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.