Featured

Hel-lo! poetry lovers..

le Ballet Mecanique..un film de Fernand Leger

First of all, —or third of all, rather..thirdly, ahem! permit me to observe that some things – if not all things – cannot be translated meaningfully, can only be rendered, –this, for example: the Ballet Mechanic. The literal translation gets you>some guy comes out of the shop in a leotard clutching his wrench in a greasy mitt and looks at your motor..some guy, perhaps Cheech y Chong, a.k.a., Alice Bowie! tu-tu’d, multi-kulture’d famous inventor..of the stationary choppercycle>allows one satisfied customer to identify with the Easy Rider persona-mystique and all other diversities, while never giving up the comforts of couch and living-room; and snacks! bagging it down the open highway, your oyster, baby! boppily brilliant, –legendary, in your mind and altogether too cool..thee life! eschewing establishment squares, war-pigs and all of the rest..sleeping under stars; and yet, very narrow in commercial appeal, somehow..all too narrow, in other words, pure art. Mssr. Chong comes readily to mind whenever the caustic subject of performance art is injected in any conversation about the medium..which is, of course, the message (we all knew that); not dissimilar in its potent, pressurized delivery-apparatus’s convenient capability to invade the human psyche* (like your long-awaited YARDSALE opened after weeks of trepidation, at last! and visited, immediately, by mongol hoards, —early birds on horseback flashing scimitars, as, simultaneously – sky’s the limit in a poem about yard-sale’s – witness the arrival, on wheels, of viking ships, shields adorning..crews and warlord, flourishing axes, carving their own parking out of the driveway, ass end extended to the far curb and onto the neighbors’ lawns..by the mail-box, additively) *is spoken words, which opens an expansive list of expressive opportunities to be..or not to be considered in any comprehensive analysis of media influence on the western experience; such as Son of Word-jazz‘s dear, own the VIDIOT,-prince, and favorite goldentonsiled offspring, Ken Nordine (a.k.a., Mister “I’m the voice that says POOF! there goes..perspiration!”), and his distant cousin, Night-of-storytelling-around-a-campfire,for-the-lads..sped in time, to young manhood, lit! bonding, with nurturing leaderships’ Judeo-Christian values t’sharing, in flickering lights ‘gainst the pitch-black darkness..illuminating vague shapes that became monsters, as flames, rising, go this way and that, ceremonially taking on lives of their own, ghosts! good, bad&ugly adding fuel to bonfire’s brief Jovian existence, snuffed out! by that ounce of cautionary, adult common-sense prevention..to ensure (there will be) continuity of tribal survival and the preservation of habitats, for future boys to come..and whittle. Also, the same sun rises..some generations later, on a charred remains telling of a previous evening’s magical entertainments dipping in waters of cultural mythologies’ amnesia’s; and toilet-papers! sent, with love, from home and diverted for an artistic purpose, –skits! engaging, in occultic practices..an audience spellbound, –I sing the body, geriatric, gerbilles in all walks of life..of a people congealed in its own ingrained glories, to Rome! –dancing war-whoops! backed by slender trees, swaying moonrise, sinuous, dissolving..in morning eucalyptus mists; and, day 3! trip by school-bus to..The Sound Museum!

MOTHLIGHT Stan Brakhage, 1963..pre-merry-prankster’s, –in contrast, a dusty, free-spirited document from the vault of human ingenuity and Hollywood reject’s, occupies the mind for a brief existence, mimicking its culturally appropriated subject..staring simian orbs’ mirror reflections, –our headlights, our selves! held captive to the artist’s vision, arrived at by overexposure to poetry..of Pound when a youth; and, next internalized then rendered, with the artist’s almost casual involvement, through the agency of found organic material physically stapled between strips of clear celluloid and photo-lab’d into prints, verbatim, –rather than translated, in an obvious throwback to the primordial photography studios’ oozes of yore, extracting from the tar pits, curatable lunchable artifacts left by the first generation’s photo-chemical pioneers – pre-covered wagon – selecting green, leafy matter, flora, etc., and interlacing (them) with any other convenient translucent materials, taken for their desirable gossamer qualities; plus, whatever works! pressing collages between sun and plates – like a flower, preserved flat within a book’s pages – coated with varying kustom photo-sensitive tinctures to try, aiming for best results, in the which, discovering images having a wonderfully shallow illusion of depth, —suggesting, in the mind’s eye, a kind of specious photo-graphic truth, presented, in an off-handed..oh, baroque expressionists’ manner (there’s prob’ly a standard term known to art critics)..his labours’ enduring products, –photographically captured snap’s, burn-in’s of recognizable natural objects, i.e., leaf skeletons, mixed with manufactured see-through articles – add some opaque stuff – rendered, in a latter day, pre-modern age of enlightenment..Junior X-ray lab set-up –so to speak. To sum up it’s all about leaves, –(Great! now make like a tree and leaf..ahem!) The similarity in ideas, here, with Leger’s work, is spot-lighted in the approach to unlocking the sub-conscious through the intentional abandonment of personal preferences, the scuttling of any aesthetic demands in favor of a blind, grab-bag grocery-list ob-wanna-bees..following an arbitrary canon dictating what’s next, — a technique analogous to that hailed, as the wave of the future, by enthusiastic creators of modern music (the ones you probably don’t want to hear) through uses of various deviant dictatorial pre-determining devices, –lock and load! such as dropping a string, then getting a good read on the entrails, laying there, and – by literal translation – arbitrarily pushing the creation of incidental/accidental sonic outcomes to a logical conclusion..for contemplations, –moody at best, in most cases; and an unguided tour in white/black/grey noise in all of the rest (I mean..I MEAAN! speaking for those of us sittin’ here, –sittin’ on the bench marked Group W, –for us, now and then in a blue moon it feels like a John Cage kinda day; but most others I, eh, ahem! would prefer a little Hank Williams or Schubert or Mozart, for my money; and some sherbet, too, please..Shekinah!) And, jumping the time-line ahead, musically..Its/His/ IS! (defined) history repeating itself, –again! as, with a cheery, though inexplicable docileness (without comment), man surrenders to hip-hop&rap artistries‘ politics minus the genius of THE LAST POETS –quick! hopping off! the dizzy, revolving, stunningly lush..ante-deluvian spectral progressions of traditional>jazz>swing>western swing>rock-a-billy/be-bop>country-to-psychedelic-rock’n’roll-jazz-blues’d fusions; and a legacyplethora of soul enabling performance styles, cracked by the since long-deceased drivers of a collective heartbeat, sounding from an underworld..wall of sound, the pulse! preserved in wax..like a flower pressed inside pages of a dusty volume, in time; you wouldn’t know to hear (and they wonder why civilization’s on the skids! SHEESH), time,TIME! to change all the clocks and locks, tic-toc! tic-toc! and yes, the melting clocks/clocks melting; accompanied by the strong, uncategorizable impression of getting bath water up your nose, Lefty! –low, and a little to the inside, clear it out, tomorrow, borrow..Finnegan’s,s-s-s..snake, hwen I wake,oy!ADEE DO! “STEE-EER-RIKE!!”

Ok..Irregardless of circumstances, the advent of cinematic form, one way or another, got us the Hollywood narrative..and the Hollywood community! spawned by energetic American geniuses, of that peculiar type of entrepeneurial wunderkinder..untermensch, –a race of melancholy men, as fascinated with seeing new stuff as they were with getting rich quickly by whatever means; whereas the europeans seem to have processed the arrival of the new art, its meaning and latent possibilities a bit differently..through the lens of an older, more discerning culture, clamouring, not for moolah! but refinements, yeah? (they’re europeans, you know). Ballet Mecanique points the gun of imagination at its captive audience not so crudely as does Porter’s The Great Train Robbery, in aiming its literal six-shooter directly at the camera, scattering viewers, terrified! diving..not accustomed to the perceived realism of an event caused by sequences of projected still photographs serially machine-gunning the brain*, (–as, with equal/unequal crudity, a vaguely similar thing is accomplished – I mentioned it earlier – in Stan ‘Wind-the-camera-and-throw-it-off-the-cliff,-it’s-art!’ Brakhage’s Mothlight..by forcing a series of neuro-chemical events, in the cerebrum, uncorked by the steady bombardment – at 18 fps – of found objects’ direct prints governed by no particular rules, presented, as-is? like a true poet) *–producing an objective illusion of motion wrought by a fresh technology, –hot-tarred on bare white shoulders of the new industrial goddess, –mass entertainment! which, as we know, threw everything for a loop..as in vintage praxinoscope-loop (no privacy, there! if you’re seeing it on youtube; probably even the very eccentric Reynaud, –Emile, himself and father of Disney would have been floored, momentarily, at the sight&sound of it, “KLINKETY-KLANKETY!” fully automated waking consciousness replica, larger than life animation’s, electro-mechanically projected onto a flat screen, –arc! of the welder’s rod, blazing behind celluloid, before a box of chocolates, seated, stuffed with multi-colored eyes, –mostly brown, I’m betting, “Cough! cough!” smell the smoke..movies

Movies are a time-machinE..E=2-D+3-D=.========,–?TV=MiltonBerlE=Emcee.sq‘uare)

Whosoever! the artists of Europe..painters, playwrights, circus performers, and the like, qualified immigrants, all..poets, even! – sandwich’d between two apocalyptic wars, one, only recently settled, and the other, just ahead and down the hall – seeking, ever, for a novel way to mesmerize patrons, –and seeing it! gave the new medium some fresh eyes (literally); and for the jaded art lovers, some food for thought. On this social phenomenon, one word..Freud. Freud and his couch. And Vienna, or Wien, –those europeans! they have their own word for everything, they speak and understand English perfectly, you know it! but just it’s utterly beneath their dignity’s to stoop so low and engage in it with us American’s especially the French! Selavvy!Rrose..her fingerprints are all over it, –stars in the Mechanical Ballet picture, ?I think..perhaps. It opens on a ?female? (everything we know here’s called in ?question??) seated on a swing, swinging (so far, so good), angle is appealing..calls up WOODSTOCK, free love, flower-power babes, ala Lily Langtree, –all of that (Lola Montez)..this is what cameras were invented for! ‘ow-eh-vehr, –and this is where it gets..psychological (?can you smell the cigars,taste the cocaine tainted fluids, dripping inside the nose cavities, perceive..a vague numbness? A-D DO! hear the thick, Wien-sausage dialect that goes, hand-in-hand, with the patently authentic, unchallenged interpretation of a human’s nightly sojourn..throughout a long, winter’s night, right? Well, –) The easy action with the woman on a swing is here brought to a grinding, screeching point of termination with..the CUT TO a downward angle/suspended camera view, ala Foucault’s pendulum,x2, our minds’ eyes..in a blink! now overhead gazing down on our winsome subject, whose eyes – which..are like limpid pools – return an implied parody of seduction (counter-part to Boyer’s? “Meet me in thee Cas-bah!” all of that?), the shift in perspective throwing everything double out-of-whack in contrary motions, which, though singularly satisfying in a musical setting, and etiquette of the road, do tend to be jarringly disorienting in the cinematic..environs, –CUT TO: HERE, I, on a night of a blue moon, –literally (rippling shadows bathed in computerlight’s glow); and, me, personally, noticing the appearance, on my right, of another sentient smaller being than me, seeking for companionship, –I..myself, turn the screen holding these images, to the white, mostly white and somewhat muscular, but partially flabby, with soft, rabbit-white fur..cat! at my elbow (and a dark tail) to gage his impression of the ART..both of us at the table or on the table as the case might be; and it grabs his attention, –held captive! le cat, by the black&white play of images, m&m’s, –like, campfire flickers! so,like, here, back with Boy Scouts of America there is witnessed to some degree, by an animal, le animal kitabu! the effective results on consciousness (generally) of Leger’s approach to manipulation of the plastic medium called cinema (european cinema, vs. vulgar Hollywood), for, by i t he has grabbed a cat..by its black tail! *(In all fairness, though, to ME! –mice-elf, I..I could probably engender a similar level of titillation easily! by capturing the movements of the cats and the dog in our chambers, changing stations through the course of a night, stirring from my satisfying sleep, to instead, be shooting infra-red, yo –Me! cinematographer-auteur-somnambulisto, –with the SONY camcorder, there, in everybody’s face, a southern california..Fellini! phenomenal..and probably wind up tripping over one of them, the cats, while trying to stay focused on maintaining an acceptable level of artistic quality, in process of controlling elements of what’s inside the frame..Guhh! half-awake, not noticing my own rebel feet taking me suddenly to the floor with a perfunctoryTHUD! and quite likely breaking the camera, lighting gizmo’s, etc., kit and le boodle. I would probably make art out of that, too, no doubt..If it ever happened (it’s all in the re-edit); but I digressed! alright..Who’s next?)

So! to return, the tomato on a swing is now become –Apollyon! for us at least, a taunting teasing vixenish countenance of, –cabaret singer or circus performer – whichever (poet?) – un-horsed! of the swing, as all breaks loose, –labour-forces’ marching feet..mechanized everything multiplied kaleidoscopically, eyes..teeth! inclosed in made-up lips so haltingly BLACK you can wake up from your hypnosis in a dark, impressionable pocket, prone! and smell the to-dive-for cigars’ butt’s, tossed – by the prosperously-dressed, somewhat dour gentleman, clearly up-tight..seated, carriage erect, in the chair appraising you curiously you may have noticed..through his pince-nez – cigar-butts, marking a measure of time, tossed! unceremoniously onto the unswept wood floor by the edge of a Persian rug; and then up, a little, to the leather couch, presently occupied, –he, or she (not nude!), reclining on the proprietary button-tuck (buttons of brass!) specialty item of kustom order furniture, manufactured and sold exclusively! for its intended use as a maximum efficiency psychiatric office vehicle, a dream machine, expressly designed for the comfort and convenience of a subject..or subjects!desirous to have a rendering, or, an interpretation, rather, of his or her (or their) nocturnal sub-supraconscious episodes, –or dreams..and willing to pay! stuffed with horse hair supported by good european quality coil-springs, –and a guarantee! affording her..or him..THEM! a relaxing view, tilting down from the ceiling, and angling onto a legion or two..dozens of framed certificates, smothering walls in shadow, helped by gaslight, certifying you are in the hands of a certified brain genius..about to certify YOU, –well! all of these dissolves and tricks we see in Ballet have gone on, to the pallets of visual artists everywhere down the line in the histoire du cinema, from Fritz Lang (shades of METROPOLIS) to Nicholas Roeg’s celebrated ‘everything and the kitchen-sink’ tool-box of cinematic tricks, including, for example, his double exposure moving-picture portraits of seated subjects..in this instance, hooligans, with hidden gifts..brushed over lightly, in TV-blues, revealing a certain condition of the heart..spiritual darkness lurking beneath bland smiles, and STOP! shot of the jury having facts represented, in a case of a highly-charged political nature, by a clever defense attorney, cross-dissolves with rows of patrons in a seedy movie-house, viewing a blue film, on a scene portraying a concept for justice..blinded by smut, roughly mirroring edits in ‘M’ earliest of the ‘soundies’ –(excepting THE JAZZ SINGER,#1). Again, we are shown what, in our casual waking hours we accept as all of it, in contradistinction with what is lying in wait, under cover in the spirit realm (and all of the rest). The only thing left after this is the giant squid fight..but we’ll come to that. The point, here, where we shall dwell, is What do europeans thinK? what’s their bag??, in other words, you know? They are not like us, we are not..THEM! (though obviously we can all succumb to that same horrifying and grisly end of being masticated alive..and sweating! by pods of giant atomic ant mutations out for sugar in the middle of the Nevada summer desert, –but RELAX! it’s a dry heat..so don’t freek).

Now where were we? oh! yes, here we are standing on sticky carpet before the soda head, surveying movie-palaces’ grandeur, overhead, in line at the snack-bar, –purchasing SKITTLES and JUJUBES..and pop-corn and COKE! plus a skinny juicy hot-dog on a spit, bathing under the heat-spot’s, smothered in mustard and pickle-relish on a bun..and catsup! between screenings of The Great Brain Robbery, and hit co-feature, UN CHIEN ANDALOU, –second-of-all, with a tango, So! (Wagner, notwithstanding) so, — BALLET (mechanical) among many doors opened on a room full of mirrors – by suggestion – takes us on its flickery flight of fancy?over a landscape garden of infinite possible musicalities and samples (besides what’s offered), to suture on the images, and add spice..thought processes, hovering over alternate choices, banks of audio that may be swapped-out, to blunt consciousness, and/or implode brainwaves! as synapses, sympathetic, –shudders all a-flutter, spontaneously undulate, uh —DANCE TO THE MUSIC? sensibly altering perceptions, associations by the, –inputing of the funky sensory data-?overload of any given musical substitution’s interior fine qualities (x=why) dumped unintentionally on the filmgoers’ personal movie experience, –cut&paste job, whether a film depicting a straightforward plebeian single event, as in White Christmas‘s spectacular production number, MANDY, *–suggestion: mute the choruses on the original movie soundtrack in exchange for throaty, whispered groanings of a B-3 jazzy Hammond organ under the influence of a master’s touch..bluesman, in dialogue with a cool tenor sax-player’s meaty, theological chops, –‘n’throbbing Leslie‘s, spinning ear-candy like gold! top and bottom, like, down to 12 or 08 Hz coming across from a parallel galaxy of stellar oceanic wonders..saturnine stereo out of a vacuum tube hi-fi build, purple light! –source, picked at random, drawn off the liberry onna wall, wall-paper’d with treasures..eons of collected, selected vinyl, –walla-walla! results? you’re the genius, auteur, creator or what-ever..whatever you picked, if it worked, you own it (if not, you can always excuse yourself later..”I’m so sorry I picked that! Please! excuse me!!”); *or! take the nascent, trez arthouse edit-convention of montage, as cut-together in Eisenstein’s appropriation of D.W. Griffith’s Brahminic brainchild, THE BIRTH OF A NATION..notice: in contra-distinction to the clips of mounted Klansmen, and all of the rest of it..baby-stroller bumping, slo-mo, down Odessa’s steps, INSERT..sabre slashes..look of horror, the broken glasses, horseback Kossacks, horses..restless, poised, now pawing, begin: bloody massacre on ALICE! ala Zhivago, –Guthrie In Hippieland. Running with that ball of wax you get a cuter slant on the movies than you ever imagined you would if you have tolerance at all to shift from a Hollywood conventional mental outlook/paradigm, obeying rules, take it as it comes..for no good reason and CHILL! simply by turning down the TV-sound on the usual late-night feed over-the-air, from a local licensee, of, gosh! say, a re-re-broadcast of the classic KING KONG, –and substituting the title track to ALICE’S RESTAURANT, Arlo up there doing his Rudy Vallee number..yeah! dominating and outshining the dandyish ape’s misbehavin’s, by overlaying the new hippie national anthem and original Vietnam protest, claiming – in the name of the queen, and all your queen buddies there on the couch, what’s-‘is-name – absolute personal autonomy, smack! dab in square society, GROUND ZER0, throwing off all yokes of oppression installed since ‘straights’ first took over everything (?maybe this only works if you’re having a grande pot-party soiree, plus registering everyone to vote..MCGOVERN ’72 –open house! in Frisco, –Come on?), and teaming that with the clip of Fay Wray’s assisted ascent – ostensibly against her will- up the north face of the Empire State Building – being incessantly harassed by hostile vintage military aircraft – while camped securely inside a swarthy, hairy, warm and friendly giant hand..which, by the way, is a metaphor, in the language of cinema, meaning gondola. Here, the sultry, psychologically numbing first sudden impact of Harryhausen<Melies<Reynaud, is beat, in intensity, only by..JAWS! for which we shall have to wait, patiently, nearly half of a century, to get, –“Oh! the humanity!” (Where’s my yoga-mat?)

..for all its mass-gifting of moviemaking tools to future generations of visual story-tellers, many of BALLET‘s cinematic devices are uncomplicated. It is the carefully controlled lighting and other quiet, behind-the-scenes production elements, along with Man Ray’s genius for the golden image that make the presentation of mannequin parts – choreographed – such a pleasantly enticing, and oddly sexy experience (recalling, by the bye, an experimental animation film hailing from Poland somewhere in the 60’s, entitled “Concert of M. Caballe” (can’t find, take – in lieu of – my RHINOCEROS..Please!) with similar eviscerations done on the principal, and similarly comprehending the work of Busby Berkeley at his best, –the dream, fantastique! but on a lower budget). And, among other post-hypnotic suggestions ginned up by the Ballet, is its impression, in one of the clips, of the in-motion, spinning outer carriage of a praxinoscope, — miracle contraption! for the parlour, or smoking room, to amuse..guests, in which animation-loops, either a series of photographs or drawings, on strips, are placed, then rotated, before an arrangement of mirrors at center, facing outwards, which, when gazed upon render for the viewer the original primordial experience of the first motion picture or animated image generating device, the very human thing that drives us all nuts! (persistence of vision, why we’re here). Oh! if I could go on and on..You, no doubt, by NOW appreciate that. So! and, like, don’t leave out without a mention, at least, of the clip of..the stout woman, and her burden she shoulders – captured under the camera – mid-motion, looking up, ascending, from about the middle of a flight of stairs, the unfortunate recipient of somebody else’s deja vu’s..repeatedly! ARS GRATIA ARTIS..stop me before I..EDIT again! but, here, let’s call it a day, –or render, rather

FINE

My girl..and my girl, are girls! (Girl is a word for something very,VERY sweet.)

Girl, not gurl; or gheer-rel..or gerl, or however one might imagine it to be spelled. Girl! looks weird written down, something I never considered, or given much thought to. And speaking of that, I should be more considerate to the girls, and give them a lot more thought! They are special..guirrels!

God made me a most excellent gift when He brought me the wife..my personal ‘Eve’. And He gave us a special gift when He presented us with our baby girl..Elizabeth. Before there was them, –or they, I was sad all my days. Not thinking, I ate sad food, drove sad cars down weeping freeways..to Timbuktu! wrote sad poetry, for me and you. SAD summed up my life. But now all that is past. I love my girls..my girl, and my wife; and I still want to make them a great poem..like in days of olde. It’s funny, you know, it’s a bit funny. Before I had the best girl anyone could have, –That’s you, babe! when only there were girls who would leave me in the lurch; or high up looking down, from a perch! I would write down passionate lines..lines upon lines that found their mark. Poems like arrows shot from my heart’s strings, strung low..arrows that didn’t know quite where to go. I should have written more..many more, and quick! while I could; but how was I to know? My sad days were numbered, removed from those of poets gone, below. Giant were their feelings, their emotions condensed to ink, for the quills, ink, red ink, scoring black thoughts to paper, –Childe Harold, what works he wrought! but for naught. Poems can’t save your soul, even if epic..like that, there. Satisfaction in it’s fleeting, and those who sail those oceans, wind up in Davy Jones’s poets’ locker, monkey romantics, sunk..in icy waters, –(closing thought) alas! if only I could have me a lass. But there! it’s done; and we can only hope he made it somehow, contrary to all the evidences left behind in verse, scribbles in ‘is pockets. Only your bovine poet knows for sure, him and Jesus. Make your poem out to Jesus..Dear Jesus, –He’s the only one who sees us, as we are. Truly. So seize the moment! Hearts on fire, above or below. His love can save us for sure, the only one who knows..if we knew him, or not. It’s a sad poet indeed that does not proclaim the glory of the risen Lord. To him be all praise! His majesty doth amaze. And with that understanding, a sad poet’s transformed into a something much greater..but not the doggerelist himself, but He who lives in him, making of his life a new purpose, and poet..to tell every one of the gospel. And those who can hear his words, words like water watering parched hearts; and then those hearers among them who become doers, turn from sin, and open..unto him, that,THAT! is the poetry the Lord loves. Yes indeed! Kingdom coffee-house poetry for the ages..Way, the Truth, and the LIFE!

Girls! wife’s, –hear the wonderful poem of love God have wrote for you..it starts, “In the beginning..” and ends where it begun, “She is more precious than pearls..her price is far above rubies.”

Love, the Lord (~ Proverbs 31:10)

ps: Boys! and no sooner have you had that fine, sentimental impulse to consider their delicate feelings than they force your sympathetic hand – amazing! how God works, isn’t it?

sunrise’s coming, to paint Friday’s light on a black canvas! hand, writing on the ceiling..flip-side of 3rd heaven’s floor.

It’s not like Disneyland but it’s close enough.

God’s five gallon jug of cosmic paint. It will do the job.

Picture: No brush!

On the thirteenth, or 14th day..the chem-trails (perhaps).

All night we slept..while our Creator, who endows us with certain inalienable rights (like the pursuit of happiness), keeps busy, day and night; for example, maybe..pointing out a cat who stayed out for the coyotes to snack on, –Yip! yip! har-oo! now face to face; whereas before, he saw it behind kitty eyes..as through a glass darkly. Now! some I’ve heard will argue the point: Animals don’t go to heaven, animals got no soul..anyway, it doesn’t say it anywhere in The Book! so forget about it.

Well I say this (to those, contentious among us). God, who is thee merciful God! and a loving and kind God; and who cares very much for all of His creation made the animals to be good, and for our pleasure; and it was man who got it all goofed-up! so He will certainly supply some form of resurrection, or whatever, for a kitty-cat who was unwise, perhaps, but nonetheless sweet; and met a horrible fate! or a perfect puppy-dog who got sick and died too young.

Animals don’t have souls?! Okay, what about 90% of the politicians?? Give me a break! Anyway, we don’t have to be worried about all of that, because whatever he’s got for us, there, in the hereafter, the unseen beyond the second heaven..well it’s bound to be a little more than adequate, for sure..for us, we saints, counting off ages through eternity’s unfoldment..on the hammock, no! it’s even better than that..but I’m at a loss! not even through a glass darkly am i seeing it. Well I’m just one mere mortal poet! So what do you want from me??

SHEESH!

0cean; a player piano; the fish-ees, and you. 0ur new home and no money down!

See, I never learned how to play the piano, here in the sea, so I just install a player piano-roll, pump on the pedals a little, and play rag-time..just like on my air-guitar. It’s not as convincing, though, cause you can see the keys go down when my hand isn’t even close! I guess I have to practice my ‘air-piano’ more so I can play it better..blowing bubbles. Underwater. Then maybe they’ll stop throwing vegetables at me, like sea-cucumbers; and kelp, –KELP! KELP! Them fishees are a tough room to work. A very discriminating crowd..I guess that’s cause they went to schools, rim-shot! Oh, here’s ‘Great White’. You, sir! Take my life..please! Thanks..you’ve been a great audience. So, Babe..how do you like it down here so far? The price is right..but it’s kind of clammy, isn’t it? They didn’t show me where the thermostat is that controls the central underwater heating, maybe behind this rock..I feel something there, I’ll give it a little twist OUCH! nope, that’s a Moray eel. Okay, skip the thermostat. Can you please do me a big personal favor and help me get this guy off my hand? Thanks. It’s still cold, huh? Tell you what, let’s walk up this sand hill, heats s’posed to rise, maybe it’ll be warmer up there. Yes, that is a sensible difference..does not depend how you define IS, ha-ha, Oops! Don’t wake up that whale! He might roll over on us. That would not be good. Well, how you like it here in our new digs so far? The good news is the realtor is not going to show up at our door with the marshall and lock us out; the bad news is it’s still cold. I’d make you a fire but I don’t see any dry wood..no fireplace anyway. Are you getting hungry? There’s no DEL TACO close. And the car still doesn’t start; but I think I got it diagnosed..water in the gas OWW! stepped on a sting-ray, dang! that’ll teach me. How long we been down here? Is it Valentine’s Day, yet? I love you, Baby. Give me a kiss..big, wet one, NO! too wet. Now I got water up my nose. Still cold, starting to shiver..Shiver me timbers! our free mortgage is underwater. Tell you what, maybe we’re not cut out for life in the sea, see? I’ll call AAA and get us a tow to the beach..no, that’s no good, they don’t let you ride in the cab no more cause of COVID, or WUHAN..whatever. (That’s the under-tow..from Chi-na! all the way from the China Sea.) Oh well, we can walk. The exercise’ll be good for us. You’re looking a little flabby, just kidding! No! I’m kidding..I said it for joke! Look at me..look at me. See this face? See these blubbery lips? They’re saying, “You’re the cutest mermaid I seen all day!” So! let’s hoof it back to the dryer parts and check into a room and we can order food from room-service..for FREE! The government’ll pay for it all, all we have to do is say we’re illegal aliens from the sea..and we got separated from our family’s, at the border reef. That’ll fix it. And it’ll be handled. And you won’t have to worry. Anyway, I’ve had it with the great outdoors..underwater. How ’bout you? Babe..

Your poem

So last week we took out my heart and chopped it up pretty good. That was my first four-way by-pass, it went really nice. i came out of the anesthesia just in time to fight with the night nurse. Then we kissed and made up, so to speak. She’s from New York City. We found out we had a lot of common interests, like art and fencing and church. Anyway it was a lot of pain but they gave me narcotics and that helped. So now it’s been two weeks and I’m off the pain-killers, but this morning I woke up with a sharp pain in my back before sunrise. So I got up and sat on the couch and it went away. Until noon. Then it really came back and I nearly passed out. So now we are looking at passing kidney stones. They want to have me X-rayed for that, plus a urine sample for the lab boys to analyze. In the meantime I took some olive oil and lemon juice for it and had the opportunity, looking at my e-mail’s, to get a quicker appointment for ear surgery to fix my ear when I was talking to the neighbor last year and experienced a lightning-strike and thunder-clap just a split-second apart. It was really close and it jacked my left ear. So now I gotta get that worked on. Later, maybe next year, they’re talking about pulling my eyeball so my headaches will go away. That’s all I got for now. The dog’s howling to go outside and I either have to handle that or take something for her pain! Bye.

Overpass? or bypass. Where my heart’s desire?? (AT) Hoo-ray for HOLLYWOOD!!

LA freeways, built in a day, couple of weeks, whatever, –circulatory system of the Golden West! car-puscles putsching their way hazily, na-zi-ly through sky-scraper needles..miles of corporate earthquake-proof nazi glass, captures: Sunrise! bounced to beaches’ sparkling sands and back, at ironclad cells in perpetual movement peeping through glass, rolling on fresh UNI-ROYALs’ ebony fragrance, cutting a flat concrete ribbon..generous, heaving white sidewalls (SIGH!)..whites’ privilege; flashing multiplications in rear, side-view mirrors at the speed of light! cupped in chrome..reflection: million eyeballs owned by solitary drivers..ants, driving in droves! white ants, red ants, black ants, –they drive by night, ants..mixed ants’ angels flight, on little buttery wings, seeking for wood-frame homes to eat, set up housekeeping..refracting rainbowspectrumbumperstickerants! touting whoever/ wherever/ whatever..at worker-ants tail-gating in their wake, waving antennae’s at blossomy billboards, WINSTON TASTES GOOD! FOREST LAWN’LL FIX THOSE BLUES FOR YOUS..ANTS! WITH A PLOT OF GREEN (FOR YOUR NEW ANT-HILL FOREVER HOME); in-the-dash AM radios pull strong signals, ploughing fields of blue deep overhead, fouled by jet-streams, contrails..transmitters, forcing strained advertising jingles on the collective eardrum, WHAT A HAPPY FEELING! BRIGHTEN UP YOUR DAY, ‘CAUSE IT’S SO DE-LI-CIOUS..CHEWING JUICY-FRUIT!” crunching it between your mandibles..blowing bubbles, blinker-signal wand in hand, cringing at the wheel, clutching shifters, push-button selectors and the like, –fiddling the knobs, SHOCK! HEAD-ON!! fire-trucks shooting tubes, tunnels through hills..dragging stents, lights flashing TO SEE! with each pulse of a modern city on life-support, –forty lanes north, forty lanes south x sixty east and west stacked twenty high*, urban renewal, — “Hi, friends, Ralph Williams!” and it’s no help. Everyday, early each morning..fearful blockages, blocking main rush-hour arteries (requiring emergency attention from the county highway commissioner, and his crews, cones, strewn about, –lend relief from the surging general-ly myrrh-jing twaffick..eh! dump a bunch of nitro pills out the tail-end of one of those ‘special’ government jets, trailing white smokes’ unison with gamma-ray voices on the whole mess and be done with it!), blinding solar flares glint windshield sheen’s: “WE CAN’T B’WEATHE!” “Here’s Sunset again, Sarge, turn LEFT, –There!” cruise old Hollywood’s streets, street-racing horsemen with no heads, stoplight-to-stoplight, pass storm drains, –signs! 101 signs..thatta-way! north&south, gas stations, lines around the block pumping clear, black gold in tanks,TANKS! SERVICE WITTA SMILE (You’re welcome), banks, pouring out cash in oily hands, newsstands, gnashing periodicals, monthlies, all the nudes that’s fit to print, PLAYBOY‘s,stacked, –High! this month’s, 1 buck! wink at swanky murals soliciting worship&sacrifice to La-la land’s inglorious past. Long gone! James Dean..Marilyn. What else? Nothing, move along, now, nothing more to see. Clark Gable you see..with those other two, he, –prob’ly never slept under a overpass (?maybe over some underpants); but he won’t be needing a four-way bypass, no, not here, nor now..why? He lives on a forever sidewalk, his name impress’d with brass struck on a star..heart of polished stone. Leaf! shall fall off..a tree, —Wheeze! beat the street-cleaners, working ‘gainst a breeze to the punch, managing somehow to not be intercepted in his course counting off minutes, crackling upstream, upon yon sidewalk..to ‘is end and will – gusty – blow, poetically! (naturally) over this name:

CLARK GABLE

held, enchantingly – circling curly-que – will-o’-the-wisp, “TAKE 48!” to spy..perchance&dream, o! pretty pumps, pinching the spot..Sleeping Beauty’s taps, awoke! from the casting-couch (EXIT, Stage Left, –#MET00) –perusing some plaque! pointed&pointy-toe’d&pointing at the actor’s honorarium, polka-dots&moonbeams (stifle the night) rocking back on stiletto-heels of pink&velvet-blue&caramel glass..tell a tale, Yes! do tell! “Have you seen anything of the white whale?” “Who, Shelly?? ha-ha!” “No-ya dummy! Leviathan, that other..the depths’ own harpoon-bedeck’d demon.” (So..Shelly?) ‘Leaf’ will tell his friends, –READ ALL ABOUT IT! (about the shoes), all his friends are named LEIF, a-hem! for example, Leif Eriksson, #2, who,

,OOKAY WE..GOTTA SAVE THIS POEM NOW! BEFORE WE GET BURIED IN POET’S-DOO-DOO, –DR. KILDAIRE..PAGING BEN CASEY! CAR 54 WHERE ARE YOU? END WHERE’S YOUR MASK?? THANK-YOU,MASK MAN! POEM NEEDS AN OPEN-HEART HAPPENING NOW..WOW!! OH SUHUCKS! NEVER MIND. LEIF E., AS WE’RE SAYIN’,

L’ERIKSSON himself, innis’ship, Viking one, oars a-rowing..circling The Shoes, blew in onna wind ’round the 900’s, –(900 A.D., not C.E., –as they like to say, —of late) WHITEANGLO-SAXONMICHAELAGELO,emmer-effer! protestantPUNKviking-punkWHITEprivilege’d..Bohunk-Honkie, –Sir White-boy! recently knight’d,standing tall on viking platforms, pounding the keys, –“Get back! hunky-kat!” son of Eric, —#1Eric, the red honkie (so-called, here, around and about these parts in the Winston Street neighborhood’s)..beat Columbus (an’alla’usotherkracker-eurotrash) to the continent by about half-a-mil..half a millennium, that is to say..Whitey! Now..but now we’re, where were we, now? Oh yeah, oh,OH! oh-oh say can you pee-ee..by the dawn’s early blight..somewhere, under the rainbow (The Overpass) us guys, blue angel’d vikings, left to the street, we..

OH YEAH! CUT THE TUNES!SOMEBODY, HELP!!YA GOTTTA RESCUE THIS..POEM!A RESCUE-POEM, BEFORE IT GOES TO CRULE EXPERIMENTS!CUT TO, –TA-TA!TA THE STROBE-LIGHT NIGHTS ON LA’s SUNSET STRIP, PROP-HIPPIES’N’PROP-MARIJUANA-SMOKE..VELVET FOG,FROM PROP JOINTS, –‘N’COPS IN PROP COP-CARS CHASING PROP-VERMIN’S,THROUGH PROP-RIOT’S, WAVING PROP-GUNS AT PREPPY PA’s, HERMAN..C.U.,HERMANMUNSTERINNACOPCARONNAPROP-COPCAR PROP-RADIO, HIGH-SPEED, NO! SCRATCH THAT..THIS IS HOLLYWEIRD!! (WE CAN DO THIS) MAKE IT..TWO-SHOT, –HERMAN MUNSTER A-A-AND GRANDPA MUNSTER..+LILY, &ALLTHEMUNSTER’S,SNACKING SOME MUENSTER INNA COP-HELECOPTER..HELECOPTER 54,WE’RE,YOO-HOO! SHADOWING HIGH-SPEED-CAR-CHASE-IN-PROGRESS,THROUGH STREETS OF LA,SOME DIED..PASS JOHN WAYNE INNA HOT-AIR DIRIGIBLE DRIFTING OVER OUR OLD ALMA MATER,THERE,JUST ABOVE THE COLOSSEUM, PHANTOM MEM’RIES–FIGHT, TROJANS, FIGHT, –HIKE!CUT..CAR,CUTTING CORNER,QUICK!TEENAGER-AT-THE-WHEEL,SKILL-FUL-LY CRASHES INNA,INTA SOLID BRICK WALL ON THE SOUTHSIDE OF THE GASOLINE STATION,ON OLYMPIC,AN’ THE GAS WARS, PRICES AN’ALL..EXPLODE!BIG, CONFLAGRATION!!NOW WHERE WERE WE? OH YEAH,HERE! (AND THEY – THE PURSUING PERSONS..THE PO-LEECE – DRAG THE PUNK OUT OF THE CAR – WRECK, WHEELS AND ALL – AND ALL THE COPS AND EVERYBODY TAKES TURNS POUNDING SAID PUNK IN PAVEMENT LIKE A COMMON Visigoth, TEXTBOOK POLICEWORK – WITNESSED BY THE AUTHOR – AS IT SHOULD BE PREFORMED, c. 1985, –AND THEN IN A COUPLE OF MINUTES IT’LL BE ALL OVER ALL THE TELE-VISION SETS..RIOTS ENSUE, BURN THE CITY WITH FIRE, “BURN, BABY, BURN!” etc., –and all of the rest of it, –“CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?” and so on, and so on,DEATH IN VENICE, EARLIER, a.k.a.,MUGGED AT THE BEACH, #MYWHITEPRIVILEGE..OH! MY KEYS BACK, THANKS), and so we, WE WERE, YEAH..WATT?

21st CENTURY (again), SAME POEM, SAME SIDEWALK, UM, DIFFERENT STAR: Jayne Mansfield’s. And her plaque-turned-to-granite in the prior millennium (same as with The Others)..petrified veins of the Hollywood Freeway and Felix’s Chevrolet’s, GO SEE CAL!: Bel Aire’s, ‘m!palas, and Sting-Rays’ nipples, “Hi Friends,RALPH WILLIAMS!” blocks..BLOCKS! and blocks of blockages, millions of blocks..All blocks, every block! big blocks, small blocks, long blocks/short blocks! turbo-charged, super-charged, blue-printed, nitro’d, –bored and broke? Plastic sturgeons, Brentwood doc’s..looking over Santa’nita’s Munchkin jocks’ lockerrooms’n’smelly socks, yeah! sock it to me..Care to wager Mister, Major..Bill Shoemaker? Wot? he’s a dog! Well, whatta we got? (Town.) Nah, yeah, well, can’t find a backer, it, it’s getting dusk..?say we hop on the 101?North, hit it for the valley and go look at a Drive-in movie? what’s playing?

THEM!

(Authors’ note:I don’t claim to push the poets’ envelope, any, per se..but I would cop to nudging the parameters of said envelope, just a smidgeon, now, and again, –Nay? then a wee pair of parsec’s, let’s say..Do you like poetry? tee-hee!)

The END

ps:Oh,hey! Did the a-tom-i-cal-ly mutated ants get their star on the Hollywood Boulevard? The annoying noises they make when they’re about to attack sure should’a got ’em one. Plus James Arness? pre-GUNSMOKE, he gets the girl, wearing a little, army helmet.. “CAL WORTHINGTON AND HIS DOG, SPOT! IF YOU WANNA BETTER DEAL, GO SEE CAL..” (it’s the end of another broadcasting day..)

*..motoring, improbably along, upon the uppermost antediluvian pour of ribbonish concrete, waving rhythically with the stratospheric breeze, high over the city, we see the sky is indeed the limit; in accordance with ziggurat KUSTOM..blinded by sun-rays, slashing! at views of sacrificial radiators, shredded re-caps and blown engine parts, hoods up! steaming by at ninety; while at the lowest levels of the automobile heap, there, in the bowels of the earth..dark, deep beneath! nocturnal glow of surface streets..schools, demo’s, hot-dog stands, convenience store what-not’s, –four-leaf clovers, all tied in pretty cement bows straddling the ‘Little Apple’, drivers – ant-like – in these dark times used their headlamps to see, always, on account of their subterranean’s..untermensch! blare of bleating horns sounding through molasses blackness, thick, like you can’t cut’em with a knife..what’s ‘is..old septic? sewer! Call Public Works..works for me! (..didn’t want to deprive anyone of that inspiration, so there ’tis; in the appendix. Thanx)

Isn’t it kind of interesting, –?

Of all the thousands of views my eyes have seen..of hands, cradling a cup of coffee in my lap; on any morning, before sunrise with a fire going in the fireplace, or a wood-stove..whatever, –maybe there’s snow! dozens of cats, and dogs I’ve cuddled..who come out to warm themselves by the product of my labours, bathing in an orangish light, unique, each in their way. The last dog we had, “Bagel” Elizabeth’s first puppy, kept herself clinging tenderly to life, all through the night, that night..just so she could say “Goodbye” to us when the sun come up next morning; and it did. And we got out of bed to see if our dear doggy was still with us; and she was..though just barely. And the last thing she did; and she had not the strength to raise her head, but she lifted her tail and pooped out a little turd, a parting gift! her last..and went to heaven. Our lives can be measured one way by the animals we have loved and cared for, –kitties, with their furry paint-jobs, never any two the same. God is the artist, he made..”Whitey!” Steve’s cat (we inherited)..solid white ‘kracker-kat’ with a silver-and-black tiger-stripe tail; and “Tess” the calico food monster: MEOW! They stay warm in winter sleeping through the nights on the bed, sharing our body heat; and then, finally, at once (one day), bodies become still, and wax cold, cold as snows of winter.

And God said, “Let there be light.” And so it was. And..

of all the millions of stars out there, outside blinds covering the window, here, –out of all of them, infinitesimal..to my eye! blinking points of light, hung in the unfathomable universe, whether waves, or big bangs..whatever can be believed (vs. what is true); and out of how many more? and still, God is interested in me, more than all this stuff! and likewise, you. We are precious to Him, more precious than anything that can be named; including kitty-cats, and puppy-dogs; or even a star named after a dog. Pluto. Oh! that’s a planet, never mind. Have we ever even seen that one? or did somebody just propose that it’s there? because of science, XxY=Z“, there! it’s a equation (maybe I’m thinking of Neptune). Anyway,

cats, dogs..and gophers, digging out of a fresh snow notwithstanding; what kind of coffee-machine does God have to supply all the saints who’ve left this earth and arrived there! for their eternal reward? (I propose.) Well, we’ll all be surprised in any case, I suppose..perhaps it’ll be like this:

“Relax, pilgrim, stimulants are not needed here, –hear? Well done..(now) enter.”

MEOW!

Okay. I’m done. I’ll feed ya now!

“MEOW! MEOW-MEOW-MEOW..”

SpringBreak2020=PEARLHARBOR III

Now it’s 9/11/2021 and we have swapped our beloved house-cats for inhouse jihadi’s I presume..really not that much of a change when you think about it. Cats are fussy eaters, so are our new neighbors, as it turns out. One of our newest guests rescued from the obscurity and uncertainty of his resurgent, re-installed former government and its venerable infra-structural religious imperatives..post-President Trump! courtesy of the illustrious leadership wasted no time in complaining about the food he was getting from his new hosts (Uncle Sam). To provide for this unforeseen humanitarian situation, the present regime is preparing a new financial package to see to their care and feeding, that will eclipse L. Baines Johnson’s Great Society budget in a heartbeat (speaking of which, I have to go and take my nitro-glycerin pills, now, I’m having a bit of an episode at the moment, all because of the exertion caused by raising The Flag on this auspicious day, to honor the dead, please excuse me..okay, I’m better). So then, like our furry house companions – orange tabby named Mr. President, for example, recently relieved of his job as head of Home Defense, being ‘Kommandant’ in charge of the border with the mouses, a no man’s land – the asylum seekers, or, “These asylees..” (~oac) can now lounge around America all day, reading their religious directives, and destroying the furnishings at their leisure, –MEOW!

USS OMMANEY BAY JANUARY 4, 1945..Some people did soemthing (to my dad’s boat!)

EVERY-BOD-EE! EVERY-BOD-EE, EV’RY-BODY WANTS TO BE A CAT, “MEOW-MEOW”

MARXISTS, MARXISTS EVERYWHERE..We’re being divided!

I REMEMBER,I remember exactly where I was on 9/11 when all that peaceful religious sh** hit the fan..as usual, I was watching c-spam, and the Washington Journal had just segued – from the normal crack-o’dawn ‘coffee klatch’ interviews, and viewer feedback chit-chat, engaging with the local talking-heads from around the D.C. belt-way – to a LIVE! on-the-fly report about some kind of accidental stuff that happened involving an airplane with one of the Twin Towers, –also called TWC (sort of like the O.J. car-chase event/deal with all the schlock-house news-channels quickly glomming onto LIVE action coverage in real time, until it’s a hundred channels all at once, jabbering, pleading – as if he could hear – locked onto same eye-in-the-sky view of the white Bronco, lumbering down L.A.s freeways, L.A.P.D. in tepid pursuit, –“If they don’t fit you mus’ acquit”, Hello!) “..when what to our wondering eyes should appear, –?” no. It wasn’t Santa Claus driving his eight tiny reindeer, in harness, across the heavens, for all the little kids it was strike Nr. 2 by another malappropriated commercial jet-airliner, one of a hat-full of steals from a stable of pre-planned thefts at airports, here an there, for the purpose of mounting a cunning surprise attack at dawn..for Allah, Yay! ?I guess that would-habib some people doing something..right, Abdul? while ‘W’ reads from the storybook to the school children in their teacher’s stead at a public school in his brother’s personal state of Florida, for an alibi? -Ali Baba (Bush privilege you know, like ol’ King Joe). And! and then, little by little, as morning wore thin – thin to thinnest – some more people did some thing, some things..f.b.i. said it couldn’t be helped, amazing how that works (why do we pay them). Finally with all airports on lock-down to every American, the Saudi royal family skips back to, –Boom! shaka-laka-land (and we, the Americans, ate that); and a thousand and one Arabian dinner parties, like..2001: Spaced-out..pre-evolved humans, dancing in moon’s icy, nocturnal radiance around the tall skinny black thing, –it’s teaching, now you’re learning..so says Zarathustra!

CUE: THEME MUSIC, ROLL FILM! TRUST THE SCIENCE..

Jimbo!! I’ll alway love ya!” ~Scruffy da poet

“There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; there, with fantastic garlands did she come..of crow flowers, daisies, and nettles and long purples that liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead fingers call them:” (poem, excerpt from Hamlet, –Queen Gertrude’s speech on the occasion of Ophelia’s muddy death..Shakespeare’s inside joke to all the town drunks).

NOW!now, I don’t want to wind up in that insipid category – within sub-categories of uber-categories of social orders – alongside of some people who like, like to do some things, –like, blow stuff up! HOWEVER..I also don’t want to get named as a top nominee to get picked up off an open casting-call by some anonymous sub-contractor, to get the honor – for pay! – of a good, old-fashioned Youngstown ‘tune-up’, which seems to be the case wherever there is politics, whetter yous bees in a t’urt-world sh**-hole, or in Los Angeles, California (but I repeat myself), home town, by the way, to usc, my own alma mater..or one ovum, at least..about a dozen, actually, all told (btw, USC School of Cinema recently cut John Wayne from their list of esteemed Alumni’s – blotting out his former existence, and memory, like Yul Brynner’s dad did to his brother Heston back there in Hollywood around 1962 is my guess, and Anne Baxter pissing her pants over the banishment..sent him in the wilderness, her beau, with a stick because of some thing they dug up on him, some quote he gave to a PLAYBOY interview that was so anti-the-cancel-kulture axe..that he hadda be canceled, c’est la vie! da Duke).

Bye! see-ya!

But I digressed.

So what happened? Spring Break! that’s what happened, and the Third Pearl dropped..silently. I don’t have to spell it out what was the second surprise attack as I am confident, dear reader, you will infer as much..as I have plainly implied that, our work there is finished, Tonto. PEARL I and II were as shocking to our delicate American sensibilities as PEARL III was bland and bourgeoise by the comparison in the impressions it creates, lasting! though intangible, lackluster, there being no razzle-dazzle of ships being blown out of the tranquil fair-weather swells of inlet’d glassy blue ocean anchorages, that placid December 7 Sunday morning, Day of Infamy! nor could PEARL III proffer the salacious appeal of LIVE tele-vision coverage, broadcasting and re-broadcasting the chain of explosions on 9/11! carried on a thousand-and-one Arabian Tee-Vee networks, the,THE! shot heard ’round the world! and all of the rest of it. (I think I actually got sidetracked, there..but anyhow, as long as we’re having this interlude, here’s some advice: When you’re in jail and it’s your turn to have the remote..if it falls off your bunk onto the floor, don’t go down there and try to pick it up, –you’ll thank me later).

“Ahoy, Matey! and now I’m going’ to take you around behind the barn! woodshed..whatever.” ~’Poseidon Joe’ Joe Biden

So why Spring Break? you may well ask yourself, and everyone! if you’re dull of demeanor, that is; or maybe it’s simply you haven’t been back to school for awhile, –you intellectually deprivated waif, you! and totally missed out on the fundamental transformation’s that’s happened to all the campuses, and what passes lately for a campus life (since the complete take-over’s of the educational industry). And I get that! and their a real doozy! but let me tell ya..I hadn’t been back to college for awhile; so! in the presence of my father, I made my dying mother a death-bed promise to go back and finish my degree in FINE ART/USC, –after all their piles of cash that went for my tuition, and room&bored had failed to materialize me my diploma (I tend to lose interest in projects very quickly, I move on,ON! on the road; on account of restlessness..when you’ve in essence completed everything that’s basically been asked, finishing’s redundant..how it seems to me). Now let’s be clear! 9/11 didn’t kill Mom (she seldom left southern California so how could it have?); but all my hi-jinx in colleges over a span of thirty years, more or less, may have been a contributing factor..brawls with roommates, letters to the f.b.i., so on, and so on..Naked lunch (after the fact). So here I was, helping my widower father WWII navy hero with logistics, and whatever the good son does under such circumstances of maternal loss; and in this instance, landing back on campus at a relatively ripe old age my own darn self..and lo! and behold! I am finding my sovereign person getting a dose of the kutural shock-treatment’s, getting juiced! totally beyond necessity, you know, you know back to PEARL I: Is this trip really necessary?

THERE!

Gas rationing, I am of course referring to, which is a little sexy and romantic compared side by side with the socially transformative framework of PEARL III, under which, we must carefully – without the agency of any explicit public service announcements helping us to prioritize things – and thoughtfully take personal responsibility to ration brain-cells..our own! no booklets and coupons to clue us in we’re in a short supply..about to run out: Is this trip really necessary you know..so hold that thought! And every exposure to Geraldo’s input’s over the course of days, stretched to years stealing more (of our ability to think, to reason..whatever that was.) So here I am, new boy on campus, with my special circumstances under my arm, medically speaking, and elderly-challenged; and all the orientation brochures and pamphlets, and – before enrolling – being called on to take what amounts to a loyalty oath to the pre-WOKE generation credo of eggheads..about to arrive on the scene, –coming up on SPRING 2020 and Trump is still our president; and btw, I’m sending him hundreds of dollars off my free back-to-school Master credit card, drawing on the free grant monies to make my political contributions for the cause, ironic, huh? right?? So one of these pre-requisites for enrolling was watch teaching videos – on-line, of course – telling us how we are expected to behave in a bravely new trans-gender, trans-native, trans-Brainiac world, one in which the bathrooms, per se, aren’t bathrooms, but boys, in some cases, are girls..and vice-versa! no, it’s not traditional, no, not anymore, no, everything is special. EVERY THING! But, you know, the show goes on, so one needs must wade through all this complicated sexual-political rigmarole, and answer some questions like they want us to, while remaining intellectually honest, all the while, No! I never sold out The FAITH. And, spectacularly, the submitted responses I gave, as idiosyncratic as they must have seemed, to whoever/whatever (AI?), there, grading them, uh, –excuse me while I ingest another nitro pill, as I find it necessary, occasionally, with more and more frequency, as time goes by, to, to take my medicine..presently waiting to be scheduled for a little, ahem! procedure. Shortly. Oh! And I passed that test. A-a-nd..I digressed.

“Of all the gin-joints in all the towns in all the world..and she (pronoun?) walks into mine..”

But so what happened, okay it’s this! what happened is one week before SPRING BREAK 2020, we’re getting told of a something that’s a little irregular, –but not to be concerned! some thing..”There’s a thing out there, Bones..” thing about we’re being released from our daily on-campus regimen to Spring Break a week early; in a break from tradition going back, back,WAYBACK! to a day when the proto-humans are discovering fire, electing leaders, and improvising the manufacture of special tools, weapons and using them for making art, quick meals..and WAR! and after that week+the traditional week off, –for partying at Daytona Beach, or wherever, whatever floats your goat, they’ll let us know when we get to come back, back to school..on account of this virus thing, it’s all over FOX; and of course, cnn! so we can all BE SAFE or whatever. So we can breathe! Okay, was I clear on that? Good! a nice, short paragraph.


“BE SAFE”

Oh! so what happen, we never went back, the END..and all of the rest of it, separation anxieties from the schooling, societal alienations, postpartum depressions from no lectures in the actual halls, but on to ZOOM! etc..I think I might have even experienced some pre-menstrual cramping, but I’ve no medical documentation to make that case! so I’ll leave it out. I mean, how can I have that, anyway, when I can’t get a walk-in appointment to see the college nurse cause they won’t even let us walk onto the property anymore? because..COVID!!!!!! oh well. But what I’m saying is, and this is my big theory, the REAL BIG! my theory that the bogus virus bugaboo was the ultimate doomsday weapon..for a skimpy budget, in terms of actual resources invested. All they had to do is say There’s a thing and kill off a bunch of older people, which are expected to die off at some point in the relatively near future anyway; so at least they go out serving a sensible purpose, dying in harness, as it were..as fodder, floating the idea of overspreading germs everywhere! and no escape..to the end of sowing fear over the entire unchecked civilian populations reproducing at an alarming rate! plugging up all the plumbing in our greatly at-risk planet, but! though there’s a stench, these are organic contributions in the main. The earth..Earth day one, it’s all over. Seems a bit hysterical, and silly..but worked wonderfully, in terms of advancing plans according to the NWO protocols, –didn’t they? radical depopulation to save some, –maybe? Hm..

Outta here..bye, SPECTRE”

Now the interpretation! why this is PEARL III: We knew from Day 1 we were in an undeclared war with some..secretly, even; and engaged in open warfare with some others, some people who were doing some things (The Great War – TGW – so! the real war gradually dawning on us since the sell-out terms concluding WWII is with the government, “Beware the military-industrial complex..” (~D.D.E.) an undeclared war to be sure, but a war nonetheless; against an existential threat to preserve our very lives…LIVE FREE OR DIE! This is a war for the soul of The Republic..One nation under God. Rather than literal shots being fired, by the liberal’s, though, as was done by the British on her presumed subjects at Concord, –Our heroes! anyone pick up a history book, lately? hang onto that like grim death, if you did, as the bonfires of inclusiveness – inclusion, social justice, occlusion, equality, diversity’s, renewability, sustainability’s, ecumenicisms, etc., etc, –this like Hitler’s speech to the Reichstag, belittling, reciting, quoting..like a litany, the list of countries Prime Minister Chamberlain has asked for the dictator’s solemn promise to not attack – are being kindled for the degenerate literature to be retired..retired, once and for all, sucked up in the flames of tolerance, as history, again, repeats itself. But not like we’ve had it, as before..this time it’s the un-alarming phenomenon of frogs, frogs in a sauce-pan, filled to the brim with pure spring water, gradually raising the temperature, there, until boiling..invisible hand on the knob. Say HI! to your neighbor froggy’s. The so-called covid-19, as we are taught to say it, –the Chem-lab SEE&SAY! is this water we have been immersed in..is not dependent how you define IS. This is the WAR AND PEACE of short stories, Yes?

KLINGSTON TASTES GOOD LIKE A CIGAR-ETTE SHOULD, –LIGHT ME! IT MUST BE TONITE, JOSEPHINE, –WAR FOR A PIECE? NAPOLEONIC CODE..BYE-BYE, YUGOSLAVIA, GOTTA GO AND ATONE FOR MONICA, NOW, HERE COMES THE BOMBS, –SORRY! AL&HILL MADE ME DO IT,PEACE

UC BERKELEY..BACK IN THE DAY

EPILOGUE: So! Georgie-Porgie, pal o’mine! closes the book, leaving the kids and exiting, accompanied by his personal guard, –“..and to all a good night, HO-HO!” making for a bomb-shelter, where all good little presidents go under these circumstances; and all of the rest of it. And exactly 20 years later to the day the whole planet’s waving the white flag..for the love of Wuhan. Happy 9/11..guess, it was for naught? The Wuhan virus..soft-sell equivalent of nazi bombs with delayed fuses, dropped on and around London; except the only thing that blows up in our faces with it, here, in these cases, is our noteworthy lack of initiative and good old American How-to! to tackle the new slavery’s, being foisted on us, slavery, slavery from Manchuria, enjoy! PEARL’S I and II..December 7, 1941&9/11/2001, to PEARL III, Spring of 2020, Totalitarianism in slow motion, –FREEDOM IS SLAVERY!

“..and to all, a good night!” ~W.

(hi, Froggy, wut u think? did some people do something? is it warm in here to you or is it just me? “Don’t trust whitey!”)

~chris robertson, America’s poet (VOTED #1 Poet)

I’m being charged for –! SYSTEMIC poetry? what with?? No I plead not guilty! My defense..PARDON my indulgence (a review*),

my defense,MY DEFENSE is self-evident, there’s NO system (fact-checked by Hegelian’s), NO SYSTEM! People who write proper books and expose stuff and make the NYT best-seller list – pardon my theoretically systemic ignorance – their’s a system, mine is not (1) Does not depend how you define IS. They start, there’s a hook, and build-up to..the premise, –so far so good

“Get off my premises!” ~Clint

Dad’s flag. Man walked on the moon..right??

then, they fill in all the fine details,–system-at-i-cal-ly! which, at best, mirror my own direct and disgusting duplicate experiences in all the particular’s with/or at the hands of, The Government..TEN-4! (2) predictable (YAWN) That’s why POETRY! oh give me a pome where the buffaloes’ rome..Me, (3) me, mice elf, end eye,EYE/wee, Oui-oui! (my pronouns) just wanted to scrape bottom of the pot to get the bare, charred re-reheated left-over’s, the content! shall we say, onto the page, —0-0! so we won’t bore you with details 0NLY the viscera of Batman like episodes..the dailies, ZOWIE! reflecting kulture-wars in the headlines, dog-food factory’s, Hoo-hah! and none of the dragged-out hurt feelings, agonize screams about social injustice! by the socially unjustified (wieners, all..and), >”Oh! the humanity..” and all of the rest. In udder wirds, who don’t love a good, juicy, thick! soul-stirring sortie in the enchanting liquid realm of a true poem fancier’s typewriter ejaculations,

“Tick-tack, tack..Tack! Tack! Tack!”

wadded sheets on the floor, byproducts of the alpha-dog, me..BET! me dusty old ribbon wielded at, The Machine, ha-ha! all night. I rest my (premature) case there. On the page (pardon my systemic French..grammar! grammar, grammar, oh! dear grammar, –she knows not what she doo’s, –doo-doo’s, “C’est la vie!” And mind, you’ll avoid the salacious unpleasantness stepping on a sleeping sting-ray, possibly catching it in the calf, MOO! by shuffling your flippers over the wet sand, “Get off my sand.” keeping a leather eye out for your comeuppance, coming up quick! blowing bubbles hard as you can, matey..oy).

Now! the government. The government, the government,THE GOVERNMENT! try and rhyme that, you scurrilous person, or persons unknown and out to get me,(shmo)lest we forget! (how to rhyme..rhyme – rhymes with mime – and all their ilk..ilk, ilk; ilk and silk, drink your milk, eck cetera) Okay! so you-all lacking nothing by way of systemic relief in the matter, and instruction’s, thereto, –‘One-step’ Beyonce! here’s how the sci-en-tif-ic way; or The DAILY ENEMA method, government rhymes with: Wonderment..spectacle! of blunders, sent (,man) Man! man, the Constituent man,Man the water-tight doors! man..See? Not systemic! I’m wromg?? prove me there’s a system, there, –No system, just diversity, diversity! and moore diversities..get it, Michael? but! can they be sustained? (the diversenesses) for our sustenances, –R subterranean survival as a species (rhyme that); or, put another way, R. U. S., “–r u sustainable?” no, you ee-dee-ot!! Randolf (thee) ‘Underdog’ Scotty! beammeupyoustupidcowboyirish.ha-ha! (Mr.Scott:Now them’s fightin’ words, Cap’n!! light-swords or phaser’s?! in the lunar dawn) Now I, –oh! I put the paper-bag over the dog’s head, see? she fished it out of the closet just then ‘n’ brought it in ta me ‘n’ now she’s disoriented, can’t see nothin’ but brown paper from the inside lookin’ out ‘n’ now I save her by pulling it off again, “Good dog!” nice trick, by the way..good game; and a useful model for government’s/patience of Jobs’, dogs..dogs ‘n’ jobs! Job’s, Job’s, and moore Job’s, Thank you, Mr. pResident (jobs daughters)

“Now it’s the same, old song! but with a different meaning since you’ve been gone, oh!..”

San berdoo-oo-oo, Ho! yeah..I built that, 0’Bamma!

next! cut to the kodiak, the, uhmm, the koda, Russian yak-yak!Russia, Russia,RUSSIA! done deal..or poem, rather (I can bearly bear it) Hint: It first all always hits in sanbernardino!sanbernardinocounty, that is. San-berdoo! san-berdoo! san-berdoo! san-berdoo, yeah..San Bernardino Strait! (October, 24, 1944),starighht to san berdoo!! and Tyler too, –tipsy canoe..&poems, too!

“Poetry?”

“No, sharks.”

“Well, I’m off to sink me some Jap ships, now, take care..”

“Thanks, Halsey!”

Meet me at IDORA PARK, yeah, Isley’s! we’ll do ice-cream..on me.

The end!give-me-dot-gov (, –dotliberty,or?) a poem, give a dog a bone; now your all aloen,

“..so! Lassie..won’t you please come home, now, yeah! Lassie come home! Lassie come home. Dad&Mom! Dad and Mom went to town-n-n-n..to buy Da-a-ad a shovel-l-l-l! and some bad men are outside, girl-l-l-l, yeah! they don’t know I’m here, they might hear me..they might have a gun! yeah, this ain’t no fun! –Yeah! so, Lassie-e-e..won’t you please come home now, yeah! Lassie come home..Lassie come home!”

~chrisinbigbear(california”..off my lawn!”)

Dad’s ship USS OMMANEY BAY CVE-79 sunk by kamikaze, January 4, 1945, rests at the bottom of the Sulu Sea..Like father, like son.

ps: Oh ahh, uh-oh! Here come the judge, her come the judge, here come thee judge! Here come deh, –Marse Tom..Marse Tom-tom! (=da-dot-Guh-vuh-mint) “Your Honor, I..” Mr.Government, is y’all heah fo’ to steal my poem? Yessuh?? No, please! it’s all I gots to feed my fambly on. For real’s, Ma-an! don’t eviscerate us..I nussed you fust! ‘member? Yeh! eye’s a chess-feeder f’om way back, en..en I don’t appreciate your offensive language by the way “–Call Perry Mason!” Thanks, you benna great audience! see, see you back at the place Aleksandr.

A nice, relaxing smoke! pacifically down, in the deep, blue Pacific Ocean..uno de el siete mares.

* Dedicated to my Dad,MYPILLOW&D’Sousa, no! not Bertram, dummy..Dinesh! and remember:

ps:En la tierra de ciegos, el tuerto es rey! si! Simon!! Calcuttaboys contra los Indi0s-13 y todos!! cutthroat cuttlefishes wit’ arrows, bows’n’Tommy-guns?? farting in synch down by da sbcounty seat, >supervisors’, –them an’ there ‘soft’ totalitarianism‘s:dem persuadest me..almost (BELCH!) Parlez vous francais? Now you’re multi-lingualling. Bye, Petersburg..and goodnight L.A.

Sweet Jesus!

mydotgov@jourmama.entschuldigensiebitte/porfavor+lbtgifb&doj.dmv.dot-dash,-oy!

WWII COFFEE ON A U.S. WARSHIP WAS

probably not that great of a cup (I am guessing)..you could, I am so sure, see the bottom of the cup after filling it. No doubt that was some nasty stuff (worse than Denny’s, probably); but sailors drank it! by the hundreds and thousands of gallons, over seven seas, in a snip of time..talk about bravery under pressure. I could no sooner drink sh***y coffee than a giraffe can change his spots to tiger stripes; on an aircraft carrier..like the ark; with blacksmiths, airplane mechanics, line welders, bomb loaders and cooks..them who made the junk sold as coffee, YUCK! and all of the rest. Dad drank it. As a matter of fact, he gulped his last gulp, down in the mess, when he heard a something; and felt a slight rub from the kamikaze twin-engine’d airplane, a so-called ‘Betty’ that had just struck the main deck, piercing through and spilling bombs below, on fuel and munitions stores where they readied the Hellcats, and torpedo planes, –hung the torpedos with care, for dealing with boats, identified as suitable targets by the distinct outline of their pagoda masts..by the elevator, for the short rush up, and then launch. Spaghetti&meatballs was on Dad’s tray when he left that, set it on the table swallowing coffee, and making his way topside where the order was quickly given to

ABANDON SHIP!

Not that great of an afternoon, all in all; and bad coffee to boot. This generation doesn’t have what it takes, for the most part, that is clear as a mountain stream swimming with trouts..to do what these men did. And it’s immaterial, anyway, since wars aren’t fought anymore like that..with the human touch. An eye in space assesses a target, locks onto a thousand mile quadrant..some one sees a red light, pushes a button, –and that battle’s over, buddy. Hope they got their hundred-gallons-a-batch coffee’s ahead of the microwaves infilling their area..all that’s left after it, bunch of mugs sitting there, steaming hot, for a head count.

“Sayonara, sucker!”

In the middle of all of that (the foregoing), Dad got called to the bridge one day to see the captain..Captain Young. All kinds of thoughts ran through his head, concerning, did they find out he lied about his age to join? Would they throw him in the brig till they could discipline him severely, and send him back to his dad, who had not given his parental permission to join the service?? Was everybody getting in trouble??????? With these thoughts batting around in his brain, he reported as ordered:

“You wanted to see me, Sir?”

“At ease..”

(Dad had been decorated, unofficially, with a specially fabricated tin star on a ribbon, for his coffee-making prowess, much appreciated by those in his section aboard the USS Ommaney Bay; that coffee, kustom brewed by Dad, was apparently superior in every way to the standard faire served to fellow sailors throughout the navy, in days of yore. But this was not about that..this was to be some kind of special interview, on the captains time, and the taxpayers’ dime. What could it be?)

A silver star for excellence..in coffee!

“Aviation Ordinance Man Robertson (First-class)..the Commander-in-Chief wants to know if you would like to exercise your franchise..” (said the captain)

“I’m sorry?”

“President Roosevelt, your Commander-in-Chief, wants to know if you would like to exercise your franchise.”

“My WHAT??”

“Do you want to vote?”

This was 1944, in an election year, and democrat organizers weren’t taking any chances on losing a vote (as usual) through under-attentiveness to the potential pool, at large. Relieved of his worst fear, and not wanting to remain under scrutiny any longer than was deemed absolutely necessary, thereby increasing chances of having his criminal secret brought to light, Dad answered the captain forthrightly in due season..and unflinchingly:

“No Sir, I don’t believe so, Sir! is that all, Sir?” and with a stiff salute, hastily beat it back to his station, filled with a warm and abiding sense of gratitude for a miracle from his Maker..to not have to leave his seagoing comrades-in-arms, and ship home to Mother. “Thank you, Jesus!” Within a span of mere months, he would experience the miracle that brought him back firmly, and once and for all, in a life of service to the Lord. No more wavering. Also, in the bargain, he got me for a son..Imagine that!

I started drinking coffee early. There I am on the right, caffeined up.

~c.r.

Riverside’s Reichstag Cancels Conservative Event, Cites Public Safety Concerns

The anti-fa/fascist-as running the town of Riverside have identified and targeted two congressional representatives, lone individuals Matt Gaetz&Marjorie Taylor Greene – who earlier, had announced an appearance to bring a message of hope for The Republic to that sleepy inland community – and labeled them as being not representative of the city’s collective values, –speaking on behalf of all Riversidians (one would infer). So what are these? Evidently, they value highly their prerogative to run end-runs around the First Amendment, thereby preempting all speech that breaks ranks with their hegemonic wisdom’s, citing public safety concerns as their top raison d’etre..to disallow free speech in the California Republic (which is a whole other technical legal angle, in terms of terms, angling towards personal freedom; but never mind about that..we are not there yet). Hence, we hark back to the days of rage, commencing a few years back, across college campuses and their secret tertium quid splinter societies, with big, important ideas for all us plebeians, willing or not..

We were there, living in Riverside, when we first got the car.

Greene&Gaetz have been getting SOCAL’s systemic and highly hospitable bounce! all the way along since they got here, to the golden state, starting from Orange County, famous for a particularly well known citrus fruit tree that once dominated the landscape, there, and made very popular back in the sixties by a singing ad campaign featuring the lovely, and outspoken Anita Bryant “Come to the Flor-i-da sunshine tree..”; then to the County of Riverside, where yet another contract for a venue was again broken; and when last heard from, the dauntless duo commented that they fully intended to crash the gates at Riverside City Hall and speak their peace, there (over the situation, on the given day..today; maybe they might next check out the hospitality of San Bernardino County, for the free speech, ha-ha..or whatever).

So! Riverside is a massive college town, home to both Riverside Community College (RCC), and Cal State University, Riverside (CSUR), nee Riverside State..prior to receiving that stimulating status kick, up! with the covid’d title, UNIVERSITY conferred on them (I went to many of California’s institutions of higher learning, while they still had the cheesy nomenclature’s of ‘STATE COLLEGE’ hung on them, and personally, I prefer the lowbrow title better..speaking for my own darn self!) Well! as you might suppose, a college campus is only sleepy until they are woke! as they say these days. And, as being liberal has become something of a national pass-time for many so-called Americans, the business of intimidating everyone else who seem to maybe not share that polarizing view to the left, has created a glut of jobs designed for meeting the need to micromanage the dangers posed by thinkers of dangerous thoughts. Swampish college campuses, statewide, for the most part, make handy recruiting stations for the signing, and out-sourcing of kapos around all our towns and cities, to appear, ready, when action is needful; and then, when that happens, colleges erupt, operatives activate..terpsichorean virgins, and their consorts, interpretively sacrificing to the gods of fire, watchers, seeing flickers from lit buildings reflected in thick-lenses, of their eye-glasses..Nubian blimps, with a minor in WOMENS STUDIES, dancing, on-campus, Ohhhhh! the humanity.

In our neck of the red-woods, it’s Pay-to-play, and you can be certain o’ that!

,Now Riverside is not Berkeley; or at least, so I thought! (and indeed, Berkeley didn’t used to be Berkeley). But like all places, here, there, and everywhere, where necessity becomes a sort of mother of us, –when that happens, keyboardists spring to the fore, to work! disseminating all their helpful information’s, wherever they get them, about threats to our communities..from dangerous ideas, coming in, from the outside. Chiming in on every fb post, or any other, of a myriad of minor social platforms, where there’s friction, they send a sharp message to these representatives of ideas of questionable value that they are not welcome here. Not needed! And in response to these mature persons, taught what to think by college instructors, or whomever; and egged on by them, the unified message of tolerance – tolerance with verification – and what-to-do! is quickly snatched from the clattering tele-type machines, klak-klak-klak’n away – Klikety-klak! klikety-klak! – by the village leaders, better thinkers than us, who, with astute capabilities of literary comprehension, furrow their brows at terse notes coming down the chain-of-command, delineating hints of a portent, a..ominous, slippery menacing something, about to unfold (and “..eerily reminderous” of whatever) against our way of life; i.e., the un-throttled conveyance of informed, documented accounts about local, national, and global policy decisions that greatly affect our lives, and more so, quickly, ahead down the unlit road, and, like, “..did you hear about that??” “No! when did they say it??” and so on and so on, et cetera, etc. Well! many of us provincial’s out here are a little busy to keep up with all of it; producing our widgets, even in the face of officialdom’s officious and somewhat official commands to be..the contrary, –to hole up in our homes, as it were, and render no assistance..to anyone, or any thing! But still..if something important’s going on, we like to know! ya know? We might even get triggered, something like that.

Anyway, so I tried to reserve me my two reservations to hear Greene&Gaetz..on my phone..the little ball&chain thing we are so blessed to be able to purchase from foreign suppliers for about half a grand that lets you do things like reserve tickets, they do everything, in fact..you can even use them for a flash-light and a timer! and be comfortably enslaved to them (they listen to our every word, you know; and perhaps, are looking at all the odd little things we do in the course of a day ). In any case, I never heard back about my request…for the (2) reservations. For me and my wife (she’s a woman by the way, and doesn’t lift weights..except my dead weight). And now I read what I’m reading, and so I’m going, “So, so what..I didn’t want to go, anyways, too long of a drive..tired.” But! nor, did I want to go here, where we’re at, now..with no US Constitution, to depend on no more.”)

~c.r.

Did anyone get triggered, yet? About what?? And I didn’t even drop the name..of Trump! President Trump, the good American, the one who didn’t lose the election, last fall, Okay see-ya, Bye!

Create your website with WordPress.com
Get started