arches/ happily humble and alone/ can't match himself with a home/ I smile and chew bones/ and lean into Catalina, by the back of her neck was a burning cigarette/ chalked out a landing spot / give me money or give me land! I, I, I, there is a hassle in the headland of this man, to get off the ground you must stand! Jolt! Bolt throw your whispers of a dream!
Did you ever wonder about anything? YOu can use different words in quotations to spell out a laugh from a crowd, a boo, hiss so loud, spilling out empty reminders of an evil that controls or does so if we pay it any mind. A mind that softens with a chance at first bite of fresh plants to loosen the gravel of juice that consumes me. Oh think not! Suffer is a mother sending a letter to a sailor not knowing they'll never get it inside underwater locker. and they tear down pictures, slip slide away on white rectangular horses to the sunny charm half smiling coat tails of reality.
On edges of hillsides that stand aside seaside, then boatride to island aptly named after her carriage maiden. Countess Arusula, Peter Banning, Henry Capolli, Janette Stauffermyre, Applin Hearndon, Bunson Bridges, Cary Nethman, Wanda Roundabit, Earnie Stanton, Bill Wills, Sir Allan Goud. Mostly these are the handles of fellow travelers aboard Ship Number 9. Cracking the barrel to give up hope, when they live on something that floats. Very fitting. Metaphor of faith. Spring life into thee! Challenge the well of discovery and as its been said, we'll shed the dead skin living under our fingernails...that's what it looks like. An example. A pamphlet, leaflet tree of rings inside the forest of things. We were once a forest, quiet and tall, short and fallen, lushest of density, matter for the taking. Of the weather we are like the flicker after a lightning strike. Storm over sun, ray upon ray, beam of eternal, light darkens night in the shine of a fire.

To face the sun willing
like a fish to the fryer
is to burn the moon
with its back to the fire
as crackling thorn glows
the rose unfortunes the wither.

I think it came to me now.... when there are no thoughts that spring from your head, you remove the stone that blocks the hole. and, with opened head, you must write about every step and decision you make, day by day, hour by hour. Strictly, rigidly and religiously. Write down the moment your eyes open til the break of movement. From the sunrise in your underwear freezing, to the burnt french toast with cinnommon you couldn't eat because your headache was so strong as you tried to resize a photograph invitation of your nephew's baptism instead, and I wrapped it up for you in a paper towel to take with you to school. I stayed back and cleaned all the dishes and fed the cats a leftover corn on the cob chunk, drank two glasses of cranberry juice, and gathered my things to leave.

So there I was.

The father of time watches me abatedly brashen withered wicked horrible to describe by a lifetime. There is bad weather about every corner. The Great Noah has his arms spread out like a harbor. His hands catch the incoming ships like butterflies. The Four Horsemen wait upon a faultline. The four volcanoes of the northwestern americas. These boiling mountains crack the empire's truth sirum. The father of time laughs and his circlular dance gets faster and faster, and his tail stretches further and further. Every mythical god laughs and dances or becomes filled with more power, as we believe in nothing. Maybe God himself, has no time for fathers and horsemen, only mothers and children.

QUOTABLE QUOTES

"When a traveler doesn't spend his time moving by foot
he travels his mind with more haste."

"Know not the fear of forgetting every thing and thistle."

"Invent the wheel again for me would ya?"

"If Dr. Suit comes in with Nurse Hello, you're gonna be there a lot longer."

"when that comes, will you stop complaining?

"You welcome the evening as much as the morning."

"Every cigarette tastes less and less."

"When it comes Green, New American Vegetarian, leave your teeth at the door."

My inner voice is that of a world bygone and only in musty books in sunny soft days of the bookstores there in, Hood River, Oregon. Off the boat for a while trying to find something to get in to, besides after the usual pool game we came traipsing out of, I was already hit by wanting to find nostalgia and sentimentality of course, I’m alone in far- from-home small town lit by exciting faces that want to be making brew and catching the wind in their surfing sails, and sipping lattes of spit or looking for credit. A town indeed known for this, and the silence that wind creates around stirred conversation. I find cool dusty two storied record shop and buy two records. Both second-time purchases for I cannot recall where my first copies were lost to, most likely in someone’s house behind the wall unit warped. I spend most of my time either on the grass of the University, or in Artifacts book store, where the counter help is a wise older looking woman with typical thin rectangular glasses that sit half way down on her nose with opened button-down purple macramé sweater and she’s looking at me, watching to see if I’m apt to steal a thing or two, but I surprise her with a few questions about the history of her shop instead. And the coffee shop next door is too modern and dull to explain its interiors, but fitting because the coffee was bad. Nonetheless, it does the job of keeping me walking and I go as far as my time left until I have to rush back to the boat dock will let me. I discover train tracks that follow the rivers edge, and imagine the length they lead into the nothingness yellow hills of Idaho and Montano, pondering still how useful the trains are these days. I think about James Kurilla on railroad jobs through Minnesota, and how if it were cold I might be wearing the weathered scarf or flipping up the collar to walk alone beside the tracks, walking back from my railroad shift having been left off at the last notch in those railroad ties. Buy a pack of filterless Stanton cigarettes just to seek that feeling of that time, and then, nostalgia and sentimentality would be mine. For I am the grandson of Old Weird America, and of a lost country that will never be again, wrapped up in remembering then, while sleeping generations grow up unlearning old lessons.

In 2001, the Year of Our Dear, after I had taken a seaman's job out of the Sound, I decided that I'd not live in an imovable house, but go wishy washy on a riverboat for a while. Looking out the window of a train heading south i was watching the river flow over my shoulder. Portland bound, i was portland bound to be a sailor. From there the Columbia River took me wherever I'd let it take me. Scappoose, Ridgefield, St. Helens, Kalama up the river. Rainer, Calthlamet, Skamokawa and you bet, Astoria. Then back the opposite direction floating along the dividing line that separated washingtyne and oregyne. I ran once naked up a mountain and saw Idaho, I was on top of a giant potato. In all my spud youth. I worked the toilets and I worked the beds. I worked the tables. The fork the knife and the bread. I worked the kitchen and the dishes I washed. I washed the fork, the knife, the spoon and the pots. I worked the deck, the ropes, the bouys, the net. I won the charm, the smile, the nod, the arm, the bet.
So many jobs upon a river tender. Working my time from beginning to end. . Drinks close by. A big splash in the water during the week a few times. Holdin my shoes up kicking my legs. In that green river water.