Scruffy's..Blurgh!

My Pop! My Pop! what a man, my dad. You fought gangsters on the high seas sent by the god of hate..that old devil! who threw everything he had at our boys on their boats, popping up pea-shooting airplanes off wooden decks into the air..racing to be the first to spit in his Imperial Majesty’s eye. John Paul Jones – history’s greatest – never had a finer moment than these..counter-attacking a mile-thick pile of impenetrable steel, courtesy of Tokyo Rose..hurling the heat of the sun and all hell’s fury in their determined faces, circling, measuring, –in the stone’s throw of sunlit salt-cake islands of no present distinction..rough diamonds in hands of military experts were these. “DON’T SWEAR, MR. STACY..” John Paul Jones had said, in chastisement of his excitable subordinate (who) had suffered a momentary lapse of self-possession in the heat of a key moment of a close and desperate fight, heedless of the rising, comfortless ocean beneath decks awash with sailors’ blood; upon which they resolutely stood facing a vastly superior opponent, “Don’t swear..in a moment we all may be in eternity; but let us do our duty.” Similarly, human-and-saki guided missiles scored some hits, in passing eternity’s roadside billboards..no hula-girls, or Bing Crosby; nor mention of BURMA-SHAVE as they went and instantly changed the fortunes of many an able-bodied seaman that day the main fleet was busy someplace else, and my pop..my dad and his shipmates lay floating on flaming seas; and if I know my pop my pop! that man my dad he never, when tossed to the choppy waters – or elsewhere – ever said any thing to necessitate any such stern rebuke as that which John Paul Jones had spoke to that officer, in that other horrible place..as he, my pop and his brother shipmates lay floating in a flaming ocean, Aye! like oily sardines (as seen from the air) on a GLASSY SMOKING INFERNAL LIQUID&GARLIC PIZZA of unimaginable immenseness and ruined might (more than anyone can eat) waiting for help..and trusting GOD

~c.

USS OMMANEY BAY, January 4, 1945

On the kaleidoscopic character of social discourse, –taking ‘feminism’ as an example:Question, is BARBIE The Movie emblematic of a new feminism? NEW FEMINISM is a wrong term, presupposing the old feminism has somehow been ‘sundowned’ by a hidden clause when in actuality, so-called feminism is/WAS just another name for marxism and marxism is primarily opposed to God, to faith in God, and a moral social structure. Get the drift:Marxism demands an embrace, by faith! in a master/slave relationship; although marxists would shudder at speaking aloud that F-word..FAITH. KALEIDOSCOPIC! in the sense of language being the basis for understanding our place in the universe, and for communicating our faith in whatever it is we believe; so what marxism builds on (with a demonic fervor) is the deconstruction of solid definitions of WHAT’S-WHAT, for lack of a better term, meaning the steady erosion of the glue of society by corruption of a common language and the morphing of sensible, once easily understood words into non-identical multiplications of those words that sport vague, generalized ideas having no basis in logic..to alienate the sane; taking for example, man and woman, and introducing alternative PRONOUNS which began in very small groups, initially, but then, following general acceptance coerced by exposure to relentless propaganda ‘waterfalling’ by the mass media, were expanded to a number aspiring to become..as the sands on the seas’ shores, and stars of evening. Unacceptable! these..polluted afterbirths of leftist de-constructions must categorically be rejected, and robust discussion based on traditional and rational meaning restored, in order to move forward, and not back into some dank closet locked in the dark ages of history..Amen?? Start by stop humoring anarchists and accepting their idiotic rejections of common-sense traditional lexicons as platforms for debate, and stop incorporating their new glossaries of terms into the common knowledge..stop poisoning the wells of our intellect! Why help the hangman with putting the rope on our own necks? Nex..

~c.

P-s: Get an old dictionary not published later than the 40s..mine says 1946; and look it up! If it’s not in there there might be a problem.

G_d is THEE POET. He made them all, by the way, who say they are poets, who write lofty stuff, even the greatest of the great: Here I sit, broken-hearted..and contrite of soul, –spirit upon body laying there in a heap having overspent every cheap trick in the poetry racket to make my immortal work; but all in vain! all is vanity!! (you see). The greatest poetry is in the Bible, all else is far below, inferior in splendor and wonderment, –song! contemplating thee, ahh, the navel, uh, academy. Ahem. We all, all us poets! like to think he has a sense of humor..it seems he does deign to humor us, we poets, posting our postulations along the lines, our lines, lyrical outpourings, all done online, now – typewriter’s quite a thing of the past – reaching the populations of the world, the computing populaces with computers in their lap’s, reading, writing into them the laptop’s; arrhythmically..tic! tic, tic-tic! blankly staring at the product (likely an ill-fitting verse that just wants TO BE..). The old days were better, when, disgusted! the poet – self-named – could pull the errant page from the typewriter wadding it in clenched fist, and throwing it over the shoulder, impiously, into the circular file where it belongs, i.e., The Trash-can, “There, it’s done!”..the executive decision; like that of the LORD God of the Old Testament, having separated Noah and his people, for a remnant, from the remainder of the wicked earth, and safely delivering them – and their animals – in the ark, upon dry land with a promise; and its ever present reminder, that of the bare blush of a spectral bow..hovering in the blue, after the rain-clouds go trotting off in the overhanging skies of purest, sweetest air: I shall never throw my celestial typewriter in the drink. Ever ‘gain! Thee ENN

~c., –least of all the poets!

P-s: Stay tuned for the following announcements..

I like when things work. When water comes out of the faucet and valves don’t leak bonus water..down under the sink; and it’s a good thing – I think – when the agitator actually agitates and makes the clothes clean; and the machine spins the load bone dry, yeah! that’s my scene. Then, too, I like the fact that the espresso comes out quick and smooth at the touch of a button, with no other taste other than what the coffee beans made, grinded fine..that’s one of mine! one of my jobs. Gotta problem? Don’t mind that! “I’ll fix it, and it’ll be handled..and you won’t have to worry.” ~Uncle Ken, Esq.

~c., Fixers, Inc., of Big Bear..mate!

P-s: Please call us, don’t wait.

What made America great it was not equality of outcomes and not,NOT! along similar idealogical lines, social justice, or capitalism and the free market per se, and getting there without vicious extortioners to contend with along the way, even, from time to time, at the cost of one’s own life (to have a business), no! it was that unique opportunity in this historic land you had, mm, ahh! that with dogged perseverance and a little divine favour one could break through the walls of antipathy and the collective indifference and succeed in business, –by really,REALLY! trying. What became different by a difference of various differing factors was when government stepped in and became the official arbiter of who gets to do WHAT..GOVERNMENT: I identify as Adolf Hitler! Thta is what I contend made America go down the tubes when the government,GOVERNNMENT! with a capiatl G began making/enforcing fake laws and acting on behalf of vested interests to ensure specific outcomes within the satellite communities, all the little hick towns for their bureaucratically controlled little social experiments and watch and wait, and see how we’d actt..or react; then, when all seems good, establish their policy within the larger outreaches of the body politic! based on their findings that is my thesis here. I have observed all this from my dump on the main drag, here in Big Bear City..from which we were ejected by sbc back in 2008 (or thereabout’s). There is now two Americas, the DC Comics America with a crack-head in the white house actually at a helm and at least 51% of the rest of us in seething rebellion but nothing we can do with it; except go back to school! cause of all the free tuitions and costs of attending, attending to THAT getting handled by Uncle Samantha (city college is become the head-start program for marxist illegal’s and radical agitators, FREE at the taxpayers’ expense). Some one of the two of us – we the People, viz-a-viz htem the pooples – needs to secede..How to secede from business without really trying; but how to secede from the Union? So that would be either we, the silently suffering majority of the People’s; or the entrenched so-called government there in DC and their allies..and all the little people who make it happen, these..penny-a-liners trolls, placating, stalling an answer to the reasonable popular demand for appropriate ‘legal’ actions happening against a criminal ele,ment controlling the country, like Superman’s foes working their sinister plan from outside/inside the wider universe, A-hem! with superior science again dominating all outcomes..Pelosi is Lex Luthor’s illegit offspring; and her father’s spit btw. (End of introduction) So the government, in any of its constantly shifting forms gets to control who has a small business; and WHO doesn’t. I guess that’s all of it Thee END

~c.

P-s: I guess the Dutch emigres founded Harlem, with the extra ‘A’ getting dropped from their own Holland-ish name; until at some point the place became something else, getting rid of the windmills, and all the dike’s or some of them, at least..and probably with not a little ‘help’ from the government, intentionally, or otherwise. And thank you! thank-you Hans Brinker..we’re on the brink, ‘ere. Now where do I go to get a permit; or how about a poet’s license?

Father’s day..Father’s flag is old, in tatters. Dad is gone, what really matters..his sacrifice, in love for family, and country; and God, the Lord God whom he served with all his heart. Dad was smart! he knew anything we do must be done faithfully to him who loved us and gave his life that we might live, forever in glory with him. Dad loved us, as the Father loves. The proof is sweet memories in hearts and minds, being held in his arms, and gentle hands..of blessing, and forgiveness. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

~c.

P-s: Miss you, Dad

The Polish pope, Pope John Paul II..he was a real pope. Out of all the rest of them phony popes why did they try to kill him? He wrote poems, very deep, and searching poems..Pope poems. I guess that’s why! nothing like a burning truth in compact terms to throw cold waters on the mundane business at hand, coalesce..the banality of to EXIST. To your health. Too..Tutu. Two different branches. All fall down, on fallow ground. Waiting (may get lucky).

~c.

To read a great writer, you have to want him to be great; be-cause, if he’s not so great, why are you reading him? (maybe you were coerced). But let’s review..I’ll open, say, some Kafka, in, or a little after the middle because they said he was great (in some dumb college course run by some dumb college professor who is heavily invested in that Kafka is a great writer, –WHY? I don’t know! not yet, anyway) and I don’t want to get bogged down with the very beginning, which is usually kind of slow, and plodding, and – one assumes (because of greatness) – it’s going somewhere; but I want to skip through all that and get straight into the tragedy t h at all is supposably leading to and see what’s up with that..Nothing doing! it’s about as slow as the beginning chapters probably were. So! think about those two little pages a little, and about a little of the interview he gave at some point that they quoted in the big, boring introduction that happens before the slow beginning; and wonder if maybe he’s not kind of great after all. I don’t know about it, maybe so. I may try and pick it up again sometime maybe not. I never really thought much of Mr. Kafka anyway he kind of dry..like me! (like all us child prodigy’s). Mann is a little more tolerable, almost great, even..Ma-an.

~c.

P-s: No Mann is an island, get it? Isle of Mann?? No? Now Nietzsche, he was sort-of great..kind of a homebody, though. But! so George Gordon Byron, he was great (greatly boring). ‘Lord’ Byron. Poetry. Pooh! sort of a proto-Hemingway he was I guess. I guess..I guess all the major publishers are just too easily impressed; by their marketing department hot-shot genius’s..and their mental giant-ness. En-ny-way..I

Oh, yeah! The Odyssey. What’s up with that..Homer?

I like a poem because it usually just happens, and it’s usually bad..but it happens at any rate. So that’s good at least. And it’s all based on the five senses, usually, –tastes, or smells! et cetera..sounds!! and then something jumps out that begs to tell its story; and it’s usually a stupid tale, anyway, but it happened so it’s factual in its nature, and then next you can begin to interweave the, like, spiritual into it, like, gossamer streams, literally pouring forth! the stuff that is bouncing around in there, like..for no good reason (usually); and that’s cool, –Hey! it’s just a poem. So lighten up! alright?? So last night, after ‘lights-out’ I’m laying there still awake from too much coffee and still trying to think of something that will make me go to sleep after having actual jobs later in the afternoon earlier that day adapting stoves to propane for semi-private use..and it’s a rental so it has to be safe; and propane burns real hot, much hotter than natural gas, because it’s denser! of a gas so when I picked up the burner-top thing that lays there on the top (of the burner) after testing one that was giving problems – like why the thing won’t light like it’s supposed to when the spark-igniter’s going “Klik! Klik! Klik!” and gas’s going “Hiss! Hiss! Hiss!” – I burned my thumb and finger pretty good! and dropped that cap-thing on the stove-top fast, “Klack!” (the sound it made..because, you know, propane). Anyway, I’m laying there in darkness and I’m thinking and it’s really,REALLY! dark, and there’s almost, like, these forms in it, moving ever so slowly; so I opened my eyes to see and there’s almost entirely no difference, actually. So then I went, “Huh!” and closed ’em again, my eyes, well, one of them doesn’t really count, in the plural ‘sense’ because that time when a shotgun pellet entered into it right in the center, DEAD CENTER of my retina, thuh re-ti-na, because of my friend Tom he pulled the trigger, just when I looked and I really got ‘triggered’ when that took out almost all of what it sees, thee eye, and which later..become 100-percent blind, or totally blind you might say years after, so if it’s open, or it’s shut, now, it don’t matter. It ain’t seeing nothing (PERIOD) and that, I guess it is an open and shut case..like one of Perry Mason’s. But lately, it’s starting to bother me more and more, progressively, –not that I’m a ‘progressive’ or anything remotely resembling that ideology..also called liberalism, socialism, or any other kind of ‘ism’. But, so I’m laying there just trying to get into dreaming some conservative, non-communist dreams to get ‘rested up’ for tomorrow ’cause we have to go to a wedding, a REAL wedding, with two actual biological persons..so I start thinking about a motorcycle, and why my wife won’t let me have another one, for some sh*tty reason or other; and that’s actually it..it ain’t ever gonna happen! unless –? but that’s too much mental work to think about and I’m never getting to sleep that way dwelling on all of that, like, like..yeah! “Goin’ down that long, lonesome hi-igh-way..gonna, live life my way!” yeah, that’s a nice song and sung sweetly, too, by Mister Parks! that might work..like a lullaby, even, lull me ta-sleep on a Harley Sportster; and perchance dream, like Ronald Reagan, –like the real Ronald Reagan said, “The 8 scariest words in the English language are: We’re from the government, we’re here to help!” Yeah. My wife bought me that on a shirt..at a yardsale, Reagan’s immortal words. Now I’m never going to get any sleep..am I. So I guess I better move on (dot-org) from Michael – Then Came Bronson – Parks and park my ass under some trees in the shade, softly moaning and swaying with a breeze, yeah, trees, breeze, that’ll work! next to the ocean up the coast, and a little steamer steaming along on the horizon under some nice puffy, white clouds, yeah, that’s the most! now we’re getting somewhere, treeze, bree’s, long, lonesome, uh, road! toad, toad-lit road..getting towed. Whatever. Darkness, now, is starting to yield herself to pleasanter thoughts..not about Iran-Contra or any of that other propaganda-B-s stuff, like, UNELECTABLE! GRABS PUSSY!! what a bunch of pussy’s these feckless marxists are..Pussy-gate,PUSSYGATE! in the headlines all day long, “What’s new? Pussy-gate! Whoah! oh, who-ah-who-ah!” Whoah, stop. Okay that’s not working to get me any sleep, hmm, –“Zz-zzz..” Who said that?? Oh, the wife. Well, at least the politic’s is getting some, someone some sleep..actually. ZZ-zzz..Zzz, –Ah-Ah-Ahh..CHOO!! God bless you! (#ME TOO)

~c.

P-s: I love you

P-P-s: Oh yeah, why the thing wouldn’t light..the hole in the side was plugged-up, so I poked it out with a wire. And then it lit,The end. Oh! yeah and I forgot to mention I’m almost outta gas in the Jeep because when I went across town to do the job I stopped at all the auto-part’s stores to pick up parts for the Pin-to, which is going to run again, soon; and then I only had six bucks left..so I got about a gallon-and-a-half..still on EMPTY (like the poetry). Chow..Wow! but at least I got new grease-seals for the front wheel-bearings; plus a new tune-up/re-build kit for the carburetor (at least). Good night. Goodnight, sweet prince. Mm! maybe if I can get to sleep now and I’ll wake up and there’ll be a ‘hog’ next to my bed warming up, toes, “Po-tato! po-ta-toe! potato,POTA-TOE’s!” Nice! anymore, not ridin’ rice; and potatoe’s, Zz-zzz..Zzz

Are school-bus rides to school in the early morning hour the same as when we were kids, back during the fifties, early sixties..and all the nuclear panic? droll drills, duck and cover, and all of that?? I think not! I remember all the jeering, and cheering of pandemonium-makers on those somber, jarring rides, ruffians wrestling back and forth on stiff school-bus seats by open windows of adjustable height that we had liberty to select, –all UP, or all DOWN..and anywhere in between, roaring to the next stop to the CHIRP! of air-brakes and pick up more anarchists to deliver into the hands of indoctrinators in classrooms at each of the several schools distributed about town. They were cool times..cold, even! it was the Cold War. And normal, too, gliding in on a trail of diesel smokes to an abrupt stop, front of the main office where secretaries manned the telephones beneath flickering shadows of a giant American flag, military issue, waving high overhead under blue skies – proudly, and strictly according to code – proclaiming us all joint heirs of the Republic, never,EVER! defeated in battle..or any other thing, our Christian foundations, there, sturdy and sure, to carry us confidently through any horrible development that might develop (horribly); like a brooding, nationally televised international crisis, wrought through failures of diplomacy between our leadership, and a belligerent foreign power; or the assassination of a president, splashed serially across covers of LIFE; and the failure of milk to arrive on the front porch – before dad’s blasted off at 5 am for the daily grind working defense industry jobs – due to some unforeseen tragedy involving the milk-man..his wife was cheating with the realtor-guy. From that interruption of local goods and services – enough of an inconvenience already – to Cronkite breaking in on Perry Mason and bringing us the latest update about Russian missiles being set up and aimed at us from Cuba, there was relatively little need for ‘Gus’ the bus-driver to worry about the sudden explosions of laughter obliterating the steady rhythms of taunts and chatter, echoing gangster fashion from the back bench-seat at the rear EMERGENCY door, to his hairy deaf ears behind the steering-wheel, the din and furor escaping from inside the school-bus and reaching into nearby windows of neighbors in the neighborhoods, as our yellow-orange juggernaut of un-chained youthful energy passed by, oblivious to bacon and eggs and toast on a plate, bathed in rays of a morning sun, being presented willy-nilly to high-schoolers on the verge of grabbing textbooks, and jumping in automobiles smoking a sweet smell of pure hi-octane..to put a lump of energy in their gut so they could make it to the lunch hour, through math classes and history and civics lessons..band practice, et cetera, etc., beginning in the home room classroom by reciting..in unison: “I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America..and to The Republic, for which..” and so on, and so on. Yes. I don’t believe we shall ever see those days again, –“one nation, under God..”

~c.