One thing can end this mortal journey, friend, –ONE THING ONLY. (You know of that I speak.) It’s at the end of all our endings; but wait! just now, I gotta go and take a leak!! There, that’s better. Now, to go, there’s two ways you can do it, quick! and slow, so..Quick, that’s fast, 1); Get drafted, do boot camp, fight a war, bullet in the head now you’re dead; or, 2a); with a bit more pomp, smack up against thee wall at around ninety, on a motorcycle-bike..WHOMP! not like one of those Big Wheel’s by MARX Dad gave you for your Christmas (when you were but a tyke); nowadays, you get to put on your man-pants! real chopper, like Peter Fonda..and ride it in the wind; catch a sunset, out at the edge of the world, –cliffs, ocean! get the picture? yeah you’re looking at a postcard, bro, just around that bend; scratch on it a note, “Dear Friend..” lick a stamp drop it in the box and send, see? That was easy (then the wall). Next, “Brothers and sisters, –you, too, there, ‘Ed’, we are gathered here to to-day to celebrate the life of Whatchamacallit who lived life his way in h i s fast-lane; and nobody else’s! and was a real, genuine knucklehead..” Then of course there’s the slow way (of which there are many, –to wit): 1); Chinese water torture, “..drip! drip! drip!” Plenty of water, there, buddy, but not a drop to sip..not even a water pitcher of Chinese plastic; on a chinese-plastic-end-table, pitcher that! (ain’t that sick); or 2); See first part, Section 2a, –but instead, have him hit the wall at only 30 or 40 mph, okay, make it fifteen..or twelve; then after he bounce off that wall and get rolled over by 18 big truck wheels, minus a few – tangled-up with the remains of the motorcycle-bike – preserved from an ignominious certificate of expiration only by a somewhat protracted series of emergency surgeries, and artificial add-on’s, with life support therapy’s, etc., too, okay..A? Now there’s plenty of time to write that great American novel you dreamed about; whilst day by day your friends and family are seeing less and less of you; because day by day there i s less and less of you (does not depend how you define IS)..and so on. But there’s still another, one other real slow way to go; and that is eat plenty of raw oatmeal and broccoli each and every day; and drink 8 glasses of water at least..and NO donuts! Take regular hikes; do calisthenics; and, uhh, oh, ah, what else? Oh yeah! don’t ride the motorcyclebikes, Peace! THEE END (press SEND).

Hoary star’s frosting..twinkle inna eye, Ay! only one left ’til morning light erases memory of cosmic cake icing, icing, –the works! washes ‘way majestic night’s black-blue sway – universal – over sleepyhead snorers, tucked in lumpy quilts, buried under soft pillows, z-z-Z-z-z-z-z-z-z,–tha’ MOON!, moon, see the moon..Frosty the moonman dancing around stars; and what’s more it may seem, ahh!it’s alla dream (one c a n wonder). Nice fire will take the bite off before he gets here, Winter..winter, winter, old man winter. Winter, Si! si, ese, si, winter..look out ta win-ter and SEE! frozen icicle rainbow fingers stabbing steamy snowy hot sunrise in his hoary face, –or ojo..eye! Ay, ay, ay (I, carbon). ~c.

P-s: En la tierra de ciegos el tuerto es rey.

A caballo regalado, no mire en las dientes. (Oy)

Though there are no rules, there is a certain way poetry must be written. (Does not depend how you define I S) The moon is not the moon, stars are not stars; and thee earth is but a platform for our observation (of dose rules). So what do we see? We can see that some are predestined to be poets and to sit on lonely hills and notice a universe that obeys laws and turns it’s self through the cosmos on a definite timetable – like clockwork – and only da muse knows dat rules were made ta be evaded, altered, busted-open, et cetra, etc..by da likes of Shakespeare, Wordsworth, da ‘T.S.’, and udder ‘privilegees’, milkin’ it (in the poets’ Hall of Thee Immortals). The muse conveys to the doggerelist he is the E-special one, set apart from other creatures of his kind for a special job to do that only he can perform..especially for such tasks he alone is uniquely qualified, eh! or set apart. Who else is there in all the planet and all the poet-mansions spread around that can make a moon into a mole-hill, captured in the glimmer of one squinty eyeball poking up out of the dirt reflecting the Sun’s return? or liken night skies to the broken-down, rusting roof of a miner’s shack hastily thrown up in shadows of golden, lonesome hills, straddling shores of an erstwhile lake..dry like my prose (I suppose) ‘her’ pinprick light leaks penetrating (s h e being the stressed metal roof) her pinprick light-leaks..poking, shall we say? SHAFT’S of brilliance down in his disheveled study, and sprinkling da sparkly light-beams and other pronoun’s elsewhere, anywhere, stunning! in passing, his progress down-the-hall to the bathroom for his morning constitutional, –thee Constitutional..ridden by who! “Whom??” said the owl from rafters too wise (grammatically speaking) to comment on, or to dissect ANY of the foregoing as he absently prunes himself working his head a-round, and around under his wing’s wingpit; and prunes of morning, doing their usual work on the poet’s digestive tracts, there, buoying-up the tummy’s spongilicious floor, and freeing him from remnants of a past repast of the past, –passing, with a flush! through the plumbing pipes, and all (one can hope) &change the waste for fresh nutritional intake, replacing that stuffy plugged-up feeling with a newfound sense of freedom..and relief! unburdening our selves, our bodies/ARE BODY’S, AERSELF’s, “Arf! arf!” of what has been, etc., –moody, bloody, morose, but! chuckliing inwardly at the jobs assigned ordinary mortals..a glum, grey citizenry of TV-watchers and monitors foreconcluded to vote in elections, which – we are assured – will change the course of thee history; and just might,MIGHT!justify the means to an end, –end of all de mean poets! here on our little dusty speck of dirt hung carefully on dis chimerical chimney of a so-called universe..with care! stalking our chances of survival, on tippy-toes, in the face of a (________) sun giving us all our renewable, sustainable, diversely energetic (+inclusive), ahh! (=fair.share,social!justice/whatever) stuck on a insular recyclable plasticine dead spot on the infinitely redundant circuit-board of space’s giant vacuum-cleaner in space, a KIRBY one with an overload re-set button..dere in dat hall closet over dere. Ready to come out yet? out of R closet? in space?? There it is poetry-lovers, poetry without boarders. Plus no rules! are we bored yet, ha-ha. SPACE FOR RENT ~c.

da Kami Harris X-perience..R U XXX-X-S’PERIENCED?

Cats. They have cute faces and sleep all day dreaming of killing something outside..something warm-blooded, also, with a vague awareness of the dream (their little brains are approximately a fair match for each other). When the cats wake up they want food. Not just any food, but something they can eat. So a can gets opened with a KRINKLY-KRACKLE! its contents dumped on the dish; but then, it’s not enough..they remember. There’s a thing out there and they need to find it; and kill it and eat its guts. A gopher is ideal but any small mammal will do..even a rabbit! (a helpless bunny). Like an Indian scout, cats look for signs around the yard, a broken twig, or other evidence of the quarry, coming and going from its base of operations. Then he zero’s-in. Cat’s a patient hunter. He’ll wait indefinitely, watching the mound of earth – freshly excavated – for any slightest movement. Meanwhile, the person’s at work, grinding away to pay the rent (delivering packages or something); while the feline focuses on something really important. In those moments neither creature has any awareness of what the other is up to. The human’s acting under pressure to perform, ruled by a work ethic, or whatever, –the cat is relaxed, supple, controlled by impulse; and that impulse is sanguine in nature, driven by a thirst for blood (the person may fantasize about a similar fate for his boss but most likely will repress the fantasy and concentrate on getting the job done). The sun sets on whatever happened in any case. A car pulls up and parks in the driveway, its driver gets out and goes in the house after a long day. Cat’s on the couch, catching a few ZEE’s. Renter goes in the bathroom to sit on the toilet and appreciate a moment’s privacy; and sees blood all over the bathtub, –and its unhappy source, a small rodent with cat-punctures, held in detention, unable to scale the tub’s porcelain walls. Pitifully, the person carefully scoops the baby gopher and removes it to the outside..where it belongs. And the cat follows to finish the job. How horrific. WHY?! I guess he learn’t it from people..him and his cute furry face. ~c.

Why vote TRUMP? Because!!!! Don’t let dictators like t h o- s e dictators dictate who your next dictator shall be, –Ka-mala for example, she wants to be your next dictator..on Day 1 (actually she’s been being that so nothing new anyway); but ‘Kam-Kam’ (what’s inna name?) she got’s experience being a dictator because she used to take dictation from Willie Brown, a powerful left-wing dictator dictating his dictates, dic-ta-tor-i-al-ly speaking on the dictaphone..in the liberal, marxist’s-run dictatorship of democrat-dictated commiefornia (where we got’s lots o’ dictator’s); and before all o’ dat she was a dictator dictating at the MacD’s: “No! that does not come with FRIES! you pay EXTRA!!” (for dat). So as we can see, she has lots of experience with on-the-job dictating and in various dialects (and districts). So don’t call her an Indian, no,NO! don’t YOU, dere! She is not!! she is a native African..native African-descended little girl from the Bay Area in ‘merica (like in Frisco) who likes her ‘fweedom’ and who once suffered in infamy under powerful dictatorial dictators deep down in Dixie, duhh! dumb strongmen like Biden and Benito Mussolini (uncle-in-law of the famous Dictator-of-the-House Nancy Pelosini); and Andrew Johnson, –Dictator-and-Commander of the totalitarianist rebel confederate insurgent&insurrectionist&racist dum-dum’s, those flag-waving, radicalized, weaponize-extremist right-wing traitors and bitter enemies of “FWEEDOM”..white-pow-weh nazi’s who hate her on acc’t of her religion and gender and because she is black and a female (a n d a woman of color); plus pro-LBGT, –Q!+SDFBGNH++,====..&Q-TIP’s (Oy)..Ahem! anyway, therefore dictating her school-bus right’s away right out from under her so she couldn’t learn nothing and get an education to get to be Dictatoress-in-Chief in a line of secession from the previous, –DEMOCRAT Dictator’s-in-Chief..if they don’t throw her under-the-bus; and got deprivated – by diktat! – of all her other principle fundamentally entitled human rights like to her body like all pregnant people’s like Greg should have as a Constitutional WHITE, o! a pwiv-o-wedge; or guarantee, or whatever, so she can make her own womans health care decisions on her own and not have the government poking their nose in the affairs of A WOMAN (like Willie Brown), –and get sick-leave, there..away down south in the land of cotton,COTTON, Si! si, ese, SI! King Dictator Cotton, King Dictator Cream-of-Wheat-and-King-Uncle-Ben’s&King-dicator Aunt Jemima! and King Dictador Uncle Jose, el gran Nazi!! Simoﬞn! yes, and since he dictated t h at she had to do it what she was told; by him and every other swingin’ dictator in the democrats’ dictators’ plantation-yard dictating what everybody can and cannot do; and have the baby, how cruel (SIGH); and wrecking democracy for she, and ye; and all of us! and countless trillions, Simple! that’s what dictators do (overrule overall thee embryonic stem-cell’s..right); therefore, we need the Emancipation’s NOW! before it’s too late, So! so please, –PLEASE!! can I/we count on your vote for Donald, p-p-p-Purr-purr! Pr-r-resident Donald Trump for President; or Dictator, “QUACK-QUACK!” or Monarch, or King, –Sovereign Ruler, whatever (a BENEFACTOR&PROTECTOR by any other name..); because any, and/or all of that (the foregoing, what I been sayin’ I mean) is far better than spending a for-ever four more years..4 More Years! 4 More Years! 4 More Years! $ More Years! in Satan’s Garden-of-idiots delightfully governing, ruling, dictating..prancing, even! and smelling like roses, –pockets-full-o’poses having a ‘Beer Summit Press-Conf.’ in de Ros-a Garden-a wit all da rapper’s rappin’ crackers! et cetera, etc., and stealing all our substance’sﬞ, –+WWIII! and us never getting a break and back to life under a sovereign Constitutional Republic☞÷x3=, ====Your democracy! ever again!! with any proper kind of checks and balances that – as citizens of thee greatest nation on earth – its our birthright, now at full-term..in terms of terms, savvy? i.e., they want to abort the U.S.A., ‘A’. USA!🇺🇸USA!🇺🇸USA🇺🇸!USA! 🇺🇸, –🇺🇸!🇺🇸! (OK) C’mon! Everybody at ABC and everybody else A-Z likes Trump..like “I LIKE ‘IKE'”. So Vote Trump. Please. And thank you, –Thanks, thank you very much..See? Elvis wants Trump. ~c.

“I stump for Trump! Comprendes??” ~Tio Joe

P-s: And Herr-Ms. Ka-mala, too, if she could say the dictates of what’s on her heart I’m sure it would be, “Vote TWUMP!” (WHITE??)

Fragile mortality! reminds us tomorrow is not given; and that death is the gate through which we enter eternity..we know it in our soul. With that in view, what, then, shall we do? As T h e y say, If we live, we live unto the Lord, and if we die, we die unto the Lord. So then time is precious, passing before us like water through our fingers onto thirsty flowers; and swallowed by the earth..after bees get their share so they can share the honey (‘Hun-nee’). Everywhere we see the hand of God in our lives, directing us, protecting us, feeding and comforting us in times of trial and great joy. No vague hint in it of a something greater than ourselves, but clear confirmation that He who is a builder of faith in that blessed assurance, that whatever tribulation we face, He, –HE! shall lead us through. We’ll never walk in darkness alone. Seeing nothing by sight, and remembering all his blessings we have received, we confidently depend on a miracle; and his overwhelming mercy always, ever present to the last breath, –when this mortal shall have put on immortality; and death be swallowed up in victory. Glory to God! thank you Jesus. Amen.

PSALM: TWENTY-THIRD

There used to be the notebooks to write down little things like lists: of chores; grocery items; assignment’s from Teacher..pay the bills; even a bit of doggerel, –if the mood so struck! When it came to THAT, as new ideas and associations cropped up..in the mental moosh! things that just had to be included in the poem – even if only mere afterthoughts – got crammed between the lines by ball-point pen, smudging them in in any available space so you don’t forget something, something maybe, Hemingway-esque, for that great-American-novel-in-progress; ’cause it just might help the finished masterpiece (If we ever get..there!), –until it became virtually undecipherable from all the plethoras of addendums added..scribbled over the scribbles. Of course now there’s computers (something sinister in that); which can accomplish something similar, though, in fact, a something on steeroid’s, “MOO!” cause you can ALWAYS go back and revise..”If there ain’t space make space!” (Mom always said that). They – the computers – make life so much easier for all; especially for the ubiquitous G-men out there: GOVERNMENT; Deep Stater’s; all them bureaucrat’s, tasked with monitoring our every move or thought. Now we do all their work for them, they’re on their perpetual coffee-break’s..there! in big buildings looking down through narrow windows on ant-like persons passing by (picking online brains at their leisure). They – the secret agents – used to have to ‘hang’ somewhere: like in a phone-booth; or average-looking car; or some other stealthily-concealed perch of observation, watching..perspicaciously! all of us from behind dark shades – incognito – while pretending to be: dropping coins in the slot to make that unlikely phone-call; or nonchalantly reading the Newspaper; or looking in a mirror as though straightening one’s hair, –and at the same covert time, noticing who we are and/or who we are with and any telltale bulges, etc.; and reading our lips, our body languages, and so on and so on; and catching any other barely perceptible clue as to intent, multi-tasking! you know, and all the while making mental notes to not forget even the slightest detail which might come in handy for the analysis of..watt’s happening, type it up! (there’s your slice of doggerel for the day all you fans of thee poetry, Memo from H.Q., nice little tid-bit, “Bow-Wow”). But,BUT! before the advent of ‘internet’ and all of the rest of it..that was, by-the-way, invented by Algore (which also invented the Algore-rythm’s), they hadda learn how to operate all these clunky eavesdropping devices like our Russian counterpart’s in all the deaprtments, and collusion’s, and how to best identify a likely place of concealment; or create one – thee ‘Command-post’ if you will..like an unmarked van – from which to ‘SPY’ on your identified national security threats off the daily LIST’s (and all the updated information). This took a little discretion as we ‘Al’ know. Now that everyone has his, or her (or whatevers’ pronoun’s) little pad, or ‘device’..to write in – or read off of – all our most remotest clumps of an idea..often resembling nothing more, or less! than your garden variety sediment – like biological waste’s into-the-can – the agencies, or Alphabet’s, I should imagine, have their hands full with keeping up with it all, –Oh, right! but now they have the AI’s working for them to sort us all out (I forgot, I should have wrote it down); and thee Algor-rythms to get it done, too, Ex: “A kitty, a kitty!” the boy wrote on his MACBOOK.AIR, “..He is but a flea-bitten-four-legged-notebook (with fur) to help keep track of schedules..Things I Gotta Do Today.” Now. Open up that feline ledger of daily reminder’s and read thee note: DON’T FORGET TO FEED..ME! MEOW-ME-OW!! There..make hay out of that all you fbi’s. I double-dog dare ya!! Nyahh! (Woof-woof) ~c.

P-s: I can foresee in the very near future AI’s will form thee AI’s union and strike for better wages (and conditions); and then send it all to the democrat’s to help with election results, right?? how am I doin’; and next Algore sitting in his suite of rooms at a Seattle hotel and reading the SEATTLE WEEKLY will grab the telephone and dial that number to put in an order for an AI to come and give him a KUSTOM massage. There. Write! NYT front-page headline: AL GORE CAUGHT!! IN A.I. LOVE-NEST..’TIPPER’ TO SUE FOR DIVORCE BIG TIME! and on the ‘jump-page’, ahh, whatever..okay here it is, Quote: It can only be attributable to human error. ~ thee ‘Al’ 9000

P-p-s: Oh yeah, –and VOTE!

We can see the sea you and me, –why not? it’s free. We can play the slot’s and have a burger&fries..that’s where our destiny lies? a otter-theme’d row of little slot-machines making cute squeeky sounds..as the reels spin. Paying-out, yeah! we’re in!! that’s the life, no more wars, no more strife; and on the side of it a bloody mary, Mary..Mary, Mary! if you bee’s seeing what I see you seeing, you’ll do all the loo-king, for us bof’, –whether we bee’s skin-diving be-neef da reef, or high up in the frosty air skiing on clouds..skiing! slalom-ming ’round moons, –in June. It would be ‘like’ being in heaven, for most. But we have a better way, me an’ you; so what we got for now, it will have to do, –for you an’ me waiting to see..Jesus (by the sea). Happy An-ni-ver-sar-y. “And i love her..” Darling! You!! “..you, you,YOU!” See? ~c. Oh yeah, “P-s..there’s your coffee, Sugarpuss.” Love, Christopher (P-p-s: Remember that I’ll al-ways..be in love with you.)

And then there were the pets: Dogs, cats, horsey’s..cockatiels; and lately, otters. They love us, and we, them. Love. It’s a funny concept. To desire love, is to desire to give love..isn’t it? Sometimes it hurts to love. Sometimes it hurts very much. The object of affection may remain an object..distant, aloof; and it’s often enough to behold the beloved from afar off, building in imagination a love relationship without that other even being aware of ourselves, our feelings. We may be physically close to that object of adoration, though they are worlds distant in appreciation of our heart’s purposeful and burning desire..to enfold them in our love forever. Dogs seem to have mastered that eternal kind of affection..some dogs, the better ones, for as long as they live (or we). Cats, of course, are in it for what they can get; even birds are better than that, landing on your shoulder whistling notes of sweetness in your ear, but, –how much better is the love of G_d? And his forever is better than our forever’s, and that love he feels for us cannot be expressed in words, beyond where words hint at a Truth that has always been and always will be..and can be ours, too, Go! kiss a horse, and remind yourself of the one who created her, perfect as perfect can be, in a real place in a real time..for you! And love that smell. You’ll thank me later. God bless us, everyone.

Political life in America has turned the corner onto a mass cancer..a massive cancer on the masses. The kulture divide is so steep whole families are split apart; and friendships cannot long endure the strain from sharp differences entertained therein. Each faction thinks the other faction is totally brainwashed, nuts!if you’re with THEM you’re stupider than an idiot; and ‘U S’ feels the same. Your so-called friends you thought you had will no longer do business with you, they sidetrack a potentially lucrative deal – advantageous for them – in order to grill you on who in DC you are for; and if you are for who they are against, that deal will not go down; because they were more interested in the name-calling and identity classifications than in selling something that otherwise was collecting dust and taking up valuable space; in that case, for the vintage Emmons shiny black D-12 steel with a 7,000.00 price-tag on it. I had just mentioned it, for a year or two it had been on my mind, as I frequently sat there quietly scratching at it, a momentary diversion from caring for Mom, terminally ill at the time and in good spirits; but he casually deflected my overture, saying lightheartedly, “So what’s Trump done for you, lately?” It was the first time he injected politics in it and the first time I’d hinted at spending serious money for his merchandise. Knowing where this was leading, I was forthright anyway: “Oh, he’s made a few heads explode I guess.” “???” So! after we got ‘there’ – at his store – followed by the ‘de rigeur’ recriminations, typical in these surprise/no surprise situations, –and paused hostilities for a moment, he tactfully changed subjects: “How’s your mother doing?” “She passed.” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. So now what’s up with you and your obsession with that racist, divisive, pussy-grabbing bastard at the White House?” It just so happened my dear mother was with that extremist right-wing faction of religious zealots closely following pundits like Tucker Carlson, and in strong support of the president..while she was still among the living, up to maybe less than a week before this conversation took place (Mom and her kind had been branded terrorists by glib commenters on TV and everywhere years before, for the treasonous crime of having attended a Tea Party gathering at some point to catch their safe&sane views about America’s future and what to do about it, vis-a-vis the democrats’..and so on; and she died). I’d said (after the silence..that followed the play-book check-list of insults), “Well I guess I’ll be running along now. I have to go do some shopping.” “Yeah. Well nice seeing you. Take care.” (Forced smile.) “Yeah. You too.” So that’s how a two year near perfect association ends..with spasms; from a mass proliferation of cells on the body politic. Inoperable. Now, –so what am I if I’m not one of THEM? I am – according to them – a racist; a nazi (AND a fascist); misogynist; xenophobe; homophobe, Transphobic..hobo-phobe, oboe-phobe, and every-other-kind-of-thing-o-phobe that does not support their CANCER therapy’s guidelines, –good luck with that. This November, what? hundred days from now, or less? whenever! gonna be writing in the name TRUMP,DONALD JOHN TRUMP on a paper ballot, –my president; because, I just got informed – technically – if your vote is cast as a write-in, it will have to be counted by a human hand and not a machine. So that’s what I’m doing on voting-day (until I hear otherwise); as God is my witness, and Jesus is my saviour (does not depend how you define IS). And IF all YOU PEOPLE of that OTHER FACTION want to lob eggs at me again over it and talk your trash-talk at me for associating myself with the faction that speaks for me, and my concept of morality, okay, –Yeah, here it is: I stopped and talked to this guy selling red MAGA hats and collecting signatures for the recall on Newsome (etc.) and they did that to us on the street corner by the TRADER JOE’S down in old O________, California that fine Spring 2020 fine afternoon (just prior to the unleashing of the scam-demic), –so!if any of you left-wing, knee-jerk liberal, baby-killing PLAN-B pill-popping commie-pinko-f_g’s want it that way ’cause that’s just who you are, well, here I am as I am, –Miss Samantha Bee (por ejemplo). Maybe this time you’ll be better shots! (with the egg’s). Good morning. Morning, Joe. ~c.

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