‘One Eye’s’ sittin’ by the fire with a two-eye cat, we’re keeping an eye on it (between the THREE of them). Here comes the retriever-dog, “Now don’t touch that cat, Boss! you’ll get the asian cat-germs, or feline kitty-flu..Whew!!” (sorry, ‘GOLDIE’). Outside, wind’s puffing up a storm. Cars are in full revolt, have to break the strike, there, make ’em go back to work. They don’t like to work in the snow..chains and all that; and even if they’re willing, the Nazi Department of Fascist Vehicular Communism’s – NDFVC (aka, Union of Totalitarian Diversity’s, or UTD..same as NKVD) – won’t let its members participate in unregulated regurgitations of interstate commerce’s, like, for example, drive to the store for milk and bread..some eggs (if the chickens don’t ‘chicken’ out because of, oh, whatever agency handles that). They have to have their fees paid for the permit’s process..plus whatever else; and all of the rest of it (got-chore ration book o’ ration-stamps?). So we live in this small town; and we have all our small town rights, here..like ZERO uv um. Yep. And so now the rest of the country is learning – like we had to, gradually, over half a lifetime’s span of years – that all the rights we can have is all the rights they want to give us (does not depend how you define IS). San Bernardino County (IS a place). All the sh** starts here; then it rolls downhill, uphill, through the canyons, over the hill and over the dale, eventually..hits the dusty trail, as the caissons go rol-ling a-long! Oh yeah, that’s, uh, –we are all real high spirited about all the junk from the county (you don’t want to see the paperwork, you don’t, trust me); we’re living in a Dostoevskian novel by the dump, it’s run by The County like everything else..as those tourists! go driving along (in new Tesla’s): “For it’s Hi! hi! Hee! in the field artillery, call out your numbers, –” boys..Yes, I am goo-wate-foe fo’ wiv-eeng in a fweeking tw0-ist twap foe fweecing da peep-hole’s who wants to go snow-bow-ding up and down the hee-ol, o! da wiv-wong day, –Hey! Wight, Wong? White (that’s my pwi-vo-idge, white, wight? wong). Ok. So now as I was saying, it all starts with The County, –of San Boo!no-dee-no; and next it’s what you get all across the rest of the country. First they try it here, and then they wait to see what crowd control measures are needed to make it work; and shortly, it’s federal rules, passed by the senate, signed by ‘the pwesident’, –wead Vice: “I want fwee-dom!” (yeahh, fweedumb is fwee, YAY! Kam-mie-hay-wiss..wet it wing); and ‘Jimmy’d into practice with the enforcement technique’s shipped here by chi-na, getting commenced..now! or installed (with soo-vay-wance). So do we have a government, still? or does a government got us? (not beinggoverned,bein’ranched,bi-da’humanbeans,dat’s’US’). So I have a friend, I just found about what happened with him..I didn’t even know he moved out of commiefornia, till today. Someone known to us who just started driving semi-trucks, cross-country – and all over the road getting stuck in mud – caught up with him, being jammed by a county, at his new residence in Bumfork, Saouf Far-o-lina (not his real state) and looks like it’s about the same place he just left (because of the left, –left-wing, knee-jerk..liberal commie-pinko non-beanery’s (read FAG’s; and if you can’t say anything nice about them don’t say nothing..about the Left-wing, knee-jerk liberal commie-pinko-fags). So..it all starts in sanbernardinocounty, here. Yep. Just like the FEEMAW camps (federal exemplars of economical machinations against a working-class) set up for the, uh, twuck-dwiving, –for instance. Yep..all of those – in, or out-of-staters – of whom, dey’s big-rig diesels does not comply wit’ de clean-air standards, out dere, on dee LEFT coast. Hey you! yeah, you..Mister Wannabe Truck-driver. You want to enjoy the fwee-dom of the open road? wit’ 18 wheels rollin’, 8-Track’s blaring CONVOY’s soun’track over all the C-B chit-chat’s modulating, an’ screaming Jake-brake’s thundering, over ‘n’ down the hill..Dale? Be my guest! This so-called government with its legions of sham lawyers scamming tax-pee’rs off all their FAKE legislation’s in Dee-cee during the ‘regualr’ business of congress over all the face of the earth does to your head what happens to ONE’s on a bad day in the movie SCANNERS, –Ka-blooey! yeah..Fweedom! great game of 3-CARD-molly spread over three pages left of your US CONSTITUTION (Bye, now.)

~c.

P-s: Great society..Wot?

When you recognize the sheer numbers of government employees cashing paychecks across the board with zero qualifications you must acknowledge the iron boots being installed on us are reaching the millions as we speak, and though, presently, this is mostly figurative speech (kind of like Poetry), for waiving the actual physical torture we are paying an exorbitant price..in terms of liberty, property, and life’s savings, i.e., human dignity, –et cetera, et cetera; this is what we have grudgingly come to accept as the sort of SOFT TOTALITARIANISM lodged in our mists.

~Scruffy O’Well

P-s: Your next, pal.

Things I miss not ever doing (with you): Riding with you into the setting sun on a bulldozer, going off the cliff (playing a saxophone naked); watching the sharks, just the two of us and a friendly octopus, sharing sushi fresh off the shell; eating strange meat downtown on noodles, with the chop-sticks..fast; doing secret-agent work for a foreign government, shoot the guns and run and get on the plane; kissing your cherry-red lips backed by the sunset, and the cliff above us going up higher and higher, fast..fast, fast,FAST! Why not? bulldozers are heavy..like, tanks! You’re welcome..like.

~c.

P-s: Did I forget anything? Oh yeah! book a couple seats on one of Elon’s space-launches..by the window, get up there and watch the earth-rise..from the moon!!

Your covid breath, when we kiss it’s the kiss of death, oh! nearly forgot to get all the booster’s. Then when we get our middle class 700-dollar gas-relief credit-cards, we shall go on a spending spree..we’ll spay the dog and cook the frog, then we’ll have our lunch and turn on the TV! and the president – or his hag – will explain why we have to get the shots; and then we’ll drop a few fentanyl’s..that explains our lot. We can get jobs working for illegals, yeah, great! in their house – in whatever state – paid for by china that the government gave them, –au pair, that’s us,US! us citizens, us..US! US!! USA! USA! USA! yeah, changing third world diapers for the handicapped. Wash the dishes*, Go! get busted for a white hate-crime. Yes, Dan, we understan’..

~c.

* But! do you, unnerstan, Stan..about the lemon-fresh JOY?? I can see myself!

A poet! a poet must do all the heavy lifting in this world, since days be-fore yore, having the task of thrilling hearts of all the girls, no easy chore! (stuck there on the shore, Archimedes..Archimedes, among the bikini’s); ’cause eventually, and probably under a harvest moon, you’ll run into an amazon giantess’s heart of stone, a boulder, that! which refuses to swoon no matter what yarn you may spin her with golden threads and silver trim, toiling, over a milliner’s wheel just so she can have, –her new, adorable hat! (that filthy Fifth Avenue, rr-rat) and at this BEWARE, –you can easily get yourself a poetry hernia trying – affectionately – to lift that cold, cold thing they call a heart, a job that..turns out to be nigh impossible!! (and thankless, too! painting your self in a corner – poetically – with fashionable leftover’s); and so then what’s to do? You must wander, wander, Sire! wan-der, sir poet-knight..all your last deplorable days spent on this desert island they call a planet, wander! wearing a poet-truss..is it any wonder? you don’ wan’ it, you know you don’t! (trus’ me on that). So my advice with that to you, my poet-friend, is this: Write your poor words, if WRITE! you must, scribble down them doggerel’s and stuff, going, “BOW-WOW-WOW!” and stuff ’em in a sack! carry the undiscovered evidence of that aching, sorrowful heart with you to a watery grave in words solitary and brave..unyielding, o! my soul, treading earth’s dry paths with unbent back along the way like a whale and his song, coursing deep in ocean’s streams, there! and there they’ll maybe find your poem someday, perhaps, –under an octopus’s rock; but you won’t be there..happy in heaven, walking erect.

~c.

P-s: Now that one wasn’t that so bad, was it..Sweet-heart?

Dear Doctor, You meet the nicest people stretched out on the table doing the emergency-thing, “Scalpel!” Great place to break in new material, too, since you got a captive audience, there..sometimes it’s a hard room to work, though; oh, but I think I figured out why they knock me out before they get started. Anyway that’s all I got, thanks for the support along the way, I certainly wouldn’t trade you guys for all the political tea in China..chow.

Love, the Hilliard-Robertson’s

P-s: And avoid direct contact with electricity, that’s this layman’s advice. (Take my poem..PLEASE!)

A poem’s a poem’s a poem,Zzz! and; I think, therefore I’m a poet..don’t ya know it: snows of Kilimanjaro! will fix it, (don’t blow it). But seriously, though, poetry – IF it’s handled right – helps rid us of society’s blight, o! you wondrous art, you!! (and) carries us to a place beyond petty strife to a world of bliss! “..of bliss and rapture, a nobler world” (ditto,&et cetera,etc); and a poem sung, that’s the dizzying heights..Zzz! but a poetry contest won, that’s..that’s The Impossible Dream (so it would seem). Now you! you, for instance, you take THIS poem..PLEASE!! Thank you! thank you veruh much, that’s it, that’s all, I’m off (outta here), set my sails for..Blue Hawaii, –Ow-oo!

~c.

P-s: Ow-wooo! the surf-wolf’s of London..Could you pass me a Kleen-ex, please? Zzz!

Hi, dear! My new year’s resolution is write you..one good poem: here I, at the truck-stop, sit (all alone), –Hey! well, so, it’s not the new year YET so I still got time to write you a couple of the other kind you can bet, well, –i can’t recommend gam-bling but! a little rambling’s fine, long as you have to hit the wet, cold highway in a old semi-truck! take along some oils, and paint-brushes, and an easel; and a couple bottles of beer (for luck). You never know when inspiration might..hit you up, –here comes ‘moaning’ Lisa right now, with that, steaming pot-of-coffee in her delicate hand, Wow! to re-fill my cup..soon it’ll be after lunch. Maybe she’ll sit for a pose, (SIGH!) she has such the perfect nose (and she don’t complain much); and all the other truckers agree! she is thee..most phenomenal waitress here at our favorite greasy spoon cafe on the north end of Independence town along the old highway, that gets us, eventually, if we turn eastwards a little, to..Knoxville, Tennessee! see? (Right.) And along the way there’s bound to be loads of snow they’re saying it on the weather-report; already lots coming down in the parking area now, so..Baby do you wanna go? Well hop on up here then, Lisa, darling, oh! and by the way..be a dear and put on the tire-chains for me while I find us something to listen to on the radio, –and crank the heater a little. Thanks, sweetheart! guess that’s all I know; other than fire up that diesel-motor squeak off them air-brakes, and jam’mer in gear! And let’s roll, “HONK! HONK!” yeah..roll on outta here. Yeah!

~c.

P-s: Bye, now..stay safe!

What’s Christmas? The smell of sap and pine needles in the living room..a pie, and other sweet things cooking in the oven? Friends and family sitting and talking; earlier that day, shopping for a big meal and ransacking department stores searching for the right, last minute gift. Colored strings of lights and candles, and a fire in the fireplace; a cat by that fire. Laying in bed, lately, thinking of family, and remembering back over half a century, when we expected to wake up and see the evidence of a mysterious late night visit by a Mr. Claus..aka, ‘Saint Nick’ (he got da cookies). I grew up by the church, where – as a baby – I had my head sprinkled with water out of the silver basin by the minister of that church. That minister was dear old Dad. One Christmas we didn’t have a tree until Christmas Eve because Christmas happened on such and such a day; and so for whatever reason, the tree stood up in the church would no longer be needed there after the Christmas Eve service and it was a short evening journey for that tree, under stars, coming over to our house, across the lawn from the place of worship (the first recycled Christmas tree?) And by next sunrise, a generous pile of gifts had appeared, laying around, and under it, for me and my sister..my sister, and myself (a little later there was another sister). Somehow I survived being the preachers’ kid; and somehow they survived me being a son and a brother. Maybe, I’m too hard on myself, or maybe I’m too easy..maybe both; but I know what I remember about what I put my family through and it wasn’t always pretty, or nice. God in his infinite mercy has allowed me to forget a lot about my earlier days (I guess it’s called receiving forgiveness, and taking it to heart). When we hurt people in our lives, at the time we may not give it much thought; but later on in life, there’s hell to pay. That’s also called a conscience. What can I do to fix the damages? Not much, nothing, really. But this is where Jesus came to wash my sins away. He came into this world just like all of the rest of us; but when he got old enough to start doing wickedly (which doesn’t take long), he chose to obey God, his Father..in heaven. He never made that sinful choice, but always read the scriptures and kept the Father in his pure heart..safe at all times. Before he began his earthly ministry he gave opportunity to the devil to tempt him into disobedience when he was starving to death in a desert place..led there by The Spirit; and through it he came out, perfect in obedience..the perfect sacrifice, pleasing to God. As it began, so it ended. But what is Christmas? It is about what God has been telling us from the beginning..how much He loves us; but the enemy of creation wants to make us think it is all about us; or any other thing besides, “..the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” A baby! worshipped, and adored..by shepherds, first, we are told, in the Holy scriptures; and later by wise and learned men, who probably knew something of astronomy, and followed a star to the spot, bringing the young king precious gifts..men used by God to provide for his Son, born to a family of no wealth. A baby! we all know a baby, tender and sweet..what we once were. And how quickly we forget; but knowing Jesus returns us to a child’s simple faith. God will use any of us to advance the cause of saving souls out of sin and death, and into his kingdom..available to all. Will he use me? Will I let him? Count the cost (Luke 14:28) and (Matthew 16:26) “What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall man give in exchange for his own soul?” He gave all for us..from manger, to cross. Merry Christmas, God bless

Arpeggios. Broken arpeggio’s and fragmented poems. Things happen so fast these days for ANYthing to complete..let alone a poem! (yeah, let th a t alone). Hymn’s R good..R Us! that’s my new pronoun, btw. I’m a ‘hymn’, get it? like Hymn’s and Her’s towels? Her-mes’ towels?? (little Greek mythology for you, there, got your pathos..got-chore trajos). “Hmm, Good!” Yeah, whatever..well at least I’m not a homonh-hymn, that’s two persons who are t h a t way and sound alike, “WAH! WAH!” Thanks, George, yeah..Yeah, yeah,YEAH! Yeah; and over there in Scamdinavia, where – historically – thee es-EE-ex,SEX! it’s all free for the asking; like Copenhagen, for example: “Di’dju ax me something?” And I just saw this story, yeah, I read it, and I kind of..shlepp’d on it, right?? and over there..where there IS a there, there (incidentally) they’re throwing them in jail over their pronouns abuses; over there..for real’s! and that’s the alphabeteers doin’ it, too, doin’ it to their own self’s!, (activist LBGTQ+/-,+++–?** att’ys working their mouse’s like slaves..pocket meece’s) and THEIR pronouns, eating their own kind, –TO PEEZ-ZEZ!! and getting 3 to 5, to LIFE! for it over misuse of titles in a simple conversation!! the ‘guys’,ze UPPITY BOY’s, zaire, ze R beating down zee downtrodden ‘girlz’! civilly, in a civil court of law, of course:”But Your Honour, she/ze..Z1R did it! for ‘art’.” Lettum alone, lettum go, I rest my case. Let z e m alone and (maybe) tzey’ll go home..and annihilate tzeirselves..their persons, theirselves, –Thanks, Gloria..wagging zaire tails behind (zem?), thanks, –‘Hef’; and then we won’t have to be bothered with any of it. Anymore (for awhile). And anymore, too, the language is such a mess! thee English, right? hev you looked?? All the commies have took it over; and we’ve just stood by #their..and watched it happen. Again! So anyway my other pronoun besides hymn is ‘carol’. “Yeah, that’s him, Carol, lock him up, Carol, he’s Carol, he dood it..Carol done it!” (Thanks, ‘Mark’.) And that is what happened. I was in this line-up, see? and got positively identified by a victim of a hate-crime (alleged victim). A HATE CRIME?? wtf (wutfelony) is that?????????? Anyway, they rounded us all up, bunch of us feckless “My goodness!”‘s here, based on our pastes,Ahem! R pasts, –R parts..OUR PRO-FILES! and such so the ‘hate-crime-ee’ could have a look through the little two-way mirror/window-thing to see if any of us did it (to little ‘Ze’, based on the description given, of the perp). Heck, we all did it, –Did what?? A hat-crime, or whatever, –WHAT? oh, I meant to type, HATE CRIME..Thabks Obamma, “No noose is good noose!” Oh..Is there such a thing as ‘hat-crime’? Stick around and find out. Surely somebody’s done it and we’ll find out who (pronoun) are. And don’t call me SURELY! My pronouns is Hymn; Hymn and Carol; and Ted and Alice..we’re all together in this, –bed! Who done it, Hollywood!, wot? Second base! Well who’s the third-baseman? Never mind..can I say shortstop? No. Because the Midgets’ Coalition, or EMCEE*, will get you for that..Shirley. I don’t give a darn! “Oh-h-h, that’s the umpire..” (rats). Anybody remember ‘Art’ Buchwald? (he’s a homonym, too, btw..’semi’ homonym). He wrote those syndicated column’s on DC politics daily, back in the day..’Mom’ (that was her pronoun) loved it..read him in her LA TIMES each morning, and shared the happiness; and he was such a princess about it, too, with all his satire rolling out of the typewriter for hours and hours, “Klak..klak! Klikety-klak!” (keeping neighbors awake) so! his pronouns just hadda be..Di; ‘Di’ and ‘Jew’ – short ‘I’ in Di – as in,”Di-dju, di’dju..hear-dat?” Now..I know somebody’s light probably went on as soon as I started typing, here, at 2 a.m., –for no good reason!! (other than make a scene out of a ‘hate-crime’) but..so, by now – for a test, on all that fancy, new office equipment your taxes just bought – they’re probably on their way over here RIGHT NOW to collect me,ME! and my typewriter, without so much as reading my rights (or poem). WHAT RIGHTS?????????????? DIDJUHEARDAT! I hear’d dat, –rats..deh human rat’s..WAR AND PEAS. So anyway here we all R an’ all da pronouns, in dis, this..dysfunctional line-up, within keen hearing distance of all of each others’ pronouns being bandied recklessly about, this holiday season, HAPPY HOLIDAY’s (and all the BONUS ones, too, Tutu! ohh, the humanity); and the (your pronoun here, hear? ze?? hear-say, get it?) says, “Yeah that person..” and the detectives, yeahh, all of you! all of youse guys – or whatever – ya-ll look at each other, like, obviously very disturbed; or flum-moxed, or some-thing (over what you just heard, or think you heard); and say to the (pronoun), “We don’t find that PRONOUN in our playbook, it says here its use is no longer valid..for use.” “What..” “You need another word.” “Huh??” “You can’t say PERSON out of context..I think the line-up’s blown, (pronoun).” “Who blew it?” “No. That’s incorrect. Who blew WHOM?” “I don’t know aks that pronoun over there, (pronoun) looks guilty as sin.” “Who..” “Hymn.” “That’s a pronoun? I’ll have to aks R handler about that, –Ze Hungarian..” “But..” “Shh! I’m dialing..how do (p-n.) spell dat?” “I don’t know! okay make it ‘Ham’..Ham o’r’Eye.” “A-hem..Ham or ME!, excuse..>Hi..No, no, Boss..OK, –wut..wut u say?? I can’ unnerstan’ your English! yeah, right..o-kay..thank..Thank you. Ver-uh much. Yeah-bye!'< Nope, can't use it. Zai're saying it's invalid, –HYMN don't work no more, see? says it right there." "Yeahh, what's up with that? Hey, you! 'Hymn' don't work..got any other pronouns?" "Carol." "Car-rol?!" "No, –carol..like, CHRISTMAS CAROL?" Oy! oy-oy-oy, –That's it! I'm outta here, ahh! all o' youse pronouns..uh, "Merry Christmas, God bless!!"

~c.

P-s: What are your pronouns? and, so, –“Hey! do we get equal time for the adjective’s??” No! no equal time (..and helping-verbs will not help you you can bet); and just to get all the metaphorical ducks in a row, here, so to speak, my next pronouns are “Bond, (&)James Bond.”, there! all ducks are goose-shlepping in lock-step, all sausages are linked! Shh! no, shay it like 007, “Shau-shau-jezz..” Okay, thanks..Happy New Year, too!

** “For you-or Hat-crime, I zen-tence you to read chrisrobertsons’ poem; and type me up a five-page essay on it, entitled, WHY CHIRSROBERTSON’S THE WORLD’S FINEST POET! and I want it on my desk by 10 am tomorrow morning!”

* EMCEE..acronym for 501-c oganization, –Ethical Midgets Confounding Eternal Entity’s, Thee end?

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