Scruffy’s..Blurgh!

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..”

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!

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

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..

“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).

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).

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?

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.

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.

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..

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

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!

(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)

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

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!..”

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!”

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!”)

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.

* 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!

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?)

“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!

~c.

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..

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.

,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!

Women are artists..like Michaelangelo.

Michaelangelo painted ceilings. Women paint their nails.

Masterpieces! sun in her hair..

~c.

Lately, I’m in this stage..I see the stage, it’s empty, and dark..tonight we’ll go on. Stage..Everything looks the same, to me, pretty much..it’s a space I’m quite familiar with. And tonight we’ll go on, do a few songs, like any night..I’ll look out in the lights, say some words and sing a few more, I’ll gesture around the stage, say some names..my friends, here. Yeah, it’ll all look spontaneous, hopefully..people are out there somewhere, sitting at tables, drinking their drinks..and we’ll be up there, on the stage, makin’ the music, makes everyone feel, like great! stage, robbery. Great. Yeah and

we just pulled in, I’m looking the place over, and there’s the stage..where it’ll all be happening tonight. I used to like the songs, when I’d write them, then, it was..kinda cool, they would make me smile, look at what I wrote! Scratch out a melody, strum it on the guitar, smile. That was in the early stages. Then, different things started happening..differently, them later stages, up on a stage with the boys, it seemed so empty, even with a full house..and when we’d finish the tear-jerker, you might hear a pin..drop, onna mouse. And then they’d all cheer and clap, and aks for more. But something wasn’t working, and I’m alone, trapped..with a beer, behind a locked door, and a gun behind my back..robbed of a free spirit, and the love..stage, robbery, “Ya got me!”

So – when you got everything you want, and it ain’t what you thought..cars, fast lovers and friends, spinning webs..and things seem like they’ll never end. Well it came all crashing down at some point, and no one noticed (the End)..everyone kept coming, to see me,ME! they came to see. But I’m not there, you see. And who cares any way, the show must go on, –show, the stage..play’s the thing! see? stage robbery. So –

Who am I kidding, nobody wants me..legend in my mind! never got anywhere..starin’ at the stairs. So where does it go from here, what’s next? I’ll retire soon..end my career, stock up on beer, buy something out in the country..southern side of the moon. Then, we’ll build the stage, big outdoor stage..won’t need stage lights, cause, you know..sun, and everything; set up tables..a bar, under the stars; and everybody can hear us on their head-sets..near and far, inside their space helmets..with some little wings for decor, yeah, it’s about at that stage..Great! Stage Robbery, yeah..see ya there, Where? you’ll see..great stage robbery, nice! We’re just going through a stage, now, hear? all the world’s a stage, and all the people..country&western musicians, robbed, live on stage,

LIVE TONITE: 3 Blind Mice (and cowboy-hats)

crystal waters covering creatures in the shallows, in and out! in and out! goes the surf, foam, bringing food, fresh oxygen, and love, for all the lowly squishy things with tentacles and stuff that live in, and around the rocks..sunshine beating down, enveloping the shore reflecting in ocean’s window, slashing! down in the depths, as gulls circle, looking at some thing. Someone, paint me a sailboat on the horizon, something the little crabs will like to see, walking sideways up the side, waving..black eyes shining back at

the sun..its fun! “Come on, kids, let’s go to the beach!” (stick your toe in one) ~Dad

uh, you know, –take it..” Yes! That, yeah, that is so great!! He’s thee Irish poet, Richard is..Richard the Line-heart’d, “cause it took so long ti-bake-it..” (take my line..please!) The Irosh poets are, you know, really ghee-ahh! (gear..trans:slang, British, meaning hip, groovy) while I am biut anmere Scot. Yeah. All I can do is drink their (Irish) whiskey allday..on strict doctors’ orders, to be sure*; an’ write crap no one reads on acc’t of what’s clearly my own deficiency in terms uh thuh ancestrial qualification’s, leaning

towards the Scot’s, sadly..notes of smoke, peat and caramel, –&chocolate, but! were I or any o’my people of Dublin (like the 0’Bamma’s an’ there people’s, peradventure) it’d be another story entirely, –e’en half-a-bloodline’d do, ‘owever..just now me lovely wife rip the needle off on the Irish..the phono-graph’s needle. She clearly had enough of that..stoof, tha’filler which follows the, “Ohhh no! o-oh no-ahhh..” the un-chart.topper’s, the shloop-ness’s “..Sha-poopy!” (4:05) on the album, that götter in the ol’ dammerüng, them tracks following thee disarguably and undisputably great classic, from back in 1967, with all the orchestration’s&chorush’s, and all the rest, but..

“But their great poets, honey, let me just explain, I gotta tell ya thish, see, the cake, it got wet, you know..from the rain, enn all, so they swept it, swep’ it up, the Irish did it..pro’bly unner a rug, –Irish sweep cakes, get it?”

ha-ha! and then I get that look, thu’look that says, “I hate ALL poetry.” So I sez, “Oh! so does that mean I gotta shot??” (meaning, with my poetry, Scot’s vs. Irish an’ Irish always rules regarding the verse..poetry is experiential after all, we know that, does not matter how ya are defining IS..an it’s the poetry experience, mostly all bad of course, that’s its main fault ’tis it not? everything spelled out, vs. leaving a little to the imagination), –‘n’so ennyway so next, we’re auditioning Al Kooper’s record album, Statue of Liberty cover, in the UNI-PAK format>..<Hippies, n’producers, n’lawyers, –when they lettem in in Nashville, Oh my! to record their shtick (them kinda poets..inna 60’s, n’before you can play’em, you gotta clean off the dust, and hash-pipe crumbs from half-a-century and the last millennium..also, the GRAPE JAM, it’s in the groove). So! lots new here to choose from, relaxin’ on a Saturday’n’some 45 r’spmsingles, as well, Swamp Girl, getting a little att’n gettin’ atta MacArtur Park, “HARGHH!” inna big’qway..big yardsale’s weekend, too, Memorial’s Day’s, –Cat’olic church has lots of records over there (fbi has all mine, that’s ‘nother pome, too), records from the 60’s..got another Richard Harris one, just in case she’s interested in any more o’ that, –Richard Harris, eat’cha heart out, Nyyyahh! Scot’s rules!! an da Welsh hippie poets are on top of it, too, hyou know, Tom Jones an-n-n da built-in ree-verb’s riffing off tha’ Hammond B-3, –psychedelic..with tha’ tone-wheels an’ Leslie’s an’ all o’ that, “Ooh, Mama, Ooh!”

Is it genius ??? WELL IS IT????

“Sure, Honey.”

*Last will, et cetera..(y’all, being the witnesses, sign here, please>_________):I, chris robertson, being of a sound, poetic mind (such as it ’tis)..leave all the poetry, –en’ (translation: and) everything else to me dear wife! all the music, too.

~c. (all us poet’s are vandals and thiefs, undeserving of the protection of the Crown)

“Someone let the cake! in-n ta-my brai-i-i-in..” ~cris robertson, Clann Donnchaidh

ps: honourable mention’s (Friend’s)..Greek (+’De’ems’); Gill-bert; Shaun (“Shine”); the Kids; Pasotr (pray for ___); my dear parents, who puttup with a lot, more tahn I can describe (please pray for _____); Steve Athaneson&all his family&friends (including James Traficant, Jr. and all the good folks at Y-town); and many, many more. Oh yeah, –John and Karen, o’ course, and all of the rest..JESUS, Father God, and Holy Ghost, bless us all (everyone), –Dogs, thank you for dogs, dogs are the best. A-men.

People are paramount, in God’s eyes, how He sees us..’cause if God was a magician, he’d a-sawed us in two long ago (in twain, to put it in other words). And the universe would have gone,

“God! Jesus! was that an accident? what you just did to the humans?? what’s up with that?”

But it will never happen; and with God there is..no accidents, and he’s not going to bisect us. No tricks. He is our creator and He has a plan; and he’s not going to sell us short to some cheap, creepy jerk at one of these cosmic yard-sales:

“How much you want for that pile of dust?”

“They’re not for sale.”

No, we are too precious for that:

“You are my dust, I chose you, I paid the price for you, and I’m keeping you..I’m taking you home!”

2.

You are the poem.

You..were standing by the shore. I saw you in a dream. You, motionless, looking out, expressed all that is. The moon..over tides, –a ship, passing on the horizon, size of an ant, were more within reach, than your shining hair, and eyes. You are the poem.

I turned to notice palm trees, their fronds waving shadows to a gentle breeze, as birds, circling above, plaintive..raised cries to the heaven. And when I looked back, seeking for something, a perfect vision..the poem was gone. You were the poem.

Awake, I reflected. In ocean’s bosom lie wrecks of ships that did not escape the dead aim of a determined enemy, sacred places, engulfed..dreary hulks, where once strode young men in suits of blue on solid decks, doing their jobs, in storms and in sunshine – residents – calling to their brother shipmates, in passing, “Ahoy, Mate!” –other boys, Americans like them, who scribbled their dearest intentions in letters to sweethearts, carrying photographs, of them they knew..and of mothers, back home, fixing meals. This was real love, mixed with a sense of dread, the expectation, “..we’ll all meet our maker, someday.” Some wrote poetry..poems that lived in storages, trunks in attics beneath beams..with uniforms, decorations, and other souvenirs (the stuff of poems).

Twisted steel towers, and ruined turrets (guns now silent), anchors, and rusting aircraft are the sole evidences remaining of these, treasures..beyond reach of all, but the most skilled and determined divers, resting, near the foot of one of many scattered atolls, a hallowed place of honour, –hidden memorial to sailors whose lives were committed to the deep, many, many years it makes..a sacrifice for all, so some may live free. These were men my dad broke bread with, daily, and fought alongside of, brave men of the United States Navy..sailors assigned, in time of war, to the USS Ommaney Bay, CVE 79

YOU are the poem. ~c.

Christopher and Joseph Robertson, August, 1955..nice couch!