Past Essays: Capturing a Passion.

    At one time, the Queen of England owned a large portion of the southern central Canadian islands.  One particular secluded isle was sold to my uncle who was a real estate agent and avid fisherman from northern Minnesota.  He named it Laughing Loon Island, after the mysterious state bird of Minnesota.
    Laughing Loon Island was a place of quiet refuge.  I was first brought there following my grandmother's funeral in Nisswa, Minnesota.  It was almost my thirteenth birthday in the summer of 1992.  Before my parents drove back home to Arizona, they left me with my uncle, aunt, and cousin.  They assumed that a trip to the island would take my mind off the death of my grandmother.  I remember saying goodbye to my family with a mixture of hesitation and excitement because I knew they would be driving home still grieving for my grandmother, while i would be flying away on an adventure.
    I was excited about going over the border into another country.  I could not wait to be flying in a small, perhaps dangerous float plane, using an outhouse for a bathroom, and living without electricity.  I imagined an adventure of a woodman's dreams.  I pictured myself fishing in the morning and fishing in the evening; sharing the forest with the likes of grizzly bears and moose; eating the best hand caught meals cooked over a coal iron stove or an open flame.  Indeed, I didn't think twice about going to the island.
    Each day on the island was full of new experiences and things to see.  My uncle usually left me and my cousin free to explore the five acres of the island.  The air was so heavenly pure and unharmed, I could smell the cotton in my white t-shirt and the fish underwater.  My eyes ran from shear clean briskness in the clear morning.
    I remember stopping to sit on the ledge of a rock and looking towards the surrounding islands.  Everywhere in my vision there were dense green thickets meeting deep blue waters.  The nearest cabin was miles of wilderness away.  We were alone on the little island, and the uninhabited wilderness was open for me.
    Another day I hopped in the little aluminum boat with my fishing tackle and gear.  I felt so happy to have my own boat and to be able to glide across the water like a duck in total control. I came across flocks of loons and geese, different types of birds, a few otters and beavers swimming on their backs, and an occasional bald eagle.
    Soon, my curiosity led me to another discovery.  I portaged my boat through a forestation of wet peat moss, poison ivy, and clinging ticks into a smaller lake named Black.  I saw from one end to the other the dense forest and tall grass around the perimeter.  The water in Black lake, unclear and dark, almost made a gold wake behind the little, ten-horse motorboat.  I began to fish for walleye near the beaver dams, just as I had been taught by my uncle.
    Suddenly, as if Moses had appeared, a black bull moose emerged from the tree line!  This was a moose with such mammoth-size and proportion, that a six-foot man could stand under its belly!  I was a frozen jaw-hung human observer of nature and beauty, but the moose was not aware of my presence.  After a while of wallowing slowly through the tall grass, it disappeared into the brush.
    Floating on the way back to the island, I spotted a Canadian flag tied to a tree that was standing alone at the point tip of another island.
    "How long has that flag been on that tree? How often do other people come through these parts?" I thought to myself. "What's happened to the Queen of England? Where are the presidents and prime ministers? Where is my grandmother who passed away only eight days ago, as I sit alone in a tin boat in the middle of nowhere and nothing?" I pondered. "Man could not exist at all, and I could still be sitting here in this boat not knowing."
    At night in the cabin, underneath the cold blankets of my bed that were pulled tight over my head, I could hear the loon's call somewhere out in the black night.  The hauntingly eerie, high-pitched patterns of the loon, danced over the lake.  Their sounds conjured about thoughts that swirled in my mind.  I thought about the bears that might be outside my door ready to eat me.  I wondered what we would do if the plane broke down and we were stranded on the island.  I thought about my family far away in the desert.  I wondered how long I could stand to be apart from them.  I dreamed of someday owning my own island too.  I thought about becoming a bush pilot to help preserve the forests.  I thought about being a fat, old, bearded man in a cabin in the woods somewhere in desolate Canada like this.  I battled all sorts of fears and aspirations by dreaming of more to conquer.  I kept a candle lit through the night for comfort, but I knew I was beginning to enjoy being in the middle of nowhere without guidance.  It was becoming natural to me.
    As we flew away from Laughing Loon Island in my uncle's plane, I looked out the window to watch it fading away.  My time on the island had gone too fast.  I had a feeling that I would not be coming back for a long time.  I knew I would be going back to the desert soon, surrounded by my family and friends again.  I knew I would be back in the speed of everyday life and its duties.  I realized this experience had been full of wisdom and growth, and that I could never take that for granted; I never have.  In many ways, my trip to the island built the foundation of my passion for living life to the fullest.

Out the Blue

Out the Blue
You came to me
Blew away
Life's misery
Out the Blue
Life's energy
Out the Blue
You came to me.

Be Still.

Be Still

Landing on the Cheese

What a pathetic move
in a race to fly to space
we lit up room
and called it the moon.

new questions

What does the Moon do with the Light?
Do the Stars fall on the Moon?
Is there a flickering sound on a Star?
Does the Sun shower into pieces?

the tree and the rock

The rock sat beneath the tree
the tree hung over the rock
the rock asked the tree one day,
"can I stay here forever?"
The tree said, "you already have"
so the rock rolled away,
and the tree lost its leaves.

LIGHT.

The inexistance of light is called dark.
Light exists eternally.

Prison.

Life is a prison
When you have felt freedom
For freedom you will long for thereafter
Is it a feeling you seek without thinking
In the prison filled with laughter?


Georges I. Gurdjieff,
 A Westerner who went on this higher trip or at least on a large part of the trip, said:
               YOU DON'T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND
      YOU ARE IN A PRISON
              IF YOU ARE TO GET OUT OF THE PRISON
              THE FIRST THING YOU MUST REALIZE IS:
     YOU ARE IN A PRISON 
        IF YOU THINK YOU'RE FREE YOU CAN'T ESCAPE           

For the Good of Mankind.

When life slows down and charity speeds up.

Finally! Something Good in the News! Veterans Discover Allure of Jobs in Western Wilderness

Veterans Discover Allure of Jobs in Western Wilderness - NYTimes.com

Inspiration.

Inspiration is to remember all the tracks that we've layed which roll on behind us in an august dust rain, and the clean wind of clarity that blows right through our life to show us the connection bridge to a sunny eternity, when we thank for each day.





"Regret and fear are twin thieves who would rob us of today."
                                  -A good line from a poem by Robert Hastings entitled 'The Station', sent to me from my sister.


"Humiliation is good. It means you believe in something."
                                  -A great line from a song by Billy Callahan entitled, "Fool's Lament"

Sin la Politica!

Something ethereal and unclassifiable must emerge in order to change the hearts of all humans who believe that the economic system of private ownership is working for the good of the hearts of mankind. Then ! will we experience true peace and the potential of nature helping man survive.

This Present Child.

Like a child I stare at the new world.
My snake skin past shed.
The wool accepted on my eyes.
As a flock of endless forgiveness and love.
For who can agree to be humble
that who builds pillars of grumble.
A weight removed and a patient wait rooted.
I float in the endless atoms of time.
A traveler in this present of mine.

Sober.

sun sober right
blind did by the light
hero fruit wheel bell
wave hello goodnight

Rumi

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."
— Rumi

DAY 4 & 5

DAY 4
This is one of my favorite video clips because it's daylight. About 6am in the morning the deer came back for breakfast just after the sun came up.

DAY 5
Night 5 was a busy one! Lots of footage. This time I left "food" out for the animals. Corn husks, pop corn, salad.  But it's interesting how apprehensive the deer are when something is different at their salt lick. Watch. ..Sorry for the hazy images, it was a dewy night.

The Night Vision Camera

Rain is pouring from white sky here today in northern Minnesota. I watch it from a window. Fog seems to be steaming out of the trees and hanging in the air. Today is a day when you could either stay in and "putz", as they say here, or throw a poncho on and continue work outside. For now, I'm enjoying the window.

Wildlife in northern Minnesota is ABUNDANT! In this Coniferous Forest you can see all sorts of animals everywhere you go. Dead, or alive and well. The assortment of species is a long list, but for my experiment I am focusing mainly on deer, muskrat, squirrel, grouse, porcupine, raccoon, bear and cat.

For the past week I have been setting up an outdoor night vision camera. Designed mostly for hunters, it is camouflage and waterproof in a hard plastic shell with long strap in the back for attachment to trees and such. The actual model is a Moultrie Game Camera.

The land I'm on is rich with greens, berries and vegetation. In the middle of the plot is a large gardening area. Outside of the garden a Salt Lick was placed in the grass. Each night I've mounted the camera in different places, but the most animal movement was caught when it was mounted facing the salt lick. So far I haven't left any other "food" out for the animals. My goal is catch footage of a bear on the property, and thus far have only captured deer...cool, nonetheless!

DAY 1

The first time I used the camera, a raccoon was getting into the garden shop and eating the cat food and bird seed and making a big mess. So that's where the idea of using a night vision camera came from. Although, I never caught footage of the raccoon! Only Gracie here, about to hop up on her bench.

Wait a minute!!! I DID spot the raccoon!!!

                       HA! I joke. This is Mrs. M. in an example of what night vision shots look like.


DAY 2                     
                                   And here is Minnesota's Whitetail Deer enjoying the salt lick.
                          


DAY 3

                                              Can you guess what this animal could be??

 

      This is what seems to be the family Woodchuck, Charlie. He doesn't come around much anymore since the cats have stood guard. He can be a pesky bastard who likes to eat the wood foundation of the garden shop and make the crawl space his toilette. However, even though they are normally not noctural, this could be a black squirrel.


     Below is the video I captured...

                                         There ARE fireflies in Minnesota!! These are not them.

                                                       An example of night vision video.

                                                                 "Deer in the headlights."

                                             SASQUATCH????!!!

                                                               :) ...more to come.

                                                           

I Will Understand

minnesota.

Land of 10,000 lakes and 4 fish.

Food.

Fasting is necessary to reboot your body. Fruits and Vegetables are the foods for humans to eat. Everything else is to be eaten with meticulous moderation and caution.

"You can pick all the flowers, but you cannot stop the Spring." -Pablo Neruda

I must try to remember this... because I don't want to pick all the flowers, I only wish to be glad they grow for us to see.

"...like the deserts miss the rain."

"Dislodging a green nut from a shell is almost impossible, but let it dry and the lightest tap will do it." -               Ramakrishna

Like seeds sown on cement, nothing grows when the sower throws his seeds in thorns.

Simple words from a simpleton.

What is the use in ridiculous word fragments
the way I feel?
doesn't make a difference
I can't carry on
pretending I feel fine
I'm a man with a shattered heart
No day is as good as the days were
I work and sweat through each day waiting...
Today I am not a poet
or someone who doesn't know that
I'm a simple man
without.

Deliverance from the Wicked

The wicked hath no path;
in the sight of angels,
they crackle like dry wood in fire.

Their path is laid only by tongue;
spitting snares like a web.
The wickedness charms
and waits to strike;
you can feel it in the air.

Although snare and bite and charm,
and trick and bait disarm;
my cloak is hidden,
and what you cannot see cannot be moved;
cannot be penetrated or changed.

Know the wicked hath no path
in the way of the truth,
it also hath no lie,
that can't be seen or heard;
to the angel, all is seeable.

The trick of the wicked,
is to trap the angels;
to maul their wings,
to blot out their vision of light,
to make them lose consciousness of the feeling of wind.

It is with an uncertain spirit,
could then an angel be disturbed;
like a wounded man,
the angel can be dragged down,
to almost human levels.
But by the pit of a heart,
does flow the light of angels;
and the love of that heart,
is the endurance against the wicked,
and the consciousness of a soul,
in love with something pure.

   

Postcard Series

I Collect Postcards. Old and New. Used, Blank and Written On Too.

 

                                                                                                  

                                                   

Svoju Boju.

The leaves on the branch have never lost their color
I thought it was a symbol
I cut the branch
for us to know
and the leaves have not let their red color go.

..And the wisest whale
gathers its share
heavy with answers
drops to the deep ocean floor.

A Father to His Children.

Every chance that appears to you
is a test of what you'll do
and if sometimes your dreams come true
chances will be the proof.

Every chance that appears to you
is a test of what you'll do
and if all your dreams just fade
chances too will do the same

Every chance that appears to you
is a test of what you'll do
and if all your dreams sink like a plunging stone
chances are you're not alone

Every chance that appears to you
is a test of what you'll do
and if all your dreams collide
remember the test at every sunrise

Music tickles my soul
I wrote a song for you
Didn't you hear
It said, where you go
I"ll be there.

Sometimes, the worst thing about war is not dying, but trying to survive the wreckage of change, for the rest of your life.

Old Pecan Tree

the old house is making strange noises. the old tree in the pecan field is dead. she's long been stripped bare of all her limbs. her lean arches from high above the houses. though her stretch has withered frail. there hasn't been enough rain. only but the old telephone wire tied to the edge of the old house is holding her from falling. breaking and crashing in half. the old wind forces her to rely on the old telephone wire completely. if she goes there may be a great fire. just above the old telephone wire is the new power line currently buzzing. teeming electricities. if she goes she'll snap that new power line like an old rubber band. but the old pecan tree in the pecan field balances on a tight wire. it groans in strain and weakness unable to be nothing more than helpless. no one wants to see her go, nor endure the inevitable anymore. the old pecan could not help her crooked stand or her resilient rings. the old tree had been there and seen many things. her hips once bore fruit. her limbs once had branches that leaves grew from. green leaves that loved the wind and rain and sun.

the Mustard Bus . 1975 - 2009

What a pretty gal!

My Grandmother, Violet Kurilla circa 1930

I FOUND THIS RECENTLY. SOMETHING I WROTE ON THE BACK OF A BUSINESS CARD YEARS FROM NOW...

All that Love.

All that I opened
all that I began
all that I discovered
all that I am
you are
if you see
your heart
like a tree
All that I muscled
all that I bruised
all that I bore forth
all that,
you conceal
nothing but
the purest bow
at your service
not too proud
all that strength
all that endurance
all that weight
all that wait
all that time
all that proof
all that solitude
attitude, graditude and spruce
all that unending
all that faith
all that carefulness
all that fate
all that I
all that me
all that you
all that need
all that youth
all that age
all that trying
all that proof
all that work
all that press
all that ink
all that stress
all that distraction
all that forget
all that distance
all that regret
all that redemption
all that hope
all that acceptance
all that cope
all that forgiveness
all that soap
all that explanation
all that truth
all that perfection
all that use
all that compassion
all that void of
all that labor
all that love.

Oliver's Dreams

My dreams are like balloons
my dreams are like cacoons
my dreams are like rain
like sun, like day, like night, like moon
my dreams are passing
through a room
over houses
up the stairs
like woven baskets
thrown in the air
my dreams are the weather of the mind
is it time ticking time
or knots of emotion
or nothing at all
just floating
on clouds of water
my dreams are.

hammertooth beatin heart

Why did Ciken cross the road
Why did Ciken go?
Why did Cik go cross the ocean
Why did Cik jump to a notion?

For the Ciken and the Cik of course!
For the Ciken and the Cik of course, my horse!

For how did the horse become this plan?
For did the horse who wore a bore
scratch his feet into the sand?
Did he ride molasses shores to wait
upon the milky land?

Did his hooves dry up and crack,
did his coat fall from his back
For the Ciken and the Cik,
when they did meet the horse
they tripped!
And everyone they met from then
had one foot stuck in the sand
and one eye dented,
and some teeth bent
They came with their own shine,trend and speech
From way down south,
to the north
to the west
to the east
Different rhymes but
still a beat.


Some lifetimes away from a coffee shop in early morning ritual and walking bliss and gray scale outcasts, you stopped tormenting. You stopped riveting yourself into stagger. You forgot about it. Canned the lime light. Ran with the motion sickness bubbled in fizzing delight. No one that seeks to be lonely, receives more than lonliness. As no one that seeks to be happy, finds more than happiness.

Sitting by a river can roll your mind.
And if you put your hand in to touch the water
You've already done good.

Maybe a man's own words can make him crazy
if he repeats them enough.

Maybe all the corners of the lands are bleeding because it's time.

Maybe sentiment only comes from the lack of reality.

I miss my best friend...

There's A Helicopter Over My House...What If

*The government is using television analog signal to spy. Transfering personal information/code/national security data/local data currents, etc.,
via scramble television.
-What is the scramble we see?
Is it electrical emptiness?
Is it a river of flickering light through glass?
-It is not, nothing.
-It is, something.
The sound of a scrambled obselete black and white television,
has patterns.. .. ..
And breaks_ - - _ -And beeps, and buzzes and hums and fuzzes and screeches, hisses and revolves, like a motor's idle, like a helicopter, like a motorboat running in the water. It crackles and pops, it has a haunting time-numbing whirl that's coming through a tunnel.
-Sometimes you think you hear people talking
in the vast ocean analog waves
-All those waves! Unused? Unattributed? Obselete television channels. The numbers on the dial don't mean anything now.

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.

It's 12:55 in the beginning of the morning. There's a storm outside. a thunderstorm. some lightning. whipping wind and dirt. one hundred six degrees of electricity friction sky. the palm trees are bending. the tin is rattling. the old wood roof creaks and twists. swirls of wind make hanging chimes whistle forcefully. but then, sudden silence. a calm. a rest. until the sweeping wind picks up and the wood pile stack falls over! Through windows the wind sounds like crashing waves. The tree's branches slap the house. The shutter smacks its frame! The dustwind cloud is slowly rolling in. flickery street lights in the grainy haze. the monsoons are late this summer.it's the first day of september.welcome storms.

if I go
would you need me
will you meet me
half way there
if i don't show
would you believe me
when its easy
to careless
on the road, at night, sometimes, I am blinded
by the repetious dark
and the tricks on my eyes

if you wait for me
does the good and the evil
seem to be the only thing
that matters
when I'm in rome
dear I swear I too stand,alone
under the angels
and latters
and if you come at dawn, always, I am lonely
from all the useless beauty
here without you
but with a midnight prayer, the road disappears and
you haunt me, you don't want me
here without you

"A Lover Not Lover"

Lover, I am lost
I lay ragged alone
I have couped myself up
in a room, I search
for you and your song
I search and I search and
I long.

Lover, like you, I belong
Like you I belong to me
As though poisoned were not me
As though pure as can be
Like a fool's dream

But Lover, a fool I am
Or a fool I have become
With broken spirit
and wilted heart numb
You are gone, you are gone
I am lost and still
I long.

SHORT POEMS

89-A
Southwestern turquiose handmade jewelry case
sad proud humiliation on the roadside.

A BROWSE.
Thank you
Nod head quickly
look her in the eyes
keep walking.

OF PHOENIX.
Hot air
baffoon lives
we lead,
miscellaneous
drab.

TALK RADIO.
The sound of a drill
rotating on high speed
through my ear drums
grinding the brain
Free FM
Free FM
Free FM.

KS PORK EATING 2006
Kansas city's pork contestants
chew like vicious rabbits
with something to lose

The other night I was talking with my bandmates about the will or the want to get up in the morning. Furthermore intense, we pondered what makes people have the will to live, or the will to move about through life. While some people get up in an hurry, or travel from place to place with an idea or an expectation, others never ponder the fact that they have the power to change their own life by doing it themselves. It's easy to get caught up in the "standard" way of living, we as americans know. It's easy to be in that world of suburbs, strip malls, fast food eating, large corporate shopping, driving the car everywhere, working 9-5, watching too much television, getting lazy, losing the vision to your heart and soul, your passion, your spirit. Maybe it's easier for these things to cloud your life if you have an unhealthy relationship with your mate or your family or your social scene; if you excess on drugs or alcohol; if you've never had drive or goals for your life. Maybe it's just that all of the "standard" things I described above turn you into this drooling, lethargic american that is so sadly everywhere. Lets consider an alternate way of living; one that employs your creativity, one that keeps you in touch with your soul and your spirit, one that supplies you with warmth to your heart, blank.

Ladies and gentlemen, there's something behind your neck that smells oddly like mustard gas. Or is that sulphur? I worked at mid-level market research firm in Seattle washington in 2003. I talked on the phone to different people continusly for hours. I asked them about their health. I asked them about their employment, about their ethnicity; their income; their insurance; their martial status; their mental stability; their diseases; their sexual preferences; their sexual behavior, but never their credit card. Up on the 3rd floor we were all generally fucked up. I met some oddball folks working there.

Len was a giagantous, curly-orange long-haired, bearded, intensely freckled, 43 year old, lunch box carrying ex-convict; recently released. He wore shorts that were affendingly small and tight that skinny, young bicyclists would wear in the seventies. Usually they were aqua-blue and he would wear an aqua-blue, red, black, and white stripped t-shirt. He rode his bike to work and wore those damn shorts even in the dead of a rainy, washington winter. His skin was harmfully tan in the summer. His fuzzy, matted beard was a mixture of brown, gray, red, and white wires that had no equaling length. He talked with a moaning drag at the end of every thing he said; which was likely to regard sci-fi B movies, particularily the ones directed by Fritz Lang. Het ate the same thing every day; sardines with Tabasco sauce on bread. Every day. At the same time listening to something on his pocket radio and looking out the third story breakroom window. If he spoke during his lunch, his words were usually followed by sporatic flying bits of food.

My cubicle was aside a very large, warm, carismatic black buddist women's named Simrajah. My working space was always very stark and cold because I never wanted to mentally invest myself in my job and the time I spent there because it would quickly turn me into a depressed monster. I had to separate my life outside of work from my life at work so much though that I wouldn't decorate my cubicle with personal flair. I enjoyed the feeling that I was always on the move and could have another job, or live in another town without notice. I believed that if I put up a bunch of pictures and brought stuff from home, then I would turn into the same zombie dead-end man as the people around me who had been working there for twenty years.

it's 2;11 where are you, my love?

"genova night prayer"

Blessed are the days and moments of reflection and harmony with life
The seconds of clarity and contentment
To put it all in prospective
The answer is there and purer then ever
Times of frozen photographs in my mind
The tree grows taller and counts it's years in circles
The same for my own hurtles and revolutions
Talk to me when I thought I had it all figured out
You'll know the change has come about
A hundred foreign stamps, pound notes, and pence
You'll know where to go when you're gone
Forlorn grasps to history and ending lines,
reveal repeating past signs of the time
In one nights sleep, I could wake up all my harboring beasts,
and swiftly order them all to retreat
You showed me sands of many colors and faces of many brothers
Even a love that was thought to be freedom,

you slaved me to the truth again
And forever you will, amen

I CANNOT WAIT ANOTHER DAY
TO FIND TRUTH
BURIED
BENEATH THE SANDS
OF A DEEP LAGOON
HIDDEN
FROM THE SUN AND MOON
SHINING
FOR MY EYES
FROM A SHADOWY ROOM

I HAVE ENOUGH WEIGHT
TO SURVIVE MORE THAN A DAY
WITHOUT THE NEED FOR FOOD
WITH THE PAIN
I CAN SUSTAIN
I CAN ENDURE
I WOULD NOT COMPLAIN
I WILL REMAIN
STEADFAST IN FASTING

Hammers and nails, windows and doors; carriage makers swindle; pigeons for breakfast; stones overhang like nervousness; caught light in the sun morning; leopards of health; spotted medallion on the legs of blind martyrs; orphanage blanket holding for comfort; hair in the drain; the noise of bricks thrown in a wheelbarrow; the hiss of steam from a gas main; walking past old houses looking.

Poem of two years past inducted to the American Poets Society June 2003

Riflessione Di Voi In Italia.

Karmacropolis make up your mind.
East bound until swimming
Wash upon shores weightless
Fishing with food and no hooks.
Day bows into moonfilled night
Life walks and huddles with scarves,
Alley kisses cobblestone marbles
Saints smile from doorway arches,
While love leans against the wall.
Forgetting never the moment
Nor the full moon's mysterious caress,
Vowing returnal for the first time.
Gleaming beautifully without words
Breaking fog of dawn
Tunnels through the broken hillside
Lush of life's rooted churches
Feel God close to the ground.
Mama Maria in the Piazza
Look upon gazes of pity for some.
Neptune statue of lime green skin,
Fishes prophet, though not a man's.
Captivity for the sharks.
Unmistakable eyes reappear
Mistaking the distance between memory and touch.
Heart is to hot as the hands are too cold
Shivering inside wools of comfortable warmth
Moonlight shapes a path once again
Casting hazy gloss to the painting
Breathing the closest breath willing.
Wanting the closest, and waiting.

there's another pond
where fish don't belong
only bones of first year trees
they grow within
at the base of my legs to my knees

You wear those kind of hats that tilt ever slightly with the perfect brim listing to one side of your head. Your neck is so skinny that your collar chokes off thought.

red ball in the front of the mirror in the ray of my last night sad in the time of forborn , so longing the middle it's backwards anyway I do say.

we've spoke of circles before/in the back of barns over coffee and rolled arms/cannibal miners have turned vegetarian/where's the beef on your palate now?/mrs. carterwig is stuffed with children up to her britches/I saw her tongue-in-cheeking me talking to single ms. apple/who said you weren't the one and only?/ten thousand repeated sentences for bad behavior two years before/and I'm only sorry for what was not/you've all gone and got scared and bought houses/"the past is still here, we're just choking on our own blood now"

The Will can never be leashed
It has to be lived
Whether it's a caged bird
You would bring it down
Since you already tried
Forget it

A prophet comes in disguises
The black boy cigarettes me in surprise
He smoked out my thougts of wise
She brings her cat and spices
I wait with caffine eyes

Knowing I will only prolong looking
When sitting at the edge of seats
Why should you lie if you feel sweet
To me it's all the same as the next week
Still locked and seeking a key

And if that wasn't enough
maybe your watching now and still can't decipher all the questions in your wander head
it was clear in the colorful sigh of discontent
You shoulders protruded larger than your voice
angry clammy lads jumping ship and calling lifeboats
rings of coal ready for igniting
Subside the truth for momentary pleasure
your light shines blindly
my eyes storm shadows
widow's peak under hats
there is web to life and here it is
tangled and torn your forlorn life is mine
like a cliche

I thought maybe you must know
All of the seconds just then and remembering
Here I am
notwithstanding

Still
Hands in pockets
Still
Calling the shotless
Barely on the ledge anymore

You can change your fortune
I can change your mind
Knock me back into somewhere

Just begin to want
money will kill me

I followed a habit down a hole
He took me to a deeper earth

sand dollars on your lips
sandals on your foot tips
send across the message
soon you will deliver

paper cuts with sharp words
praying through your eulogy

"gathering dust in thornton, colorado."

It's all endless like the black snake in the fire of bitterness. You can't have what you'll die for so why do you even try for it? Isn't it like a miraging harbor in the middle of a typhoon unable to reach the shore for safety? Why have I come to the question again it's all up to me. or is it? The boredom of sitting around all the live long day brings nothing accomplished. Except shuffling shuffling back and fro across the burbur, and smelling the ass wafting from every direction released by those of us who partake in the vegematarian or mexican cuisine, tofu and burritos, cheese and milk, lactose intolerant. Feeling the floor rumble with every bass line thump. The studio in the basement, the jangle jangle of the guitars,vraaa vra vra vraahh!!! boom boom crash of the drums, oh yes it's all very soothing to say the most. not really. I think I'd like to be in that little apartment on 14th St. downtown Phoenix making dinner for myself, and getting that solidarity high. You know the one, right? The feeling like you can do any fuckin thing you want. In fact you do. You stand on the back balcony very naked and refreshing, the birds can see, and the neighbors that might be around during the work day. Ahhh, it feels fine the cat comes down from the rooftop, sliding that tree like a swirling fireman down the pole for his meow mix. I'd sweep the outside floor, but writing on the walls sounds more fun. "Making Life My Art" in magnum huge black permanent marker. It means everything to me, about me and what I believe about life. Enjoy the wall and the sink and the soft carpet and the dried up flower box on the porch, and the couple across the way with their lonely puppy who cries for their attention while they have little suspicious parties inside, and the pool that the girls come down to on the hot days and lay beside giving me a pleasant view. Dig the cat again, Fugazi, as he gets high and walks around with squinted eyes and catnip breath. He's the coolest cat on the block, no doubt. His girlfriend shows up every now and then, more frequent lately, they lick each other up and smell their butts and go back up to the rooftop to stick. There's an endless poster wall of the music we love and the colors we like. Candles...I dig the candles, light all of them on fire, the new the old the ugly ones from my mother, the gift candles from girlfriends and the sensual scented ones, down to the, down to the-wick, melting into the television and the coffee tables, hardening, we'll get that later...OH my G..the boiling water has burned!!!!! Forgotten all about the boiling water!! High am I, I dug too deep. I'm still very naked and now the kitchen smells like burned water. Ever smelled burned water, or is it the burnt air? Yuck! I have to scrape the brownness out of the pan, and start over. A watched pot never boils, I'll have to sneak in on the bastard. Take a peek when he can't see me. Then immerse my noodles in the boil...three minutes, thats all it takes for tonight's delight.ramen. what the hell else would it be on this weeks wage. I'm a laborer for construction contractor. Frame houses, or try. Fall off roofs and nail my fingers together. Once I was working next to Rick Speedeater, one of the veterans, pretty senior to the rest of us, but that don't exclude him from his share of injuries as his badass leather tan skin, red headwrap, dirty long hair shoots a nail from his nailgun right through the center of his hand and wails in dramatic agony. I couldn't help but have one moment of concern then try to help myself from laughing, in turn shooting my own damn nailgun right into my left shoe...Luckily it only nipped my big toe and no one saw me do it. Nailguns can be a real fun toy if there's no one around and your on top of the unfinished roof squatting on the plywood shooting the knife-life bullets into the neighbors fences...but I'm getting way off track, this work pays alright, but not enough for me to afford the most healthy food around, and plus I spend my money elsewhere, like the thriftstores to gather all the big gaudy velvet paintings of Elvis or Jesus I can find. The first Elvis has a home over the piano mantel board in Larry's shack house off 7th Street and Dunlap. It just gathers dust. Sort of like myself as I sit here day after day on the couch, at the desk, walking around, sleeping on my mattress in the basement in the peaceful darkness, waking to think there's something important to do, but instead eating a bowl of cereal... That's pretty fun. Some days I'll take the wagon downtown and find a meter still running and park the car for a bit so I can walk around and feel a part of something that I'm not. All the yups during the day, down the 16th St Mall, passing the punks and the chumps for change that I'll give to the one who's most sincere. On my fortunate days I can get a free burrito or a fish taco and a beer at Legal Peters from Trish the Dish, and feeling full and thoughtful I'll head to the bookstore and hang on the third floor with my own book to read for an hour or so, then suddenly remember the meter!! A bit like the boiling water, on my feet burning as I run in my worn down, flat footed converse back to the parking spot, passing the meterman in his blue hat, and comfortable walking shoes, and jump into the wagon that's been sitting at an expired meter for almost an hour now, barely escaping his wiper blade note. Only for a lack of knowing Denver's geography do I end up right back in Thorton, Colorado amongst the neighborhood of all day Spanish fiestas and lawn couches,inside the two story home, on the burbur, at the desk, sitting, gathering dust

mother of the blowin' wind.

Mother of the blowin' wind
don't let whispers get away from you
don't forget they'll come around again
and then whisp into conversation

Hide away your heart's past
it wasn't a wish come true
for your sake
there's no such thing as a mistake
if it's one you never knew

A chord struck through the ear
your secrets came out of nowhere
you're void of an innocent future now
it split right open
now you're faced with face
you can save yours with a lie
or see the truth in your burden's eye

Fate changes love
it steals back a heart, or purifies the dove
it can't behold histories
it casts out all theories
it answers questions never asked
it completes the final task

Oh mother of the blowin' wind
hear your daughter's new song
as easy as it isn't
accept what may come
and let go of what's gone

Beth's Cafe, Seattle WA

Being that I'm pretending it's raining outside and I'm inside next to the window of this Seattle-type setting, I know where there's a spot called Beth's cafe. Always a comfortable little dirty grunge down-to-earth place to hang at 1am. Beth's Cafe OPen 24 HOme of the 12 Egg Omlette. The coffee was always like good strong hot water so I usually drank 6 or 7 cups. KC digs the pancakes because their damn good! Every time I go in that place I just like to sit and look at all the child-like crayon colored drawings that are pinned over every square inch of the punk diner, mostly made by the locals smoking too much tea and being prophetic. The waitresses jump the counter and dive at the jukebox to change a song! Their yelling and singing and dancing back and forth with the tattooed cook, of course; in his late-twenties looks like Greaser Swanson, but with no cigarette mind you, and quite interested in making those pancakes and bacons, and 12 egg omelets. We usually sit in the same place every time right behind the cook counter and talk with infection of our future and our past ironic adventures.
Wasn't there a tiny whisky and gin type bar next door? I met a women triple my age in that place who asked for my lovin' with eyes that steamed like a horse’s snout. My, you know I was so scared, I ran out the door before I finished my shot. And next to that joint is a new and used lawn care equipment store with lights over chainsaws and riding lawn mowers and the like, through big glass storefront windows to oow and awe over.
Yes, I remember it swell...and if we decided that we didn't go to Beth's Cafe, we'd eat Dick's!

I dont know about travel today, but staying motionless on these here white pills is taking their affect.
Things to say I did today.
-Made an extra good brushing of teeth
-Took my medicine 2 1/2 hours before expected surgery
-Slipped into a baby blue chair at the doctor's office
-Pricked with a needle and threaded a drip of deep sleep juice
-Oxygen over face
-Wake up remembering nothing
-Part of body in a container
-Falling in and out of consciousness
-Puddings and soups - no straws
-No spitting, coughing, chewing, nose blowing
-Final Desination 2
-Vicodin, IBProphen, Amoxicillin, Vicodin, Vicodin
-Too much TV
-Sleep
-Sleep
-Sleep.

Picture this, two of some kind sitting on the stairs far off in some land and time. Feeding off eyes and lips where words were not so easily swallowed. A moon over the foot note of Columbus' pride. The place where captains failed and mutany was cried. And besides all that there were two who sat alone with each other and passing strangers. buona sera luna fortuna. The songs of all the feelings were moving through embedded dreams and surfaced into melody. And though it was heavenly the silence seemed deadly and back down inside went the dreams to hide. The air it was black with only light from the moon, they walked. Tongue tangled teased and strangled. Sweet and sour sometimes at the same time.

Sixty minutes in slippery speech
having everything to say
but can't speak
wondering your city's streets
fixing on the eyes that
peer into mine
a never ending clock
that ticks forever
in my mind
when I see you there
it lasts,
forever
Try again
I tell myself
try again
and it will
come true...

12.01.02
Oh pull your thoughts up from the the litter. This is the hand of a good game. There's Shamah in the back of your mind, sitting smoking cigarettes and contemplating denial or hopefully, to give him the benefit of the doubt, about his next move. She, the girl in the picture, has been discovering new feelings and sceming new dreams along the way/ is also somber and a bit distant at the subject of you leaving town. But she DOES understand and so does Shamah, so the optimistic, happy feelings and thoughts ARE the real deal and should be used as fuel for the engine soul, in-turn the gears move and progression is in affect.

-Wooden table
candle light
letter stapled,
friend of mine
been a long time
we were on missions and,
exihibitions
our souls weren't defined
drawn too many circles
and crossed too many lines
fools we have been
for women or men.

Cousin Micheal had the real cowboy hat, and a snow suit with leather boots. We dragged a saddle around the barn to put on "Hud", the big male horse. The problem was that we were only 3 feet off the ground and 4 years old. Grass would grow thin and tall at the first sunburn of spring. The three storied house needed fresh red paint. The driveway was a long and unpaved dirt road surrounded by forestation. I once caught a worm in my mouth by mistake when playing throw the worm in the winter snow with my brother and two sisters. I swallowed in an instant 'cause that was my first reaction. Later in 7th grade I got money to eat a live guppy that a friend of mine would carry around as a pet at school. The story has since been enlarged to me eating a "big gold fish". Either way I drank chocolate milk from one of those little cubular cardboard boxes and took one swallow of the fish. I needed money. It was entertainment.

My day isn't over, although technically it's the eve of the next day-July 21st, but I'm still in yesterday. Sunday/ these good wills will come. I'm trying to make a rock out of this day yet. On the walk home I felt the humid air and the thick drops of the first monsoon rain beginning on my face. The lightning desert sky lit up in parallel strikes. The streets were empty, I didn't know what time it was. The roads were wet and they always seem more intruiging like that. I thought about the last time I walked home from the bowling alley, and how much walking I do when I'm not in my hometown. I enjoy walking because it's so constant. My feet never get tired, and when I'm surrounded by pleasant atmosphere I'll walk like I'm getting paid to do it. Which actually leads me to a rather interesting hypothisis to my on-going restless nights. I'm always tossing and turning and my legs are never comfortable in any position. This causes me to wake up all the time, and some nights I realize I'm lying in bed feeling bored, like a waiting room. It seems maybe that my body, or my lower-body is always in that "go" mode and doesn't equate-in sleep. It's obvious also that constant travel for months on end doesn't help any. Hard or soft beds won't make a difference, just like futons, couches, blow-up beds, carpet or wood floors, hammicks, beaches, tables, RV dashboards, bathtubs, vans, or sleeping-sitting up. Last week I started taking pills. It helps at times, but I'm afraid of a habit forming, and then lazy zombie-like state sets in during daylight, drooling, heightened insanity, death. I want to figure this out purely, for the most part. At any rate, the truely wonderful thing about today is that it finally rained! Thank God for that. Our prayers were answered! The crops are drinking, the air is clensing, let it pour for days to come! Tomorrow the income needs to be coming, from somewhere. I will seek sources! I will seek a schedule and plan. I will seek coffee, nurishment, vitamins. I will seek renewal, and hope, and in these trialing times, I will seek strength, and The will shall be more solid. Solomn day goodnight, this is the end of our time together tonight. I love you. thank you. in honor and unworthyness.

All for the love of what? The thought of speaking frankly in front of children and taking dreams to the river all bundled up with a blanket of hope. Yet, the hands are dealt precisely and accordingly to the way you get them. Jump on a train for free and pay later that year. Ask the questions over and over; the whos the whats the whens the wheres the hows? The hows? is like a filter through the brain gripping the easy answers and wondering, is that it? Here? NOw? but I already knew that! You may say...and it's only the obvious that reveals itself just to make you even crazier. endless endless endless

We met under one star/ shaped like a state
injury of the mouth/ I couldn't say anything
my thoughts hard to grasp/ did I attract
because of our stances we couldn't completely connect

Confidence could've revealed many words
but with hesitance I waited/ too long
followed by days of regret/ why
I haven't forgot those kind of looks
I'm learning what they mean

Sorry for my silence/ sometimes it's understood
that line I couldn't cross/ until the moment that never came
a wall of good blood/ protecting
a heart that needs a body
a souls been misdirected
and little you with a question/ like me

-L.D.M.

Woah! This time it's albuquerque new mehico. In a bedroom, drummer sleeps behind me on the couch. Just in from a long overnight drive from Tucson. We're a band. We play songs. We complain a lot. In this particular scene we've been thrown into that is nothing like it was, we complain and laugh at it. Who would've ever guessed that the New Kids on the Block and N'Sync and other baby faced boy bands would don guitars and get pretty star tattoos and be what's now called punk rock? Count me out of this fan club or scensterism. Call me jaded, call me sell-out, call me frank, I don't care anyway you state it! The way the "punk rock" genre has overlapped and unfolded over the years sucks. Now there is no difference between going to a swank night club in Scottsdale or La Jolla california and going to a local "show". It's all little baby birds of the main stream media mother with their mouths open wide ready to swallow any bullshit mamma gives em. And it's sad for them; who think they are being individuals or furtive amongst the cookie-cutter bands' fan club, but who are really just being lead indirectly by a major marketing sceme that has purposely trickled down to these young punks. It all makes me want to grow my beard thick and my belly fat and pick up my harmonica and acoustic and entertain the birds and bees in the middle of nowhere. peace be with us...
LukasMathers

I've got an invention about a clever pretend friend who sees through your makeup face into your bones. He's not always alone, though he seems to play the bum and squints his eyes at the sun, and makes rounds in the cities he goes. They call him something different down every road. He makes a point to stop and stare at the lifelines, notched out in the timeline; as the circles come back around. He stands alone somewhere in the midst. The cats and tigers are still moaning drunk in the new generation. Isn't your brother on his knees in the dirt over seas? The man secretly abliges to the breast bloomed with alcohol falls; what can you judge of this mess, let's go.

I can see myself
wrapped in puzzles
around press fingers
getting headline blues

all things considered
to be but the obvious
shackled jaw thought
arouse away innocense

furtive turns commercial
valiant and outragous
open the mail bag
dad sends love

he who holds a camera
may use it for protection
the pencil's been your sword
the words' stab new direction

the mighty mouth has groan
let the wind blow this as so
even trees do bend in pain
and the sky cries out in rain

horns carry clouds of gold
the rams turn to dust
fall do the masks of fate
for time is never late
when the meek sigh
relief.

by L. HONAS

slip me into your little pockets
carry me away with you
for the sea returned the lost forgottens
when salty waves again turned blue
the forward path was carved with notches
the mind had not yet dried the glue
you knew
they knew
plead forgiveness
follow through

somewhere in these private rooms
we created those changing moods
ecstatic sirens or silent dooms
forever these vital senses loom

candy eyes and an edible smile
so looking good with a face that's in style
until you rub all away the smoothness of a child
to reveal worn out wrinkles distancing miles

with fright
and fire
the passionate liar
will elevate emotion, while
it uses him on the side
for secret service to fahrenheit

maybe then
will love descend
catapulting hearts
to quiet forest parks
the summer sets
warm as moon
by the time set in
be fire, glowing monsoon

I can see it now
as they said it then
you'll have your fun
when the work will end
the hairs on the back of your neck will bend
when electric animalistic chemical waves come in

-LUKAS COHEN.

I remember also, once there was a kid in my school who always peed his pants. Sorry Charlie, I'll call him. Carried a big duffle bag strapped around him to hide his wet spots on his pant legs. poor fellow. I always tried to talk to him, and make him feel comfortable, pretending I didn't smell the lingering hot pee smell looming aroung him. He studdered too. I think he was also in those "special," as they call it, classes for slow learners. Really he was just a genious. The teachers and other students never knew or cared, trying to know, that this was so. In reading class we watched movies like the original Romeo and Juliet, including the fast-forwarded nudity parts, by our teacher Mr. Saint A'more. wow what a name! I called him mr SAy NO More, because he never really said much. During the movies, Charlie would often figit with something; a pen in his mouth, picking his nose, uneasy in his chair, drawing pictures. He always passed the tests though, even when I tried and sometimes failed. He was scared to touch, or examine the animals, insects, or reptiles in the science labs too. The first and youngest animal rights activist in our school. Some days, more than others, he would go home early because of a said sickness, which was actually fear and anxiety of other kids who picked on him. I found it hard not to want to extinguish the bullies that had these insecurities and desires to beat up on kids like Charlie. and Sheeka, and Tanjiu, and Laura. But for the most part, I was one like them, too little, and scared and quiet, and confused to do anything but be their friend...I think, now, they're all models, artists, or doctors. HA!

Last night I met a girl and tried to make small conversation in the little Italian I know. She goes to the university like everyone. She studies. He studies. They all study or work the days and out the nights. She asked what I do. Do I go school as well? What am I doing here. Well, now that's a mighty giant question to ask anyone on their first meeting. But I thought about it and said no, I don't attend a school of any sort. I'm just an artist. Alone. Here in Italy. Ummmm, traveling, living, undecided. Yeah, I'll take that route. I've always been the one who everyones waiting for at the gas station pit stops, back inside trying to decide weather I want the trail mix or a bag of chips. My passengering friend added, "the good life" with a distant look. That phrase took me by surprise and I drove on with that it my head for a few minutes realizing, it's totally true. Don't knock on wood, but think that way. It humbled me. I'm thankful. Greatful to whomever, and everyone along all the paths. I rumbed my eyes, and they turned red and blurred my vision into the reality that is these days and times we're in. Aye, I don't know what I'm trying to say, but this phrase broke a new outlook. Sometimes I'm a selfish idiot unrealizing the fruit of my labors is this.wooah.

Tonight, shuffled into the two-man elevator, down 11 flights, out the door, around the corner, bar insalateria, filled up with fasion-types, maybe I'm one of them, called on a beverage, and began to be only slightly amused.Feeling a bit on the low end this evening. Wrote a little poem when I arrived back home. Huh? Also I think now, there is an earthquake, or something fierce outside going on...

Rembrandt smoking a cigarette squeezed inside a corner bar.
On holiday from worried decisions for the moment.
A dame that never called back waits for his call instead.
A game of cat and louse.
Ever so studdering the words barely taught.
Through bleeding smoke-filled eyes he gazes the room.
The women that enter capture a piercing reflection.
Seconds like minutes, you're either here now or there forever, forgotten.
Too many bad faces, shudder and drink.
Call in replacements to fill up the spaces.
Outside the window, blows wind indoors, when opening the door.
It's cold, scarf weather neck warmer.
Sulky cheekbones turn pink.
Pouty lips quietly think, on the stone ledge.
Shes not alone, but her eyes are.
Unamused and waiting her man's nightly consumption consumed.
To go home in a high palace and sleep on her side,
eyes rolled, deserving of gold, but feeling sold.
Old comfortable, unescapable bond of nothing, anymore.
These days, unlike those days-old days.
Now it's all a haze.

-L. MATHERS.
goodnight sweetheart, well it's time you know.