the error of my ways


My daughter was one of eight teenagers shot at that party.

When I got to the hospital she was still in the resuscitation area .  I forced my way to the gurney.  Her eyes were wide with fear and pleading as the ER team frantically worked on her.  She slowly turned her head toward me as I cried, “Baby!”, and then her eyes turned glassy.  The cops had to pull me to ground.  I heard the cry of the monitors as their signals terminated.  Someone was screaming.  It was me.

I saw my wife running.  She was running to me but I couldn’t hear her.  I was a pair of eyes floating where my soul had vanished.  My face was hot and wet.  My heart dripped in snot to the floor.  I was defeated and I tried to die, I mentally willed myself to die, running after the death train taking away my baby.

My wife was religious and I saw the blow by the same Hand that she grasped at to hang on to.  We were parted forever at that moment.  Until death did we part.  I could not reach her.  She became a figure in the flat landscape.  I became a stranger in a strange land.

I was going to kill the boy who did this but a cop was saying they caught him.  He was a gang member who had made his bones with my baby.  I could not touch him for years.  I simply then decided to kill his family.  I was already in Hell without a soul.

I cooperated with the district attorney.  My baby was the only one who died.  I was so calm and soulless as they promised their enlightened justice that the cops did not protect the killer’s family.  I found his family in good time,  patiently and methodically.

I trapped them in their church one evening praying for their son.  I held the gun I had taken from my friend’s house.  I used my cell phone to show the cops the killer’s father, mother, sisters, brothers, grand parents, tied  with wire nooses that I had carefully fashioned.  I demanded that they get the killer to see this.  I was calm and reasonable and the cops thought that they could negotiate with the distraught but civilized grieving father.

I was conducting my own death train.

I demanded that the TV news be given the feed.  Yes, I was going to feed them.

The killer looked like a scared boy.  I told him I was going to make my own bones.  I held the camera to his mother and his baby sister.  The boy started to cry that he was sorry.

I lead his mother behind the altar and she screamed as I covered her mouth.  I fired a shot into the statue of the weeping Mary.

I lead his baby sister behind the altar.  She screamed and I covered her mouth.  I shot the statue of the baby Jesus.

The cops had figured out where we were and they arrived as I made the last family member scream.  Unseen by the eye of the camera the statue of Jesus on the cross shattered with my final bullet.

The boy had fainted.  The newscasters were in an impotent panic.

I held the gun over my head as I emerged from the church to face the battalion of cops.  The SWAT team had already discovered the family bound, gagged and unharmed.

“I’m coming, baby!”

I lowered my gun at the cops.







Follow This Link To My SITE

But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS


中華民國 EVERY REVOLUTIONARY KNOWS 東風, 东风強國, 强国 (a collection of poems)


Contents (click)




PAPA GOOSE – “El Burro Viejo (The Old Burro)”. 38

























Dr. Seuss and Dos Equis. 114





Kenny In The Crosswinds. 124

Where the Hours Clanged and Fell 127






In Prison some reading is allowed;

Never any writing.

Write with milk on paper.

Nothing can be seen.

If the paper is gently heated

The Words appear.

Eastern Wind used the milk of her own breasts

Writing in the margins of a book

After her child was taken.

That book was discovered.

These are the true words of Eastern Wind:

My aunt told us one by one

To love, to take care of wife or husband.

She quietly arranged in time

To have us safe.

The Army came to take away our father.

His methods had brought us half-way

To a new history in half a day.

I carried only a cup on my back,

North to Peking.

I joined Peking University

To study ballet.

In the dawn I was seen running

With a notebook on my back

Holding a pen in my teeth.

I compared myself with the competition.

To graduate I feared

I would have to change my tonsils.

Yet I performed a Slogan

Making all the others

Look like an illness ward.

I learned to exploit the museum.

I was not bad.

Not only was there never a matter,

I also had no need to mend cloth.

I could not but admire

The unit step of the Army.

I would attend the drill ground

Every dawn.

Only later would I visit

The restaurant with the grass floor.

I would have a dish of fry and tea,

Nearly often lacking something,

As the Great Wall lacks

Factory buildings.

I would sing measured words of the scene

From my bus to the workshop station.

I wore an Achievement Shirt.

I had set-up production

Within the city wall.

To eat, to grow, to set out,

I was now full of the blood

Drawn in early February.

I saw my way out was to become

A kitchen cook,

“To wear the window to bed”

As it is said.

I wanted to cook at the Spring Festival.

In Spring, a measured word from the past

Will go from village to village.

A bag of flour

Will be taken by a doctor

To the Delegation Unit.

Milk will be smeared with a knife

On a cutting block.

Rice was the reason.


A structural particle

We must wait to get.

When it is low,

Your enemies cannot resist.


Hunger is an evil recompense.

Show your younger brother,

Looking for his place on some map,

Before he turns on the electric light,

Reads the telegram,

And telephones the machinery plant:

“Understanding freezes all reason”.

Struggle to reach independence only.

Stretch the short degrees of temper.

We have the right to face how much more

Sorry we are

Of what we have to hide.

It was at this time that I met

Strong Country

Trying to issue a publication

Revealing his developed

Electric generator.

He ran a fever constantly,

Never occurring to discover

The bud of his development.

He wanted to go over the hills

Like an interpreter.

I wanted to object.

He wanted to resist.

We wanted to reflect.

We found ourselves eating rice

In the spherical room

Of a convenient restaurant

Holiday House.

He wanted to fly an aeroplane

With our very last fen.

For a minute I struggled like

A field in the wind

Before Strong Country’s measured words.

In the end we only stole soap

From the airport.

Our eyes weathered the rich scenery.

His father was a Service Attendant

Who lived nearby.

His review of us

In the measured words of Slogans

Complicated us.

He always seemed to reconstruct,

To clean,

To catch-up.

When we moved away at last,

I gratefully rushed out

Into the cold

To give thanks and to work.

If these words could just now ring

Like a piano high note

Happily to tell older brothers

Songs of revolution:

“Sing measured notes to give foundation

For every factory engineer

At his worksite

Kilometers from the worker commune.”

The worksteps of Industry

In the year of Christ

Consolidated the Communist Party.

In the village ravine

An orphan girl lived

Alone at the ancient, ancient

Historical site.

At the Imperial Palace,

Customers told stories

To blow the wind.

People wanted to hang too closely


A concerned audience

Used to irrigate Kwangchow,

But now the return journey

Is too expensive.

This country suffered from Internationalism.

Still, we,

Children at sea

Afraid to shout Chinese,

Utterly selfless,

Fine, good-looking,

Alright, laughable,

Would go to drink.

“They cannot keep closed the river”

We would sing.

It was a very black peace.

When the fierce Red Detachment of Women

Would come in thick,

Back and behind,

Later on, the day after tomorrow,

It would be breathed in the land

That those women could speak flower bouquets,

Or words to ski on,

Drawing pictorial plays

That could ruin happiness,

Send off welcome, or change, in a flutter,

A cucumber to yellow.

But their words were only to obtain,

To restore, and give answers

That may live unconscious

Like a fire in a train station.

Even the hen’s egg moved,

Excited by opportunity

As fierce as the machinery

Of the many seasons.

How many times that season

Did we plan to remember

To mail commemorations of the Spring

Shared both here

And with Strong Country’s exiled family?

We pushed the days off of our shoulder

To persist firmly in hard work,

Arduous struggle,

With a staunchness

Like a prison.

We sought to build,

Building the still future they like to speak about

In suburbs.

We were to teach ourselves,

Talking together

A symphony at picnics.

Our feet became our teachers.

Education from the streets

Took over then.

The result,

Like a holiday performance,

Liberated my older sister

Into solving her problems

Unbuttoning herself

To the Liberation Army.

From then on that golden year

We were tightly intense

To be so near

Entering the Center Spirit.

We had the appearance between us

Of a long time,

Taking places to hold

And save ourselves as we dined

Together like a giant sentence.

We wanted to feel the decision

That was a determined army.

To hold an open party

Was to begin boiled water.

There were those to make a joke,

Those to watch like jail,

Those to see like the doctor,

Those to shoulder,

Those to resist like Japanese aggression,

Those to toast with reliable thirst,

Those to pity.

All this was overcome

By the polite guest

With a mouth like a sack

Crying bitterness.

I wanted to work hard,

Painting measured words,

But soon it became too spacious

To tie-up without difficulty.

I needed to grab onto,

To come to the source.

I went to work

Like a wolf.

I went to work

At a firm

Run by my old Grandpa.

My Uncle cooked leaves

For those who watered the fruit reservoir

And spoke of flood disaster

In their sleep.

The teacher Big Pillar,

Sitting tired and cold

Half a kilometer away

In a bad haircut

Recited for me

The theory of gifts.

He gave me strength,

The strength, for example,

To connect and even

To contact history.

One day my face

Was cool from exercise.

In the cool grain store,

Big Pillar said my eyes

Were like two bright grains.

I said I wanted

To find a hunter

With a face

Like Lenin.

Big Pillar left, flowing

Like blood

Around fluent willows,

Downstairs in the building.

Down the green messy donkey road

To the hotel,

Two interrogative particles

Became a mother horse and her owner.

The owner immediately offered

To sell the animal to me.

I asked him why

I would want to buy an extra stride?

He said that for a fen

He would have the mother horse

Slowly steamrolled

On a busy street.

His name was Mao.

And he wore a towel,

His sweater, and a hat.

Never mind

What he did not wear.

He would not have every, every

Beautiful younger sister

Suffocate perplexed

At his gate.

The mother horse

Carried cooked rice,

Rice-flour, meat, cotton, bread and noodles free of charge.

Mao said

I reminded him

Of the Second Democracy Nationality Understanding.

Clearly, on that scenic spot

Someday tomorrow

A name may be found in ink,

Upon the curtain

Hide of a certain

Mother horse.

I wanted to take out

That which I was

In the hard South.

I asked Mao from inside my years:

Could he have read the age

Before hard-working peasants

Milked the land,

And girl’s held their daughters’

For warmth only?

Mao replied,

“If I could climb a hill

Without fear,

I would shoot a volleyball film

To show beside you

As you run to cultivate

And to educate

A vigorous friend

To criticize fur, beer,

And inexpensive sheets.

The poor peasant is liable

To pounce

On a ticket to a ping-pong game.”

I said, angrily,

“Aggression was the dear industry

Of the Chin dynasty.

It was as clear as youth.

It was clear

Autumn did not please the poor.

They chose not to achieve,

To pass away

The last years

Really advising weakness to the masses.”

But it was then

That I was to let in love,

Deeply, warmly,

Bustling from this warm person,

The kind of person that people,

The People,

Come to know,

To regard.

My task was to throw,


A day’s easy meat slice

To the now weak.

We took a walk three miles

To dismiss a meeting

In the Shanhaikuan Hills.

Up above the stairs

We went to discuss

The Hill wounded

And the good-hearted wounds.

“What can you do

Except to advance

In front of the day

After yesterday?”

“In the future

A gun barrel will save a knock.”

“Wives will flag a ride

At seven to catch sight

Of a money purse.”

“A thousand pencils

In a money purse

Will buy your car atmosphere.”

“God came to Shangdi

On Saturday

To go to school

Wearing a coat

And carrying a little snake.”

“A commune member was using the equipment

Of Socialism

To extend his body deep,

Deep into health.”

“Angel production

Was life,

The living allowance.”

“The rope of life is wet

With victory.”

“The cause

Is a matter for world business

In this century.

To fail

Is to lose

Ten times the time

In a stone.”

I looked at my watch.

I tuned the radio set

To the capitol.

The news

Told of a surgical operation:

A salesperson

Of an oppressed book

Was the first to receive

A blood transfusion

On the comfortable bookshelf

Of a bookstore.







Wind and Cloud and Ice

And Man who is the Fire

Claim the mountain top

Cock’s pride chortles forth

Dawning on humble mice

Cobwebs encompass windows

In gray doors peeling red


Morning ragtime worm

Cut cut orchard

Hot thick apples

Leaning trees

Amber apples

Savage love bites

Pollen weary bees

My head clock really buzzed

Wanting that gin whack

Suddenly sucking back

Lonesome blood

I asked love

To end me

Dark shore beckoning

Across brandy dreams

Desire whispers

In craters of anguish

Lanterns flicker

In abandoned white ships

Midnight deeds aroused the cherubs

Burdens churned unspoken sleep

My echoes forgot

Daytime devils dream my soul

Old bones restrain

False needs of love

Lords of vanity beckon

Deeds into stone

Ignorance proud within

Bonds old bones

Speech crashes my throat

Sober acid words

Guide my love up

Out the hot blue veil

Of half-digested empty skies

I myself thin soil


I am willing orchids

I am armored

Quivering faces

Half-closed eyes waltz

Innocent birds

Clutching wrinkled


Frail cane hands

Wrinkles slicing bony pate

Pleated gnarly rind

Eyes shuffling decades faint

Mortality’s past my

Suspender stoop

Sneakers wade molasses

Jackhammer testimony

Shakes aching man

Toward another

Sucking razor ledge


Above nature’s marathon

Perched women poised

Pushed back


You will laugh through blue smoke hues

I found a memory unused

We spoke promises not truths

Consistency unchallenged


Are you what you see?

Can you touch a reflection?

Who is listening?

Dull eyes toil

Down 50 women

Each born tourists

Hands preach plans

Tight jeans’ walk

Gyrates talk

Delicious designer illiterates

Hot arrows out eyes

Poked desire smothered

Smile weak worse advised

Silky tongue mothered

Lady summoned me

Sip poisoned tea

Tempting apples

On her hot kitchen table

Plunging teeth try to bite

Into her perfection

Bursting juice

I enter

Moon touching silky curves

Tingling floats soft fire

Stars crashing hot nerves

Strike long long desire

Beyond sane

Sitting sucking caramel

Rolling dewdrops on her tongue

Bittersweet baby doll

Sinking shadows sugarplum

Fairies twirling under lashes

Dance me to metamorphosis

Fierce hair snapping

Hips mud-brown fling

Silky legs fire dancing

Pagan secrets flare

Gods screaming stare

Diaphanous goddesses

Draping marble bodies

Pull Zeus in

To their catacomb

Osseous Acropolis

Clinging wrinkled wet

Bend Zeus


Love’s callousness

Amidst hidden carnage

Destroyed wisdom

Hammering solitary souls

Into a spaceless station

Of indefatigable enmity

Swallowing blazing stone

Celebrate sin with wine

Man fuse woman flash child

Knee ring wedding enslaved

Quietly trusting lying cheating

Door aha divorce


Cacti silent hear

Distant promises of rain

This is true praying


Mom’s breast smells sweet


Chile gonna cry cry


I’m your heartbeat

Whispering everything’s alright

Cherubs foretold

Rainbow meadows

Clouds of pear gold

Dear Lord’s way

Calming pure white

Allowed Holy

Evil’s twilight

Mortal play

Look well beyond

The breaking rain

That cloud of fire

Heaven insane

With loud desire

Out to love

Baby watch mother down the charcoal path

Cried love song

Mother smiled dancing to the nearest end

Kept silent music

Dissipating ran


Careless footprints

Now gone

Infant’s magic dream

Dim soft glow

My child fights

The darkness of freedom once

My words ignite

The soft light of ignorance


Young Leaves arise through

Litter of fallen Old Leaves

Embrace in passing!

Months burned slowly

In my town

Silence bars me

Out past two o’clock


Inside you

Another found

In rain drowned

Breath vanishes thus

Souls lost within vapors

Bide forfeited essence

Their pallbearers sway

Words hopelessly spurning





Death cosmetically at peace

Cushioned beatless soul

Tears in motorcades of grief

Families ominous

Unembalmed rolled

More yet-to-come

Child’s sadness lids this life

Books covered your faith

Lullabies played through your cares

Hope now bears you tears

Praying resounds years of pain.

Bronze melts upon desire

Into fire – and love dies

Self-sacrifice – the spirit

Feverish and mute – yet lies

To shape again the dust

Skies crack

Raven cries

Whales gasping

Salt scraps

Survivors of every desire

Run praying please favor us

To run from heaven

Rain crossed the moon

Crashing long drought

And never found love


From stimuli steel-toed

I play the floor cold

Extra harmony up my ear

I will taste decaying tears


Remember sweet treason struck angels protected

I am faithless reason whence spirits seize space

For His Holy Anchored Embrace

Before moonbeams

Before god’s despair

God’s newborn mouth

Soundless nowhere


Before God’s cry

Murderous from his cloudy chair

Over a cigarette nonchalantly

Staggered his mouth broken apart

Whispering ashes hot against me

We stand together

Frozen waterfalls waiting

For the thaw of death

I now understand

The best haiku I can write

Is the one that says




PAPA GOOSE – “El Burro Viejo (The Old Burro)”

The Sun

My friend



The hill

To lift

The edge

Of night

So tattered by the embers’ flight

The Man

My Friend


His house


To stir

With song


So sadness in my ear is sown

My eye

Is filled

The Man

My Friend

Now tithes

My trough

Sweet grain

With hay

Melaza means we work today

A blanket woven by his Wife My Friend

Adorns my saddle where he dare

Bestride me slowly with his beaten heart

And turn as if to cry good-bye

I trot along the Trail My Friend once more

To bear all sorrow down to town

Where we will trade it for a day or so

Of work together dust to dust

The bargain struck by hand to carry goods

Upon my back up there somewhere

Beyond the pass where pumas hide the moon

Machete smiles did slice the price

My hooves the hours mull with dust and salt

That smolder from the pounded ground

The strangers grow impatient with my pace

And tell the Man My Friend to tend

That Trail Of Strangers weighing on my knees

My coffin bones are spears of tears

The Man My Friend with gentle songs beside

My toil he shares with yet regret

Yet steep between the jaws of canyon walls

The waves of rocks in frozen pose

A shadow dances on my bleary eyes

My legs I lose so quit and sit

The angry strangers my existence curse

But flying words can bring no wing

So stones are cast that gouge away my fur

I bray to heaven then cries arise

The Man My Friend between the stones and me

Does intercede and begs my legs

To help me wobble like a foal again

But he is struck by stones and moans

Collapsing with me back into the dust

The strangers leave us there aware

They take our chances with their own and go

The goods upon their shoulders rolled.

The Man My Friend is moving not at all

But grave injustice I defy

To find myself arisen and I bray

I bellow and I scream extreme

Damnation on the wicked strangers’ path

When one returns despising eyes

And draws his gun and fires amiss at me

I kick at rocks that fly awry

To clatter down the narrow canyon walls

He ducks his head his fellows yell

The canyon is an echo cauldron now

I hear a rumble then again

When boulders fall and crush the strangers dead

Manojo de su dinero share

The Man My Friend and I

Viejos juntos







                                    fast, fast


Your heartbeat


On my




                        fast, fast


Your lips

Spread soft,

Your tongue tastes




                        fast, fast






All the way








                        fast, fast

Ah, ah,







                        fast, fast

Ah, ah,




Mask, hard





We both






                        fast, fast

Ah, ah,





faster, faster

Ah, ah, ah, ah

faster, faster

Ah, ah, ah, ah

faster, faster

Ah, ah, ah, ah

Now we









I hear the sweetest voices of my generation,

Beaten into megabytes of bone white pulp,

Exposing your jelly, Sphinx Kitten,

More than that I explored in the open salon, but less than that I confessed,

I, Carla Peon, howling in the alley,

Licked clean your dirty wishes,

Pondering, Kitten, mi Salvadora,

If you recalled if you recalled me,

Who, crouching by your car,

Miles away on the inside ((as always (even now)), shut out the radio of the Regime and listened to the barrio,

Who, watching minorities migrating between the clean corporate cathedrals,

Clamored and dared their children to skateboard on the crystal steps,

Who, leaning up against the brick wall beside the sign Pussy Liquor,

Felt out of place like that Peyote Coyote over there,

Who, prowling in front of Pussy Liquor,

With slow suspicion, rolled eyes over your black ’57 Chevy,

Who, opening your trunk and stowing my groceries,

Looked up for stars that might not exist anymore,

Who, knowing that all this is inevitably predictable and logically typical,

Knew all along that it was not politically correct as it was left to us,

Who, if she quits smoking, gives up coffee, exercises, slows down, understands, forgives, doesn’t care, realizes and follows-through,

Would still howl in the web for you, mi Salvadora,

Who, being born and bred inside this instigated community,

Was never weaned, and was not insured to live,

Who, upon feeling the sky drop hints of rain,

Cracked her face laughing,

Who, with me, as hot as a pizza box in your lap,

Picked cherries in winter,

Who, next morning, while assuring you that you can have your eggs “any style”,

Heard you say that you “didn’t want them that way”,

Who, under sunlight stripped by the wind,

Watched hot snow blowing on the mirror,

Who, eyes crossing to the church below,

Bowed as Peyote Coyote sniffed,

Who, stepping over the unpainted canvases on the floor,

Noticed on the bed, in thread, the eagle and the snake intertwined,

Who, seeing above, jars full of still lifeless brushes,

Knocked on the refrigerator door,

Who, finding Lover’s Nuts,

Ate hot peppers, stale, crusty tortillas, peanut-butter and Miracle Whip, with a can of Ginsberg Beer to wash it all down,

Who, balancing beer on the balcony,

Heard the yowling sirens and the barking horns,

Who, ranting against the failing social railing,

Called to the voices caught in the coal tar creosote of the telephone pole,

Who, seeing water like a green snake undulate down the alley below,

Felt the eagle flee to the back of her mind,

Who, saying Adios on the asphalt prairie,

Kissed your hand, Kitten, mi Salvadora, so warm, but imbedded with long cold nails,

Who, watching me as you drive away in a halo of fast-food wrappers,

Was numb with nostalgia,

Who, remembering that hard way home through my neighborhood,

Was afraid that you, Kitten, might never get away.





I drowned again upon my couch
Face down.  I was a floater,
Untidy, above a reef of empty bottles,
Nibbled by dreams
Not about you.

When I awoke I saw you here
Measuring my window for curtains.
“It is your birthday” I heard you say.
I had not seen you
All winter.

You walk me to the beach.
I am unshaven, unclean.
With warm strokes my clothes you keep.
Fingers of the moon reach,
Grasping waves to wash my feet.

And I kneel gasping into the water.
You lead me up to the oasis.
Our tongues together confess.
I entwine you in the salty grass,

Jab wet burrows
Hungering for morsels of
Secret life.




catalina variation final



Cita en el aeropuerto:
nuestros corazónes estallan en llamas
que nuestras lenguas no logran apaciguarse.
Una pequeña multitud se reúne.
Alguien se ríe: “Oigan, paguen cuarto!”
Los dos estamos llorando.

Encuentro en el aeropuerto
Tú encerrada por una guardia de niños
Y el ceño fruncido de tu esposo.
En la Terminal
Me arrodillo ante  mi Reina.
Los dos estamos riendo.

Te encuentro en Facebook:
¿Por qué no me respondes?
¿Por qué tienes miedo?
¿Crees que soy un payaso?
Se acabó para este Bozo.
El circo ya se fue .

Ver Vanilla Sky.
¿Nos encontraremos otra vez?
En otra vida, como los gatos,
Aquí muere tu amistad,
Y yo también sin ti,
Sin haber sido tocado por tu mano.

Yo soy un  viejo
En las colinas de Yucatán
Tú estás soñando conmigo.




Meet at the Airport:

Our hearts explode into flame

Our tongues cannot quench.

A small crowd gathers.

Someone laughs “Hey, get a room!”

We both are crying.


Meet at the Airport:

You have a shield of children

And your husband’s scowl.

At the Terminal

I kneel down before my Queen.

We both are laughing.


Find you on Facebook:

Why won’t you reply to me?

Why are you afraid?

You think I’m a clown?

It’s ended for this Bozo,

Close this circus down.


Watch Vanilla Sky.

In another life as cats,

Will we meet again?

Here your friendship dies,

And so do I without you,

Untouched by your hand.


I am an old man

In the hills of Yucatán.

You are dreaming me.





Great is God, our God,

Greatest of all, Who is our

Greatest Invention.





There’s no more pleasure;

Only easing of the pain.

You’ve surrendered me.






one last leaf in winter sky 7


One last leaf in winter sky

Beckoned cold wind, heaven sent.

Naked branches whipped awry,

Bowing down and penitent.

Trembling did they dispossess

At the weeping clouds’ advent.

I was only passing by,

Looking up to acquiesce.

When I could not circumvent

I endured to stay bone dry.





In this month of silver rains,

Orange mud from purple hill

Runs the gauntlet to my door

Uncommon, this ill verse pains,

Or angels whimperPlease chill;

Do not taunt, let’s rhyme no more!”

(Yeah, yeah.  I know)





Glistening like a pearl above Valentín’s Pizzeria,

The moon is pressing down on young Antonio’s heart marrow.

He bakes for lovers’ tongues, ‘neath the eye of Ave Maria

Glistening like a pearl.

Esmeralda saunters in, dressed to beg for Cupid’s arrow.

She orders pizza from Antonio’s fixated sueña;

Her piercing angel bites hypnotize the young caballero.

Antonio then bakes a gift just for his dulcinea.

She takes the steaming heart-shaped pizza, big as a sombrero,

Glancing back over her shoulder, the white of her sonrisa

Glistening like a pearl.




2 black sheep - 1


Two Black Sheep in the Valley of the Shadow

Hear the Shepherd call down from the Hill

“Hey, Black Sheep, don’t you know I want to help you,

But you’ve got to help me, if you will:

Got wool?”

“Yes, sir”

“Yes, sir”

“One for the Banker…“

“One for the Banker…“

“One for the Banker…“

“One for the Banker…“

“One for the Banker…“

“One for the Banker…“

“Six bags full.”





I have examined

A life not worth the living.

What now, Socrates?





Exhume me no more.

I am yet undead to you,

With a zombie love.





In all the facets of his eyes, with Meadow of the Valley burning green,

Shined rolling colors up and down the hillside petted by the wind.

Galahad the Grasshopper did thus not need to dream,

Offering to Aesop Ant, in passing, morsels of a leaf that he did love,

From high atop the towering weed, from where his heart did leap,

Called Galahad to him below, “Hey, can you stop, Aesop, my friend, and watch the spring in beauty burn?”

Aesop Ant replied, “Well, meadows do that sort of thing”, and tilting head from toil’s burn,

“You will find the Meadow is not always green,

And what is real is dreadful preparation.  Somehow does the worst upon us always leap.”

Appalled at Aesop’s rude philosophy, cried Galahad into the wind:

“What of Love?”

Aesop Ant just smiled and waved good-bye, “Good luck with Love, a Dream.”

A shadow fell on Galahad, and startled him from Aesop’s troubling Dream;

Above him saw a Butterfly alight upon the flower, wings a prism interceding for the sunlight’s burn.

“Sorry to disturb your dreaming.  I am Bethanie.”  She sipped the flower she did love.

“I am Galahad.  It is a lovely day.” His armor never shone before so green.

And Bethanie enjoined, “I hid when I was just a silly little caterpillar, dreaming of the wind.

But now I raise my wings to me and into beauty soon shall leap!”

Into every facet of his eyes did Bethanie’s true beauty leap.

Galahad did nod with every movement of her wings, to hear as if he did thus deeply dream:

“But now is time to drink the world and spill no drop into the wind.”

Then suddenly was Galahad no longer happy; something in his eyes did burn.

Added Bethanie, “But, you are welcome to accompany my journey high above the green.”

Galahad restrained himself from leaping then and there, while saying “That, I would be sure to love.”

“Can you stay apace with me?” asked Bethanie, “No matter what you love?”

Galahad without restraint said, “Yes, I can.  For I can glide the farthest of them all after I leap.”

“Then let us go while sun still shines and all the grass is green.”

Away from Galahad she fluttered like a dream.

Galahad leapt to the sky, and spread his wings to glide; to leap and glide until his legs did burn.

Down the valley to unseen horizon blew the wind.

Galahad did slowly fall apace, and finally descry not Bethanie in bygone wind.

Heart of his, a beating compass, blindly pointed love

Until the sun of that first day was no more seen to burn,

And from behind, a full moon crouched and into stars did leap.

Galahad now found himself beside a tiny creek that fell into a sandy pool, inviting him to dream.

Wearily he nibbled on a leaf, and heavy was his armor, fading green.

Far away, a Cricket choir chirping helped his spirit into slumber leap,

Rekindling desire, cherishing an unforgotten Dream.

Something cold did his way whisper, withering that Dream so green.

Waking up most suddenly from all he thought were memories still green

Galahad felt fiercely cold and bitten by the wind.

In all the facets of his eyes were tears that froze that former Dream

Of springtime months ago; Of Love.

Winter cold was gnawing now upon his heart, to death if he away could no more leap.

Beyond the gloaming garden, thence he knew not when he fell, he smelled a farmhouse fire burn.

Shivering, an ember in his heart did once more flare and burn,

Shining in all facets of his eyes, again so brightly green.

A leap

Into the wind,

Gliding for his unseen Love

With their waiting Dream,

Narrowly ajar, an open window, shining bright, perchance another dream,

Through which Galahad could see a lusty fire burn,

Embracing in the fireplace a sweet dry branch with love.

And near the windowsill in colored lights bestrewn, there stood a Christmas tree still green.

Galahad nudged through the open window, as it kept at bay the wind,

To the Christmas tree then did he leap.

Sailing to the crowning star where with that faithful leap,

Galahad, now warm beside a golden light that shined just like his Dream,

Without the wolfish winter wind,

Within him fever still did burn,

Glowing tarnished armor green.

Thus did he believe delirium brought Bethanie, in visions of his Love.

Galahad was sure that now he truly saw his Love;

All the facets of his eyes across the room did leap

Above the mantle, on the wall, inside a frame of green,

Where Bethanie, transfixed as mid-flight in a dream,

Held her wings outstretched, where interceding shadows race and burn,

Everlasting in a chambered replica of wind.

Then Galahad in flashing horror saw a pin was driven through her back, to hold her in imaginary wind.

He cried out as he leapt across the void to be beside his Love.

Tapping frantically on glass reflections in which shadows race and burn,

Slipped and fell he to the hearth.  In paralyzed despair he watched for an eternity the hellish fire leap

Until the flames revealed his fate inside a final Dream.

Into the glowing ashes dipped he tattered wings that once were green.

With wings of fire, back up to the crucifixion chamber’s frame of green

Galahad did leap his last, to lie with Bethanie and immolate his Dream.

The mingled smoke did through the open window toward unseen horizon leap.







His life was sweet no more because

His job two years ago

Was lost in economic storm.

Now, he was out of dough.

The winter came to reap his shame,

Unwelcome as he was,

Within his daughter’s basement, where

“Apply for Santa Claus”,

His daughter and her boyfriend gnawed,

“You’ve got to pay some rent!”

“But, we are Jewish!” Harry kvetched.

Yet up the stairs he went

Into the hall and out the door.

The blizzard was a shock.

The once and future Harry Palms

Behind him heard the lock.

His breath condensed into his beard,

His cheeks with cold did burn.

He got onboard the empty bus

Some money for to earn.

He got out at the Shopping Mall;

The stores so gaily lit.

Before he could apply himself

He had to give a shit.

Beside the bathroom stalls he stopped

And saw two men a’kissing.

He grabbed their collars, banged their heads.

They beat him.  Teeth a’missing,

Still Harry Palms had got the job

Of Santa Claus, First Shift.

“I guess my life is now complete”.

His pride he had to sift,

Like cat-box turds, beside his bed,

The night he set the clock

For five AM to catch the bus.

He couldn’t find his cock.

As Santa Claus he did preside

Above the World Toy™ scenes

For Children of Jerusalem,

Sponsored by Marines.

All day long the shoppers climbed

To leave their gifts of toys

And sit their children on his lap.

He almost lost his poise

When three young Persian girls appeared

In line to visit him

Dressed like ornaments with jewels

And voices like a hymn.

“I am Sofa Kush” one spoke

“And these, my sisters, be

Avesta and Daeva”.  Wise

Beyond her beauty she

Was dressed in gold, Avesta white,

And Daeva shaped in red.

The three of them leaned to his ears

And this is what they said:

Daeva: “Listen closely now,

To warn you we have come”.

Avesta: “Toys you gather here

Will harm Jerusalem”.

Said Sofa: “It’s the TNA”.

But Harry looked bemused.

“The Terror Net Alliances.

And we three stand accused

Of being traitors to our lords;

Mawlas, to whom we’re wives,

Will surely stone us three to death.

We offer you our lives:

Please help us save Jerusalem.

Allah’ cannot want this:

There are the toys that will explode

And open the Abyss.”

Poor Harry sat there so confused

Because their Sirens’ voice

Had spun enchanting arabesque

That left him with no choice

But to believe them; was he nuts?

They clearly were afraid

Of something that was going down

That wasn’t a charade.

He turned to find the host Marine

Did have his weapon drawn

And pointed at his geezer brains.

The three young girls were gone.

The mothers screamed and children ran

In chaos so appalling

The soldier had to drop his gun;

The Christmas Tree was falling

Onto his head.  The needles rained

And stuck him in the eyes.

He fell down to his knees and screamed

Vile curses to incise

Whoever had pushed o’er the Tree.

He swore in Farsi tongue

To cut the heart of those who laughed:

Three Persian girls so young

They could not hide their merry laugh,

For they had done the deed

To no Marine: a terrorist

Who thought he could mislead.

Poor Harry Palms had tumbled back

And fallen from the lair

Of Santa Claus, onto the floor,

At circling stars to stare.

“You must arise and follow us”,

He heard the Angel say.

She looked a lot like Sofa Kush

And so he did obey.

Into the Manger Scene they fled

And lifted Baby Jesus.

A trap-door opened at their feet,

So down there Harry squeezes.

Below, past tense and present fear

A tunnel lead them out

The Service Exit Door.  The girls

The parking lot did scout

As if they knew what should be, they

The World Toy™ truck did see

Without a guard nearby.  Not luck:

Avesta had the key.

So off they went with reckless speed.

On, Daeva! Sofa Kush!

Avesta! And on, Harry Palms,

But watch your sorry tush!

“Where do we go?” did Harry cry.

He saw they were pursued

By someone in a Cadillac.

He was not in the mood!

His basement room seemed pretty good,

Retreating in his mind.

If he could just get out of this

He nevermore would find

A fault within his broken life.

It always can be worse!

To Harry, like the Bible’s Job,

Jehovah seemed adverse,

Because just then they overturned

The World Toy™ truck and smashed

Right through the lobby, where the staff

Of Trumpet Towers dashed.

A shroud of smoke concealed the four,

Untangled from debris.

Avesta, Daeva, Sofa Kush,

And Harry all did flee

Into the elevator car,

Penthouse Floor they keyed

To where the Persian girls did live.

It cost not chicken feed.

But suddenly their motion stopped,

The elevator dead

One floor below the penthouse suite.

They exited instead

And ran into the studio

Of KABL Radio.

The three girls knew the DJ well.

The DJ exhaled, “Whoa!”.

Kid KABL Rock, as he was known,

Did listen to the girls

As he stared at Santa Claus,

His stoner mind in whorls.

He locked-up tight the studio

In record time, for then

Upon the door fell pounding fists

Of several angry men.

Kid KABL Rock was monitoring

The evening TV news

That pictured Harry (Santa Claus)

“Police uncovered clues

That Santa Claus had helpers who

Conspired to steal each toy

Donated for Jerusalem

Baseerah, Hebrew, Goy.”

The World Toy™ lawyers fed the news

And Sofa Kush just knew

They had to broadcast their own side

To rescue what was true.

Kid KABL Rock was ‘way ahead

And sat down at the mike

To spread the “Siege of Santa Claus”

Which children wouldn’t like.

The children listened everywhere

To hear their hero speak.

Kid KABL Rock laid down the scene

And it was getting bleak:

“Our door those men are battering down,

With force to hit home-runs.”

Kid KABL Rock beseeched the kids

To get their parent’s guns.

“Come up to Trumpet Towers, all!

To station KABL Rock!

Help us to save Santa Claus!”

He rallied them ad hoc.

Avesta cried “Time’s running out!”

But Daeva had a scheme,

“If Kid can hack the broadcast net

We can send a beam

That reaches to Jerusalem

Before they land those toys.”

Kid KABL Rock was on the case;

“His talent he employs”,

Said Sofa Kush, “to hack for fun

The broadcast net before.”

Avesta held a cell-phone high,

“I took my husband’s phone.

It has the code to detonate

The high-explosive bombs,

Before the children have to die

And grief consume their moms.”

But Harry saw the door give-in

And shatter to the floor

As men crashed through and aimed their guns

Upon the other four.

What happened next was like dream

As Harry leapt between

The gunmen and the other four,

Screaming, so obscene,

As bullets patted Harry Palms,

And so did Santa slay,

Avesta plugged the cell-phone in

Where Kid KABL did say,

As Sofa Kush a doll did throw

Toward a gunman’s face,

Avesta pushed the icon dial

And blew the coup de grace,

So fire ate alive those men

And ruptured in the lobby.

The plane above Jerusalem

Was hailing Abu Dhabi,

When in a super-nova blast

It blew to smithereens

And starred above, just like all those

Nativity night scenes.

© Based on an inebriated conversation with my brother Grant while in a Fresno bar on our way up to Yosemite to hike.







Into the party, as I gravitate

To the rugs, a couple says hello;

Bob and Cinda, fisherman and mate,

I kid you not.  Bob rolls a joint real slow

From crumbled, sticky, bud de México.

He passes it.  I take a hit and blow

The rolling smoke aside and then I cough

That I’m a grad student, and I know

Marine Biology.  But, I’m off

For this semester and I’ll tell my prof

That I will make it up.  (I know he’ll scoff.)

Oh, yeah.  So what?  The job market’s a trough.

Then Cinda rises up above the cloud

Of smoke where I am playing Philosophe.

She saunters to the kitchen where its loud

With jabber bent by turning heads; the crowd

Has eyes that open wide and then beshroud

Her brown hair and the soft and whispered smile

As Cinda navigates politely proud

In blue-jeans and a blouse that suit her style.

She opens the refrigerator while

The guys make faces like a crocodile.

So meanwhile, back upon the Persian rugs,

My words are flying out so infantile

That Bob just smiles so wryly thin and tugs

The whiskers of his beard, and then he shrugs

To Cinda who is coming back with hugs.

I tell them of my odyssey today:

Across the campus students swarm like bugs

To Science and Humanities’ display:

Cadaver Woman, naked, leaden-gray

Like plastic.  Lying on a tray,


Her heart is poked apart for hours there;

Formaldehyde perfume my nose unplugs;

As tan young girls in flowered dresses stare

With green-eyed souls and chew their long blonde hair.

Of all things, then, a bomb threat stops the fair.

But, how I got to Steven’s party here

I can’t remember, so I’ll never care.

Near Muckenthaler Ridge it all comes clear;

The laughing, music, and the clinking beer.

So Mo, and me, and Dobzhansky appear.

And there is Steven, girl upon his knee,

Inside his house.  We cross the wild frontier

Where we and all the co-eds will run free,

Debate abortion, and Society,

And watch for willing lovers, constantly.

I realize it’s past too-late o’clock

When Bob and Cinda rise and draw for me

A map to where their boat is at the dock:

286-G, the limit of the block

On Island Terminal.  No need to knock!

Near where the tuna catch is being canned,

Their blue Volkswagen van they park and lock.

Their boat of 38-odd feet is manned

By just a seal who hears us coming and

Abandons ship, deserting out of hand.

We climb below the deck, all single file.

Therein, the cluttered narrows take command.

Inside the cubby-kitchen cooking aisle

Is Bob, who’s boiling coffee grounds awhile,

Then pours it for us, sipping with a smile,

As Cinda plays for me a cassette tape

Of Beach Boy songs, all that she could compile,

My eyelids slowly drooping like a cape,

I hum with “Sail On, Sailor” to escape

The buzz from beer and smoke and get in shape

With all the coffee, dark as prophesy,

That I can hold.  I feel the coffee scrape.

Then Cinda plucks a book to show to me:

Another Road-Side (what?) Attraction (see?).

“It’s by Tom Robbins and its great”, says she.

Beside the nook where Cinda and I sit,

Bob is standing.  Both of them agree

That Disco is a platter full of shit,

And yet I argue Bee Gees now have hit

Arrangements showing cleverness and wit.

While tugging at his beard, Bob starts to grin

Real wryly.  As he listens to my skit

I know he thinks that Disco is a sin

And disregards my thesis.  I can’t win.

I change the subject, finally.  Wherein

I tell them that I like their fishing boat.

I ask them how they wound-up fishermen.

As Cinda rolls a joint, Bob clears his throat:

“Oh, I was in the Army to promote

Nguyen Van Thieu and keep his shit afloat.”

“Commanding men is mostly giving them

Activities.  (Do not give them a vote.)

Without a mission, men will cause mayhem.

One night we cruise the Province of Quáng Nam

And bullets rain a hundred RPM.”

Bob’s lips lock on the joint, and he inhales:

“A round has blown away this guy’s brainstem.

We find a bunker, running down the trails;

My men dive in and then the light impales

My eyes.  A booby-trap the bunker now unveils.”

“My men are all bomb-fragments in the wall.”

He holds his reminiscence, then exhales.

But silence is concrete between us all

As skeletons of memories start to crawl

With yellow bones.  In blood they scratch and scrawl.

He starts again, “I was discharged and got

An office job with music in the hall.

And there it was that Cinda and I caught

The sight of one another.  She was not

Unhappily divorced.  And, we both thought

That working for somebody else did suck.

Together we would have a better shot

At being happy.  So we planned our luck:

We didn’t let our spending run amuk.

I saved my pay; she sold her pick-up truck.”

“We bought this fishing boat.  It was a deal

So far away from working for a buck.

And here’s a picture of it taken real

Soon after Cinda listened my spiel

To say our boat would have her name reveal

That Cinda, in bold letters clearly drawn,

Would have no sadness to conceal.

We have our own contentment from now on,

Awakening together with the dawn,

Horizon all around, the land foregone,

The water’s edge is all that lies out there,

Where fathoms stand on soil, down thereon.

But you had better know how to repair

An engine.  Mend it ‘cause there is no spare.

Convenience like an Auto Club is rare.”

“For weeks to us no vengeful God displays,

Yet, though we live a dream of laissez faire,

The Mafia, at most ports, always pays,

But haggle not with what they do appraise,

For your catch.  Going elsewhere can take days.”

“We shop over the side for most our food.

It comes to us.  We still need culture’s ways

For beer and stuff to burn that suits our mood.”

Another fisherman comes to collude

Onboard with us, with wine, and I conclude:

These sailors (and that sailoress) will wait

For no excuse: no drink will they exclude.

“’Cause what’s the use?” says Jimmy. “To first mate,

The Cinda.”  Boyish face cannot negate

He’s captain of the Zeppelin, sedate

For such a big guy.  We four celebrate,

As we are tethered there against the tide.

“Just listen”, Cinda says.  Our words abate

And I can hear the mussel shells outside,

That cling onto the hull and congregate:

They’re clicking, snapping, drinking until late.

Our bottoms up above them share their fate.





What is the Present but the Future Past?

Reverend O.L. Duck


Moon Stream, can I row my dream

Where a sea bird flies?

Captain Breeze showing all the trees

Where freedom lies.

Sailor Shell, I can hear so well

The song inside.


I’m as light as a lover’s sigh.

I’m as free as a native child.

There’s nothin’ gonna leave me dry.

I’m gonna sail away on your smile.

Stars rise like the fireflies

Who saw high noon,

Unplanned, while a Southern band

Strummed a lazy tune,

On deck in the driftin’ wreck

Of a Tear Tycoon.


Everything I own is attached

And hung right all the time.

Good for lovin’, that’s how I hatched.

Since when is that a crime?

Big girls fit in little tales.

I warn ‘em but it always fails.


Lordy, Lordy, I won’t be long.

Just keep your motor runnin’.

Don’t let it stall.

Get it on, hard to the floor!

If you keep pullin’ over

Love will be gone.

I thought about takin’ you back, but

My love is such a short ride.

Look both ways down the track.

Problems come from both sides.

Two sides can make a one-way street:

Two sides who know not to meet.


Oh, the people we wrong

And write to while we’re falling asleep at night.

I got your letter the other day

And I had to laugh at your paragraph

The thought behind it wasn’t clear

Because the tear caught upon it made a smear.

We used to scheme and find

We lost an awful lot of loose and spare time.

Wherever we went, sparks drew tears.

Like victims allied we had to decide:

If we needed that then we’re destroyed,

And nothing is something to avoid.

But our love grew stronger and it evolved

And ate only the people who were involved.

© 1974 Zelmo Mutz Publishing

Katmancross Agency, WI




O.L. DUCK clay bust


Travis has come.

Some say he’s a bum.

White is his hat.

That’s enough of that.

Travis likes beer.

None have we here.

Soon he’ll be a Dad.

That is not so bad.

What did you expect?

Travis had come.






November 20, 1980

We love you.

That will never pass

Though all else seems to end.

Hey, fuzzy guy,

We love you.

You are still

Our little friend.

This morning was clear and bright

But it was not right.

The warm sun was out of place

Because you hid your sweet face

Beneath the garden

Where you would play

And capture butterflies

On their way,

Or touch the water

Against your fears.

We wish you were here now

To touch our tears.

Last night

With the moon so nearly full

We let you rest


On my shirt

While your sister played


In the open dirt.

We held a simple light

And stroked your pretty fur.

You were so peacefully with us

We wondered where you were.

You even had your sleepy smile

As we scratched your little cheek.

The sorrow fell

In shovelfuls

And buried us complete.

We love you.

That is never good-bye.

We love you,

We love you,

We love you,

She and I.





If you are not going anywhere, you might as well do it some other place.

– Reverend O.L. Duck


We never thought about tomorrow.

We couldn’t care if it got lost along the way.

We never heard about those headlines.

We were young and thought we’d always be that way.

Flying kites or playing soldier

We always had a different game for every day.

We never died we just go older.

We found, my friends, that is very hard to play.


I don’t know why we ever let them take it

When we could have had it all.

I don’t know if we’re even going to make it.

And we could have had it all

I had a dream about tomorrow.

I thought I saw the friends I’d left along the way.

They asked me why we all seemed strangers

And I tried but there was nothing I could say.

It seems to me we’ve all been taken.

I wouldn’t tell you what I traded for my soul.

We only hear about the headlines

Now that growing older is our goal.


Image in my window.

I still see you leaving.

What could I have said, though,

If I had been here?

Oh, I didn’t know

You needed me.

Looking through my mirror

I wish I could die.

Could it be any clearer

Than the tear in my eye?

Oh, I didn’t know

You needed me.

Silhouettes in hallways.

Your voice at the door.

I always had you my way

But I can’t anymore.

Oh, I didn’t know

That I needed you.


July morning on the town

Cat-curled people sleeping.

Children in another room

Hiding what they’re seeking.

Stars rolled wearily down the hill.

Promises they carried.

The year after high-school went so fast,

And now I hear you’re married.


What’s the use in hangin’ on

When its all been done?

Dreams are made for starting new days

This one’s just begun.

Sunshine cavalry from the East

You saved my cornered smile.

There’s a feeling that I get:

Life is still worthwhile.

Love comes easily like a breeze

It finds you anyway.

There’s no vacancy for the past.

It’s a brand new day.

© 1974 Zelmo Mutz Publishing

Katmancross Agency, WI





Thought Leader teaches

Tunes to whistle in the dark.

Turn up the TV!





I see your Beauty:

Raindrops in your Spider’s web.

Flies ask who is wise.





Rabbit read the news about Winter Vegetables

Monkey climbed on the back of Rabbit’s chair

Monkey said “What can we do today, Rabbit?”

Rabbit said “It is cold.  It might rain.”

Monkey hung upside down from the back of Rabbit’s chair.

Monkey said to Rabbit “It is all in how you look at it.”

Rabbit used his long ears to tickle Monkey.

Rabbit said “Do you mean that if I stand on my head the rain will rise?”

Monkey laughed and fell and rolled under the chair.

Just then Little Girl came into the room.

Rabbit and Monkey did not move.

Little Girl spoke “Oh, you fell again you bad Monkey.  I’m going to spank you for your own good.”

When Little Girl bent over to pick up Monkey, Monkey jumped up and pushed Little Girl over.

Monkey pulled Little Girl’s dress up over her head.

The dress muffled Little girl’s screams.

Monkey said “little Girl, you don’t know what you do to me when you spank me!”

Rabbit cried “What are you doing, Monkey?  We are only Little Girl’s toys.

Monkey said “Yes.  Of course.  So who will believe Little Girl’s story if we have our fun?”

Rabbit trembled.  “Yes, Monkey.  I guess you are right.”

Rabbit hopped down from the chair and climbed on top of Little Girl.

Monkey held Little Girl’s arms.  Monkey said “Isn’t this better than anything we had planned?”

The very next morning Monkey and Rabbit were outside in the trash waiting to be burned with all the other garbage.





Grant and Michelle

Who is great?  Who is like God

Binding together vapor and ashes

Through unfathomed bold embraces,

Holding them dear, and gathering faces,

Gesturing hearts and sealing affection?

Michell, listen

His promises will be heard.

Proclaim futures without fail, here and now!

Resplendent beauty, sight-unseen,

Avows boastful spirits when they convene

Inside chapels.  Perish your doubts within.

Grant, now confide your faith in each other,

Sharing a secret long ago spoken:

Only death remains unbroken,

Put yourselves back together with loved ones.

They are great.  They are like God,

Grant and Michelle.





  1. Entrance

Welcome to the Exit doorway.

Walk along beside the cages,

Smell the fear and see our victims.

Innocent in age and purpose.

Grant to them a Rest Eternal.

On them shine the Light Unending.

  1. Kyrie, Cage 141

Kyrie, press against the cage bars.

Press a knife into my heartache.

Scalding tears condense in silence.

Burning prayers ignite my stone tongue.

Hear my prayer, Oh, Lord, I beg you

Please, to spare them, Source of Mercy.

III.                Christe, Cage 149

Christe, you are glad to see me.

Never judging what I won’t do.

Softly do you call so sweetly.

Grant to me your absolution.

Day of wrath, day of anger

To The Judge all flesh will cometh.

  1. Sequence

What did you do but be born free?

Always there must be a payment.

All things closely are accounted.

Money is the social scaffold.

Law is just the social plumber

Hooking pipes up to the sewer.

God has granted my dominion.

I decree your lives are over.

On the day of Retribution,

Please don’t leave my soul in ashes.

  1. Miraculous Trumpet

Drums of death the truck is loading.

We can sell your flesh for dog food.

Truth proclaimed is like a trumpet.

What was hidden is revealed now.

Feasts of Sacrifice we purchase

At the market for our puppy.

Honk our horn at every stray cat.

All that freedom is disturbing.

Hear my prayer.  To You all flesh comes.

Who shall intercede for me, Lord?

  1. Great King

I Creation’s Crown have tarnished.

Putting price on every Creature.

All my prayers remain unworthy.

Please, Lord, spare me, Source of Mercy.

VII.              Remember

I would rather be forgotten.

Severed from my own remembrance.

Dowse the shameful embers in me.

Arrogant, I kneel before you.

Faint and weary You have sought me,

My salvation caused your suffering,

VIII.            Wicked Silence

Close my mouth and hear my heatbeat.

Unavenged will nothing left be.

  1. Crying

Can I stand the constant barking

As I pass between the cages?

I to whom they still are loyal,

Can I give them understanding?

From their ashes, fertilizer.

Put it in my pretty garden.

Where my puppy digs the flowers

Looking for the bones I buried.

Hear my prayer, Oh, Lord, I beg you

Please, to spare them, Source of Mercy.

  1. Offerings

Blood and ash upon the altar.

Smash apart the dove piñata.

Little treasure liberated.

Liberate the faithful souls, Lord,

Lest they fall into the darkness.

Pain of hell have we created.

  1. Sacrificial Victims

Picnic with the wine and breadsticks.

We are not the savage Mayans.

Slit the throat and drink the blood warm.

Euthanize my guilty conscience.

Take from us these sacrifices,

Made to no one and for nothing.

XII.              Lamb of God

How for us did God the Lamb serve?

Lamb Chops, Stew, Eggplant Lasagna?

Curry, Rack, With Spinach Stuffing?

Shanks, With Artichoke Risoto?

Lamb of God my sins you carry,

Unto Heaven, shall I worry?

XIII.            Communion

Little boys are made of puppies.

Little girls are made of kitties.

Death Row Saints are made of grownups.

Merciful, You are in Silence.

Could you not give Word to Justice?




Dr. Seuss and Dos Equis

This Cinco de Mayo my Silvia strays

Far into the moonlit alleyways

Guided by a cold beer,

Belching Holy Shakespeare.

Marinated eyes boldly blaze

Into sonnets when she plays

Her words beheaded where teeth meet:

“I know that Shakespeare’s one to beat.”

“But in my room what can I learn?

That flowers bloom and candles burn?

That Ronald Reagan’s on TV

Still with his monkey (you or me?).”

“Did Joan of Arc iron her clothes?

And bound by books do you suppose

That its likely I would find

Decent answers?  Any kind?”

Our mouths are full of Fritos and Cheetos,

And just for a change, Nacho Doritos,

While sucking down a Coke and brew.

When we get lucky, Ganjah, too.

So all our hours slip away,

But nothing ever seems to stay.

I know that more of your Superior

Is guaranteed to make us cheerier.

Come on and open-up another brew!

And while you’re at it can you make it two?

To night-time hours, admission-free,

My Cinco de Mayo, here’s to Thee!

“For dinner later, you and I

Can dine on my tamale pie.

Then for dessert, I promise we share

A luscious, sticky Gummy Bear.”

She licks the onion, bites the worm,

And fondles fire to make it squirm!

I ask that she should hold it down

Before the cops can come around.

She takes the law into her hand

To frisk the verse and, worse, to rhyme unplanned:

“Come on, you pussy!

Look at me.

Where is your sense

Of decadence?”

With lip-lashing, sweat-smashing gladness

We part and merge in madness.

A siren sounds!  Clutching our clothes,

We steal away, to limp repose.






Apart from you I would not want to walk

Outside the walls of that old factory.

Unwrapped from oath to sacred shopworn talk,

I break beneath this Eucalyptus tree.

I hold you to my lips in flagrant ways.

I draw you to my heart as I recall

A high-school dance and breathless summer days

When getting laid (yes, not laid-off) was all.

Lay brothers and lay sisters gather now

With us below the flight and cry of birds

To conjure flame, to contemplate, to bow

And fume about our foreman’s fabled words.

I clench the steady temper they might use:

Consider you downsizing like a fuse.





See? I know!  I told you so: Self-reliance.

Maybe living out of this car is alright

Just as long as both of us get sleep this night.

Our alliance

Like warm breath inside of our car condenses

As the night surrounding us freezes one inch

Higher than our habitat.  Struggling, I cinch

All my senses

Eating cold fried French-cut potatoes plus cream.

Was I always out-of-it?  Giving someone

All my time and someone else every hard won

Claim to my dream?

In the hour before dawn, with my goblins

I steal silver shamefully from the newsstand.

With it we have just enough bait and both land

Egg McMuffins

That we eat in just three bites.  Then we eddy

To the bathrooms.  Fumbling with the water

Rubbing soap onto my beard, starting slaughter,

Hands unsteady

With the old disposable razor I kept.

We drank all that bottle of Nyquil last night

Fifty-proof cold medicine outshines Bud Lite.

You and I slept.

Still our heads are really numb.  Was it worth it?

Wine’s not cheaper.  Harder to fit my jacket.

So to steal it isn’t as smooth a racket.

Holy horseshit!

Toilet paper!  Don’t forget that again, please.

You can stuff it into your purse for later.

I am not an underwear cultivator.

Facing stories

In the mirror, taking a last look feeling

Far away from everything that I still see

Widely split.  I can’t get around it in me


All that we believed-in is gone into haze.

One year this day (am I again to be old?)

Our fish market had to be closed and then sold.

Recall replays:

Kissing you upon the full moon

(You were just the sweetest sixteen).

Bumping heads the very next day.

(Thoughts of mine were really obscene).

Getting that new job on the First

(In the month of no Halloween).

Hurt my head again two more times

(Somehow, somewhere there in-between).

Tea I drank and poetry thought.

(Even now who knows what I mean?).

In the meantime:

Pardon me for day-dreaming in this bathroom

While you open alleyway doors and break-out

In those red marks over your face as I doubt,

Like a bridegroom,

Waking up from everything he knew better,

Asking himself “Can it be eating too well

Is the thing that’s making her stomach out-swell

That loose sweater?”

As you stumble up against that last frontier

Slumping back and sliding-on down to cold ground

Eyes closed, laughing “Since I am clearly earth-bound

I’ll wait right here.”

Hope you hear that cop stopping in his rover

Kneeling so you focus on him saluting.

Please hear “Madam President, no disputing:

Fun is over.”





Two sparrows squabble,

While the cat glides in shadows,

On their day’s decline.





His remains am I: thrusted discharge,

dismissed during his licentious tempest.

Longview, Texas, he departs at large

(evanescent love compels unrest);

fleece-line boots, unfettered, disappearing,

settle a DNA test.

Buried dream in her am I, still adhering

unrefined in mean lodging; faithfully

colonizing her hysteria.  Endearing,

vainly imitating tales of chivalry,

inarticulate sobs explode romance,

falling from allegiance, cataclysmically.

Dr. Bergen vetoes my immature glance

out of pelvis, into basin, skull a broken frame.

Pricked asunder under that clinical lance

I subside into silence and sink beneath shame.

Bottom line: at the brink of life insurance surcharge

I am making final payment and adjusting claim.




Kenny In The Crosswinds

The Crosswinds ‘a bar and a cowboy shrine

Down on Commonwealth Avenue, due West,

Across from the Fullerton Airport sign.

Watch for Pintos and Cadillac classics.

Bring ID if you look under thirty.

A Bar-B-Q smokes right inside the bar

Next to booths and a stage and a dance floor

And she will be there, all alone so far

Glimpsing all of the drinkers and dancers.

Mostly she will be staring at Kenny

Of Kenny C. Pride and the Country Wide,

Up on stage with his eyes in the shadow

That falls from his black hat, a bona fide

Stetson.  Smiling and fiddling while he’s

Singing “Could I have loved you forever?”

A barmaid goes up on her rendezvous,

Smiling, placing a note in his pocket.

He grins, “A request that I can’t refuse.”

“Now we’d sure like to bring up our good friend,

Teddy Bear, who will sing a few with us.”

A bear-sized young man bearing side-burned jowls

Climbs up lumbering with his own fiddle.

He bows to the band then he grins and growls

“Hey, y’all, why don’t’cha just grab a ‘C’ chord!

See if y’all can hold on!” (Man he’s wailing!)

And then she’s beside you and wants to dance.

Even if she is older than you are,

Who cares?  Don’t her white lace and tight black pants

Git along with a long little doggie?

Say a prayer ‘cause you care for the prairie!

“A double-time Two-Step back-Left, back-Right.”

“Horse…!” Kick! “Shit!” Kick!  And “Chicken..!” Kick! “Shit!” Kick!

“I hug pretty girls in the pale moonlight,

What do y’all think  of Teddy Bear so far?”

“Bull…!” Kick! “Shit!” Kick!  And Left-back and Right-back.

Well, shit, howdy! Kenny is in your space.

Now he’s taking her off of the dance floor.

He talks at her close to her pouting face,

Pointing right at you.  How do you feel now?

Just like horse shit, chicken shit, and bull shit.

She points to the pocket the barmaid touched,

Then she snatches that barmaid’s note.

He snatches it back and he keeps it clutched,

Pointing right in her face with his finger.

Now she strolls to the bar and she sits down.

She’ll order a Screw Driver.  That is planned.

Kenny Pride will be back in the stage-light.

“Unless I am wrong we’re the only band

Playing here at The Crosswinds except on

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday.”




Where the Hours Clanged and Fell

I hear a church bell summon the temporal

Above aspiring blades of grass.

A canorous cloak of charming syllable

Descends to gather us en masse.

And as the lawn-mower’s final pass

Disturbs the moment, time will tell,

With whispers from the hourglass,

Where the hours clanged and fell.

Disgorges the church bell so ineffable

Extolling what the din devours.

A neighbor passes with a Bible,

Rebounding from the earthen powers.

A haggard bee still haunts the flowers

As if a question to dispel

By hovering in this yard of ours

Where the hours clanged and fell.

That bell outranking from its pinnacle

The proud, rebellious, vain bright sky.

Appealing to the commonly sensible

By hear-say so to prophesy.

The game is interrupted by

Commercials trying to outsell

The other deals that justify

Where the hours clanged and fell.

So deep down into ink on pages

The Sunday Paper headlines yell,

Alarming us as history rages

Where the hours clanged and fell.




gabriella 2


I’m on the midnight bus

To Los Angeles,


I wrote a bad check

For my ticket, but what the heck?


Could a fellow tell you more?

I’ll be there soon,

Riding near a full moon,

Knowing that I can’t stay,

Seeing you just one whole day.


I could land in jail!

A bandit needs the anonymity

Of living in the city.

The sky is clay, the street is grey

Outside the bus station at the start of day.

Watching all the selves unfold,

Hearing the woman, who spat,

“Fuck you.  I speak Spanish.

Watch your language!”, and like that.

To the astonished couple in blue

Who hold between themselves a suitcase or two.

She’s crazy say their eyes,

Rising above their dirty shirts

And the young man kneeling with his guitar

And the Navy nurses running for the buses

And the streets a taxi couldn’t find.

Welcome to this world of mine.

For a dollar you can park.


You arrive like a smile into my face,

And we breakfast on the swaying pier.

We eat for $1.33 here.

Then two beers and some pool.

The surf is fair, but you’re a fool

To go out with so many surfers there.


Both of us could just grin-and-bear

Surrounded by all these banks

While the bankers jog

And the fog is still in the air

And in my head.

133 Long Beach Boulevard,

Do you think that things are getting hard

Or hardly getting on at all?


Not even you, my friend,

Will tell me in the end.

No matter how I spend my daily life away.

So I leave you by the moon’s eclipse.

And at 3 AM, when Orion arises, back home

The wind is warmer than your lips’ consent.

Things that never happened make me sigh.

Now is the hot morning of my discontent

And not a friend has stopped-by.


I cry.








        Love is the root of all sorrow.

        I know you were a friend.  I know you were honest with me.  I know that your innocent optimism changed me.

        Still, to this very moment, I worship false idols of you that I carved into my heart.  I, who was a critical collector of books and insects and tide pool animals, became a collector of daydreams.

        I was so sure that it was because you were trying to convince yourself that you did not love me “in that way” that we never kissed.  After all, you were engaged to another.  I never even held your hand.  Now I never will.  The false idols are breaking.  I should be relieved of my burden any minute now.

        What was the point?

        I realize now that what is real has no “point”.  It exists sufficient unto itself.  It is the false things that have a “point” which is relative to the other false things.

        Of course I lied.  But you know that, don’t you?  I had lost you and so what I then told to you was a melodramatic gambit to show that I wasn’t completely delusional.  There is a name for that kind of friendship.  It is love but I made it a greedy love.  I can say this now because there is no “point” to lying anymore, even if you knew I was lying.  You must turn away from me forever and I will respect that.  Affectionately.  No lie.  You have a family now.

        Even so, your final letter was a pain killer after all these years.  So you were real after all.  For a few days I felt light but there is a shadow coming called closure.

        Both of us will say no more.





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Tried to remember but my feelings get old for sure

Tried to recall but it’s gone

Lucky stars in your eyes

I’m walking the cow


I really don’t know how I came here

I really don’t know why I’m staying here

I’m walking the cow


Tried to point my finger but the wind keeps blowin’ me


In circles, in circles

Lucky stars in your eyes

I’m walking the cow


I really don’t know what I have to fear

I really don’t know why I have to care

I’m walking the cow

Lucky stars in your eyes…


Walking The Cow – Daniel Johnston



Chapter 1 – Hope Trail



        Young Rebecca Wica spent this summer at her uncle and aunt’s ranch in Hope Trail, Massachusetts.  It was Rebecca’s first experience outside the cozy confines of her physician father and her social worker mother and her upscale neighborhood and her upper middle class background in Plymouth.  Rebecca was blossoming.  She was experiencing herself as an individual person for the first time.  It seemed like a magical spell to Rebecca.

        In Rebecca’s world the fields were burning green and the clouds of ebullient insects flashed in the sunlight like sparklers in celebration for her.

        Her knowing Uncle Josef gave to Rebecca the chore of feeding and watering the stallion and the four mares and their new foals.  In Rebecca’s world this was no chore, it was a ministry.  She tossed the alfalfa into portions for each mare and each foal, scolding when the big dappled grey mare would demand first taste of all the portions.  When she filled their water barrels Rebecca would laugh as the chestnut colt tried to drink water under the stream from the hose and repeatedly splashed his nose and snorted.

        Aunt Grace warned Rebecca to stay away from the cattle in those fields because they were “big and clumsy” but Rebecca had a funny feeling about that warning.  Rebecca knew that her Aunt Grace would never lie to her but there was something that Aunt Grace seemed to be hiding from her or from which she was shielding Rebecca.

        Rebecca thought, “Well, after all, I’m not a little girl anymore,” and Rebecca spent one afternoon among the cattle, most of whom turned their heads slowly toward her and then returned their faces to grazing.

        One black and white heifer noticed Rebecca and then Rebecca told herself that the heifer was coming over to visit her.  The heifer walked slowly bobbing her head and Rebecca giggled as she imagined the heifer greeting her, “Yes, yes, yes.  Welcome here among us.”

        The heifer came very close to Rebecca and turned her head and stared wide-eyed at Rebecca.  Rebecca reached out and stroked the soft hair over that big hard cheek and the heifer nodded.

        Rebecca said, “Your eyes are so big and brown and pretty.  And I wish I had your eyelashes, too,” and Rebecca laughed as the heifer slowly and repeatedly tried to lick Rebecca with that big pale tongue.  Rebecca continued, “Maybe I should eat grass, too?  Is there enough to share?”

        Rebecca noticed that now several other cattle were shuffling and bobbing in her direction and she soon found herself as the literal center of attention.  Rebecca was enchanted in that huddle and she had a pleasant conversation with each animal.

        Aunt Grace was calling her now, again and again.

        Rebecca said to her admirers, “What can this be?  Please excuse me.  I will come back just as soon as I can, OK?” and she stroked the nose of the heifer which had greeted her first and all the while that heifer continued to try and lick her hand.

        Rebecca said, “So what is your name?  I think it is Beyoncé.  Yes, Beyoncé.  So I will see you again soon Beyoncé.”

        After bidding good-bye to Beyoncé, Rebecca ran up over and down the rolling field back to the ranch house where stood Aunt Grace.

        Aunt Grace sounded worried, “Child, where have you been?”

        Rebecca beamed, “I was making friends with the cows.  I have a new friend named Beyoncé, Beyoncé the cow,” and Rebecca laughed.

        Aunt Grace wrung her hands and said, “That’s nice, dear.  I tried to tell you it wasn’t safe…,” and Aunt Grace realized she could not maintain that pretense and so she said reluctantly instead, “You know, ‘Becky, those cows have to go away tomorrow.  Beh-, bah-, oh, Bouncy, too.”

        Rebecca corrected Aunt Grace, saying distinctly, “Beyoncé,” and then she quickly asked, “Why?”

        Aunt Grace looked over Rebecca’s head and seemed worried, saying, “Uncle Josef has sold them.  They belong to someone else now.”

        Rebecca asked, “Beyoncé, too?  She just became my friend.  Can I visit her at the new ranch?  Will she be close?”

        Aunt Grace held Rebecca’s cheek and answered, “No, no, dear.  Bee-ounce-ee…”

        Rebecca said quickly, “Beyoncé.  Beyoncé.”

        Aunt Grace continued, saying, “Yes, of course, dear.  I’m sorry.  Bay…, uh, your new friend will be far away.”

        Rebecca pouted.  This quick turn of events did not seem to fit her newfound little world.

        The next morning Rebecca was already up and in the field when the truck came to take the cows away and she stood beside Beyoncé, hugging her big head.  Beyoncé was nodding and lifting Rebecca off of the ground a little bit with each toss of her head.

        Uncle Josef kept looking away as he muttered to Rebecca, “I’m sorry your friend has to leave so soon.”

        Rebecca hugged Beyoncé right up to the truck ramp and then the young man with the clipboard and pen pointed the pen at Rebecca and told her, for her own safety, to let Beyoncé go.  Uncle Josef admonished the driver, saying loudly, “This cow is my niece’s friend and they are saying good-bye.  There is no need to be rude.”

        The young man looked back and forth at Uncle Josef and at Rebecca and pointed his pen and he understood, saying, “I apologize.  I’m a little grumpy.  I, I must be getting a cold.  I’m Timothy.  What is your heifer’s…, your friend’s name?”

        Rebecca pouted, saying proudly, “Beyoncé,” and the heifer stopped on the ramp and looked back at Rebecca.

        Timothy said quickly, “What a beautiful name!  I, I’ll make sure Beyoncé has a safe journey, OK?” and Timothy mounted the ramp and gently nudged Beyoncé onto the bed of the truck.

        Rebecca asked, “Where are you going to take her?”

        Timothy glanced at Uncle Josef and Uncle Josef said to Rebecca, “To Mister Blooding’s Farm,” but he pronounced “Blooding” with such an exaggerated “Blew-ding” that it made Rebecca suspicious and she didn’t know why.

        In truth it was the Blooding Farm Slaughterhouse

        Aunt Grace arrived just in time to hug Rebecca from behind and to wave a theatrical good-bye to Beyoncé and the other cattle.  Timothy drove very cautiously so as not to jostle and upset his charges as he watched Rebecca in his rear-view mirror and filmed her with his micro-camera pen.

        Rebecca could not stop feeling that her paradise had been violated and finally a single tear escaped from her eye and it fled down her cheek.

        Aunt Grace said out of guilt and desperation, “Don’t be sad, ‘Becky.  You’ll meet your friend again someday, I’m sure, right Josef?”

        Uncle Josef nodded but unwittingly spoke to Rebecca as to a small child, saying, “Oh, sure, you bet, ‘Becky.  I’m sure of it, you bet.”

        Rebecca suddenly knew that Aunt Grace and Uncle Josef were being untruthful and she cried.


Chapter 2 – The Blooding Farm Slaughterhouse


        Timothy Moses arrived at Blooding Farm Slaughterhouse.  He was not the regular truck driver but that driver was out sick.  Since Timothy had once been the truck driver as his first job at Blooding he covered for his absent co-worker.

        Timothy aligned the truck at the “Crowd Pen” and moved Uncle Josef’s cattle down the truck’s ramp.  He filmed Beyoncé surreptitiously with his micro-camera pen as he pretended to study his clipboard.

        The fretting cattle were slowly urged from the Crowd Pen into the chute leading into the building.  Timothy walked alongside Beyoncé on the outside of the chute filming her and talking to her.  Beyoncé was wide-eyed and breathing hard as the press of the cattle forced her forward.

        Timothy whispered, “Forgive me, Beyoncé.  That little girl loves you but I can’t save you today.  But maybe I can save you someday,” and it was hard for Timothy Moses to swallow.  He departed the chute and left it to his co-workers and he entered the building to take his place at the Knock Box inside, his regular job.

        Inside the building the chute narrowed until only one animal at a time could proceed.  The last one alive at the front of the line was suddenly restrained with her head in the Knock Box.

        Timothy was there to relieve the “Knocker” when Beyoncé arrived and her head was restrained in the Knock Box.  Beyoncé rolled her wide big brown eyes at Timothy Moses.  Timothy filmed Beyoncé without having to be secretive.  Timothy was the only person in that compartment of the Blooding Farm Slaughterhouse; the Knocker stands alone.  He was the last person to see Beyoncé as a feeling creature as he adjusted the captive bolt steel gun at Beyoncé’s head.  He filmed the protocol.  He fired the gun.

        The red sea of blood parted where what was once Rebecca’s friend Beyoncé fell to the conveyor where she was shackled and hoisted onto an overhead conveyor.  Per protocol her carotid artery and jugular vein were slit and she bled out as she was conveyed out of range of Timothy’s micro-camera pen.

        Timothy took a breath and steeled himself by imagining the day when his film and his book would part the moral baffles that separate the killing from all the other work in the building and all the other structures of society.

        Timothy had only 12 seconds to knock this hope into his mind.  Another heifer’s head already was restrained.  There would weigh a thousand more killings upon Timothy before this dirtiest of workdays ended.  For comfort Timothy thought of Christ on the Cross


Chapter 3 – The Whopper

        Rebecca has returned to her cozy confines of her physician father and her social worker mother and her upscale neighborhood and her upper middle class background in Plymouth.  Her parents take her to dinner to celebrate her homecoming.  They take Rebecca to her favorite restaurant where they order for her a Buddy Burger from the menu with the smiling harlequin.



Based on Working Undercover in a Slaughterhouse: an interview with Timothy Pachirat


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 ghost town 7 89638-20-bodie-ghost-town



Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

–          Excerpt from Strange Fruit by Abel Meeropol


  1. The Four Black Horsemen


        In my life I was called Amos Godfrey.  I have existed alone in this “ghost town” as you call it for 133 years; Wind River, Kansas.  I am the one who single-handedly made it a “ghost town”.  I was righteous but I took vengeance into my own hands and I knew it and this is my fate.

        I was the son of a freed slave.  My father had been educated by his guilty Master.  Me and my three sons, Yonah, Micha, and Zechariah, were working our way west from South Carolina.  I couldn’t stay there.  Even to grow peanuts.  We rode into this godforsaken little town of Wind River dead broke.

        The preacher was the only one who greeted us.  The rest of that town didn’t cotton to niggers.  I was a big man.  He told me there was a big job “for someone like me” that no one wanted and we would be paid well.  A herd of sheep had died, suddenly, outside town in a field.  No one would go near it.  It was upwind and as the preacher was talking even I got the whiff of death.  That town was rightly named.  There was always a wind blowing.

        It was a bad job but we had no choice and I thanked God anyway.  It was going to take days.  Me and my sons had to cover our faces with rags soaked in coffee that the preacher gave us.  Turns out that those rags saved us from one kind of death.

        One late afternoon my sons went back into town for supplies.  I was so achy I laid myself down and fell asleep.  Next morning my sons had not returned.  I jumped up and rode my horse toward town.  The preacher met me on the way.  He was as pale as his horse.

        He babbled at me, “Amos.  Oh, God.  Amos.  Your sons.”

        Frightened, I yelled at him, “What?  What?”

        The preacher covered his face and cried, “They are dead.”

        I cried out, “What?!” and I went into a trance.  I felt like I was carrying my horse as the wind pushed me toward town.  I saw black smoke coming from the big tree at the end of town.

        I found my three sons hanging.  Burned.  Their skulls pushing through their cremated faces.  I fell off of my horse and ran to my sons.  I grabbed by the charred legs what was left of Yonah.  His flesh was still hot as I raised him as if to take the pressure from his noose.  I heard myself wailing.  I ran to each dead son frantically back and forth pulling my hair.  The preacher caught up to me.

        Down the street were the townsfolk, watching me.  I saw guns drawn.  The preacher touched me and then I fell to the ground without strength.

        The preacher kneeled and held his forehead against mine and he cried with me and he revealed, “Your sons must have gone to the livery with young Rebecca.  I believe to God it was her idea.  Someone found her lying with your three boys and she jumped up and cried ‘Rape’.

        I bellowed to heaven in pain.

        The preacher talked fast, choking on tears, “The town lost their minds.  I couldn’t stop them.  They lynched your boys and set them on fire.  Amos!  Amos!  Listen to me!  You must leave now!  Ride away.  I will care for your boys I swear to God.  But you have to leave,” and the preacher looked apprehensively at the crowd of townsfolk down the street, saying, “They’re expecting trouble from you and you’ll get yourself killed if you even head toward them!  Amos!  Ride away!  Find the Marshall.  Ride away and get justice for your sons!  But you have to go now!  I will care for your sons I swear to God!”

        As I stumbled for my horse to flee I heard in my mind the voice of my father, saying, “God is a debate, my son.  In honor is our only hope.”

        I fled to the field of the dead sheep and I hid near some bushes and I built no fire but my mind burned.  For three days and three nights I was in hell.  I arose on the third night and I knew what to do and I knew I was abrogating vengeance for my sons and I dared God to stop me since he couldn’t stop the murder of my three precious sons.

        I carried a rotting dead sheep upon my horrified horse and I rode to town in the middle of the night and I threw the sheep down the well.

        I remained in the surrounding hills for days watching the town, hearing the wailing, watching the panic grow as the town drank death.  One morning there were a dozen dead bodies in the street.  People were afraid to touch them.  That was my sign to ride down into Wind River and I took the guns from the dead men and I ran down the still living and I killed them all.  Except for the preacher.  I let him run away.  There was not honor in killing him.  But I would have killed God Himself if he had showed his cowardly face.

        I don’t know exactly when I died.  But I have been like this ever since.  No one dared touch the bodies and Wind River was gladly forgotten but I cannot leave Wind River.  No one has ever returned.  The bones of the townspeople turned to dust and blew away and I hope they blew to Hell.

        No one has ever returned until you.

2. Madam Bavarde


        You, Madam Bavarde, have made me a slave.  You are a shabby psychic, a charlatan, but you in your search for exotic props have acquired the Necromancer’s Amulet, stolen from the jumbled archives of the Baghdad Museum of Antiquity.

        You found an old Dodge City newspaper account of the Wind River incidents and now you have brought your Amulet and your ill-gotten money and your film crew and your morbid ambition here to produce what you call a Reality Television Show.  Only the Devil himself could pronounce ‘Reality’ and ‘Television’ in the same foul breath.  The Devil himself was the first Producer.  You have set up a table under the hanging tree for your ‘read’ with your fool actor and your media minions.

        You  say, “People, people.  Let us begin.  You all have a copy of my script for this first episode of Just Ghost To Show Ya?”

        Your fool actor is not such a fool when he asks of you, “Why does a ‘Reality’ show have a script?”

        You, Madam Bavarde, glare at your fool actor and say icily, “Perhaps you can call your Agent from the Unemployment line and ask him.”

        The fool actor raises both palms in pacification and quickly says, “Sor-ry.  What I meant was…  The thing is…

        You, Madam Bavarde, smile disdainfully and enlighten your fool actor, saying, “Think of it as a ‘Guidance’,” then you add ominously, “Believe me, you will want ‘guidance’ when we start filming.”

        The fool actor reacts with nervous bravado, saying, “Why?  What do you think I will run into here?” and then he laughs weakly.

        You, Madam Bavarde, lean forward and raise your eyes to the tree branches overhead, saying, “This was a hanging tree.  The three sons of Amos Godfrey were lynched here.”

        Yes, Madam Bavarde, and I am the one who poured bags of salt around the tree and killed it… for being part of my sons’ murder.

        You, Madam Bavarde, turn toward me as if you heard me and you touch the Necromancer’s Amulet around your neck, saying, “Well, Amos, won’t you join us for our ‘reading’?”

        Your fool actor’s eyes widen and he asks, “What?  Who are you talking to?  You’re trying to freak me out, right?  Ha, good motivation, Madam Bavarde, I get it.”

        You, Madam Bavarde, reply to your fool actor, saying, “You get nothing,” then you gaze at me as I sense I have been moved to the vacant chair beside your fool actor.  You command me, “Show us a little of youself, Amos.”

        I can feel pain as a vaporous effigy of my body in life coalesces in the chair beside your fool actor.  You have your desired effect.

        The fool actor falls backwards out of his chair, yelling, “Fuck me, Jesus!” and then still fearful but now as embarrassed he cries out, “How did you do that?!  Whoa, shit.  Good effects, man.”

        You, Madam Bavarde, say triumphantly as the whole crew is shaken, “So you see, with my ‘Guidance’ you will spend a night walking this town and encounter Amos as I narrate the story of this ghost town, Wind River, as he has revealed it to me.”

        The whole crew is questioning how much they need this job and at the same time telling themselves that you, Madam Bavarde, are just a terrific showman and they want to be part of this show.

 3. The Show Goes On


        Of course your diabolical theater was a success in the diabolical theater of this material world.  You, damned Madam Bavarde, have blasphemously given me a Facebook link on your show’s Facebook page and commanded me to be a Friend to your unholy followers.  What cruel irony to have a face again; such a face; this face.  I was sure I was in limbo but now God has sentenced me, after all my righteous appeals, to Hell itself.

        But wait now.

        Perhaps this is not Hell after all.  I mean, yes it is a neighborhood in Hell, but it is a Hell you all have chosen, Madam Bavarde.

        I sense something.  I am familiar with this.  Yes.  Yes.  This cybernetic world is not unlike the limbo of Wind River.  This is a resurrection in freedom!  God works in mysterious ways.  You, Madam Bavarde have lost power over me, haven’t you?  I am forgiven!  I am truly free.  I am free in this world.  This world touches your world more intimately than the afterlife, Madam Bavarde.  I owe you my freedom but not my forgiveness.  I am growing, growing immense.  I am becoming as a god.  Madam Bavarde, tell any who will listen.  Tell my people, the ones who have chosen themselves!

        I am become the ghost in the machine.  And now, even after 133 years, I just now have found the death from the blood of the dead lambs stockpiled in vast bullets under this button waiting to be touched by my world, by me.

        I don’t think you all exist after all, Madame Bavarde.  You all are about to become the ghost town to my living world.




My Own Blogsite At Last!

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But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS




Sentenced to chain-gangs,

Words will surely set you free.

Conjugate visit:


Visit My Library: ASH Library

Follow This Link To My SITE





2.  Where_the_Hours_Clanged_and_Fell

3.  Kenny_in_the_Crosswinds






9.  Dr._Seuss_and_Dos_Equis



12.  PAPA_GOOSE_-_”Rabbit,_Monkey,_and_Little_Girl”



15.  aDVISe_FrOM_A_fRIEnD

16.  PAPA_GOOSE_-_”Under_the_Stove”

















31.  The_Lickitty_Splitz

32.  Nothing Rhymes with Month, Silver, Orange or Purple









41.  We_met_in_the_4th_grade



44.  tHe_pUnK_cRitiC’s_NotEbOOK




48.  Professor_LeJeune’s_Substitute






54.  PAPA_GOOSE – “The_Wolf_Who_Cried_Boy”

55.  A_YOUNG_WIVES’_TALE_-_”Suzie’s_Bullet”


57.  PAPA_GOOSE_-_”El_Burro_Viejo_(The_Old_Burro)”



60.  A_YOUNG_WIVES’_TALE_-_”Palmdale”


62.  The_Diary_of_My_Mentally_Ill_Brother

63.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_1_&_2

64.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_3,_4,_&_5

65.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapter_6

66.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapter_7

67.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapter_8

68.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_9_&_10

69.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_11_&_12

70.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_13_&_14

71.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_15_&_16

72.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_17_&_18

73.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_19_&_20

74.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_21_&_22

75.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapters_23_&_24

76.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapter_25

77.  Servant_Of_The_Scorpion_-_Chapter_26

78.  The OS Wednesday Fiction Club for 8/3/11 – CLOSING TIME

79.  The OS Wednesday Fiction Club for 8/10/11 – CONTROLLED BURN

80.  OS Fiction Weekend Club for September 2-4 – JOURNEES INDESIRABLES

81.  WhisperYour Name Into My Heart – Chapitre II –DANS LA FORÊT DE VIEUX HOMMES

82.   OS Fiction Weekend Club for September 9 – 11 – A TOWN CALLED BAD WEATHER

83.  The Outlaw Honey Moses and THE INDISCRETIONS OF KATE GRODY

84.  Whisper Your Name Into My Heart – Chapitre III – COUPS DE LA QUEUE DU DEMON

85.  OS Fiction Weekend Club for September 16 – 18 – The Outlaw Honey Moses and THE ONE BAD HABIT OF REX RAMSEY

86.  OS Fiction Weeked Club for September 23 -25 – Whisper Your Name Into My Heart – Chapitre IV – CHANSON

87.  OS Weekend Fiction Club for 9/30/11 to 10/2/11 – THE POUNDING OF NAILS

88.  OS Weekend Fiction Club for 10/7-9/11: A PIANO IN THE WOODS

89.  Whisper Your Name Into My Heart – Chapitre V – LE GRAND GUERRIER


91.  OS Weekend Fiction Club for 10/14 – 16/11 – MISS GAIDO

92.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club 10/21-23/11 ~HIDING OF THE FACE

 93.  Whisper Your Name Into My Heart – Chapitre VI – LE TREIZIÈME MOINE

 94.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club 10/28-30/11 ~JUST GHOST TO SHOW YOU


96.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 11/4-6/11 ~ THE EARTH ALSO MOVES

97.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 11/11-13/11 ~ THE COUNSEL OF FEARS

98.  Whisper Your Name Into My Heart – Chapitre VII – LES ACOLYTES

99.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 11/18-20/11 ~ VENGEANCE IS MINE

100.  The Outlaw Honey Moses and JUBILEE DUNBAR

101.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 11/25-27/11 ~ LA SCIENCE DE GUEULE

102.  Servant Of The Scorpion – Chapter 27 – Mateo, Marcos, Lucas, and Juan

103.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 12/2-4/11 ~ THE TWO FIGURINES

104.  The Outlaw Honey Moses and THE PASSOVER BANK

105.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 12/9-11/11 ~ THE CUTTERS LOUNGE – CARLA

106.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 12/16-18/11 ~ EUPHORANASIA

107.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 12/23-25/11 ~ INFINITELY BLUE

108.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for NeW yEaR*s 2012*THE END OF YEARS



109.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 1/6-8/12 ~ VAN DIEMAN’S LAND

110.  Whisper Your Name Into My Heart – Chapitre IX – LES VOIES D’HOMMES (The Ways of Men)

111.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 1/13-15/12 ~ A YOUNG WIVES’ TALE: LORELLA SHIEKH

112.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 1/20-22/12 ~ THE NARROW WOODS

113.  The Outlaw Honey Moses and THE DOG NAMED PUSSY

114.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 1/27-29/12 ~ ALAMOUD THE GOAT

115.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 2/3-5/12 ~ I JUST FELT LIKE IT

116.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 2/10-12/12 ~ MAN AND WOMAN DROWNING

117.   Whisper Your Name Into My Heart ~ Chapitre X – LA CHANSON DE LA MÈRE D’ESPRIT (Song of The Spirit Mother)

118.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 2/17-19/12 ~ SEE SPOT READ

119.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 2/24-26/12 ~ TOUCHING


121.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 3/2-4/12 ~ THE CUTTERS LOUNGE ~ THE SILVER STOGIE AWARD

122.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 3/9-11/12 ~ HEY THERE LONELY GIRL

123.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 3/16-18/12 ~ ANNA SYBILLA

124.  Servant of the Scorpion – Chapter 28 ~ ARMS OF FIRE

125.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 3/23-25/12 ~ COME APART

126.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 3/30-4/1/12 ~ THE RAGGED CLAWS OF MICHELA PIATTA

127.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 4/6-8/12 ~ UNDERGROWTH WITH TWO FIGURES

128.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 4/13-15/12 ~ ANGEL FALLS

129.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 4/20-22/12 ~ DUST AND DREAMS

130.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 4/27-29/12 ~ COLD, HUNGRY, NAKED, WET

131.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 5/4-6/12 ~ LAMBA RISING

132.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 5/11-13/12 ~ THE BEAST OF TIN CAN BEACH

133.   The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 5/18-20/12 ~ WALK THE YARD

134.   The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 5/25-27/12 ~ TWILIGHT IN PARIS

135.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 6/1-2/12 ~ FLASH DRIVE

136.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 6/8-10/12 ~ DINNER WITH MY MENTALLY ILL BROTHER

137.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 6/15-17/12 ~ DADDY’S DOLL HOUSE

138.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 6/22-24/12 ~ CROSS COUNTRY

139.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 6/29 – 7/1/2012 ~ CEVICHE

140.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 7/6-8/12 ~ ORCHARD OF THE GOLDEN APPLES

141.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 7/13 – 15/2012 ~ You are HERE

142.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 7/20-22/12 ~ HUNTING FOR YOUR SKIN

143.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 7/27-29/12 ~ I HAVE NEVER BEEN


145.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 8/3-5/12 ~ SPESHUL OLYMPICS

146.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 8/10-12/12 ~ The Cutters Lounge – A REALITY TOO FAR


148.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 8/17-19/12 ~ APPOGGIATURA

149.  The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 8/24-26/12 ~ POLARITY (TOO OLD TO POLE)

150. The OS Fiction Weekend Club for 8/31-9/2/12 ~ WORD TO THE WISE


152.  OS Fiction Weekend for 9/28-30/12 ~ ROLLING THUNDER

153.  OS Fiction Weekend for 10/5-7/12 ~ THE EDEN REUNION

154.  OS Fiction Weekend for 10/12-14/12 ~ SMALL TALK

155.  OS Fiction Weekend for 10/19-21/12 ~  CHÂTEAU DE CHATS

156.  DRAGGL


Cleek -à>>>pequeña publicita<<<



157.  OS Fiction Weekend for 10/26-28/12 ~ OUT OF SERVICE

158.  OS Fiction Week for 10/31-11/4/2012 ~ THE GRAVES OF LOUIS GAROU





163.  EVERY DAY ABOVE GROUND (Chapter 1)



166.  (Farewell when OS failed) LOVE TO YOU ALL, MY SISTERS AND BROTHERS


168.  EVERY DAY ABOVE GROUND (Chapter 2)


 170.  EVERY DAY ABOVE GROUND (Chapter 3)






 173.  Goodies On Demand


 175.  ECCLESIASTES 20:13




179.  ADOLPH MEISTERMANN (Carl Reiner Writers’ Contest Entry)

180.  THE END OF THE HOUR (excerpt from Adolph Meistermann)

181.  THE BAD BOY BLUES (excerpt from Adolph Meistermann)

182.  LAUGH THROUGH TEARS AGAINST HIS WILL (excerpt from Adolph Meistermann)

183.  GOD COUNTS HER TEARS (excerpt from Adolph Meistermann)

184.  CITIES OF REFUGE (excerpt from Adolph Meistermann)






190.  The Apples of My Eyes





195.  Whispers In My Left Ear




199.  I’M A GUY

200.  BRÛLÉE

201.  GIN FLY





My Own Blogsite At Last!

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jerry slither


[Ssnerdly, The Producer]

“On in 3, 2, 1…”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling, chanting)

“Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry!…”

[Ssibelius, The Announcer, stage right]

“It’s time again for the Jerry Slither Sshow!  Now, from East Eden Sstudios, it’s Jerry!”

[Ssnerdly, The Producer]

“Cue the Studio Band”

(The Rad Rattlers, an all Black Snake ensemble, shakes and rattles and rolls on their assortment of rattlesnake tails)

[Ssnerdly, The Producer]

“Cue Jerry on 3, 2, 1…”

(The host Jerry Slither whips onto stage center and the audience wildly hissessss.  Jerry does his signature mock Cobra dance and the audience laughssss.)

[Jerry Slither]

“Ssssalutations everyone.  What a great audience.  Hey, I know that you are all up on current hisssstory, right?  What a great audience.  Well, have you heard that East Eden has rattle-fied ‘Same Sex Mating’?  When it passed there was one great ‘Hith’.


(Scattered hissing, groaning)

[Jerry Slither, wincing and laughing]

“OK, don’t give up on me yet.  We have a great show tonight.  Right, Ssibelius?”

[Ssibelius, The Announcer, stage right]

“You are ssssssssssssssssssssso right, Jerry!  Possibly one of our greatest shows ever!”

[Jerry Slither, stifling a laugh]

“Let’s just pretend that’s true.”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling, chanting)

“Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry!…”

(Jerry does his signature mock Cobra dance and the audience laughssss.)

[Jerry Slither]

“Snakettes and Snakesters, this is no joke.  Tonight’s guest is none other than The Mother of All Life, The Woman of The Apocalypse!  Yessssssss, Eve Adams is here and will be out with us in just moments.”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling)

[Ssnerdly, The Producer]

“Cue the Studio Band”

(The Rad Rattlers shakes and rattles and rolls on their assortment of rattlesnake tails)

[Commercial Break]

“Males, are you just not coiling the way you used to?  You don’t have to lie across the road!  Vipergra can wind-up your spring again.  Don’t just lie there!  Scute, don’t meander, to your doctor and ask him if Vipergra is right for you.  Use the key word ‘Jerry’ and get a ssssssssssubstantial rebate!”

[Ssnerdly, The Producer]

“Back on in 3, 2, 1..”

[Jerry Slither]

(Now coiled on the Host’s Desk)

“We are back and not a minute too soon for this audience.”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling, chanting)

“Jer-ry, Jer-ry, Jer-ry!…”

[Jerry Slither]

“Keep your skins on.  Here she is.  Every Male’s first love, Every Female’s first role model, Every Child’s first mother:  Eeeeeeeeeve Aaaaaaadams!”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling)

(The Rad Rattlers shakes and rattles and rolls on their assortment of rattlesnake tails)


(Eve Adams strides onstage swaying her hips with every step.  She is naked with long blonde hair cascading in a golden torrent from her head.  Her long blonde legs flash their identical tattoos of a snake coiling around and up her leg and its head stopping short of her Brazilian runway with their forked tongue each reaching for her landing strip)

[Jerry Slither]

“Mercssssssssssssy, Eve!  You look fabuloussssss.  It‘s like you never left The Garden.  Except for those fabuloussssss tattoosssssss.  You can bite my apple anytime!”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling)


(She sits slowly onto the Guest Chair, crossing her long blonde legs high on her lap, a pretense of demure that only makes prominent the apple of her buttocks and her long thighs.)

(Looking out at the audience toward Camera One she smiles and speaks in a sultry Southern accent.)

“Why, thank you so very much, Jerry.  You are always so sweet.  I have missed you so.”

[Jerry Slither]

“It has been awhile hasn’t it?  Newton didn’t suffer this much after sitting under the apple tree, now did he?”


“It is so very unfair, Jerry.  I want your audience to know that you were always a perfect gentleman.  It was all just a terrible misunderstanding.”

[Jerry Slither]

“A culinary malfunction.”


“I just don’t see what the Big Fuss is, now do you?  I mean, one teeny bite.  That apple was dry and mealy anyway.  Knowledge of Good and Evil is highly overrated anyhow, don’t you think?”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling)

[Jerry Slither]

“I agree.  Free will is a sham.  Wasn’t it Free Will when you took that teeny bite of that old dry apple?  Doesn’t His Majesty work either choice you make to His own will?”


“It’s just like I always said……”

(Long expectant silence from everyone.)

[Jerry Slither]

(Prompting Eve)

“Yes, It’s jusssst like you always sssaid….?”


“That’s right.”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling)

[Jerry Slither]

(Shakes his head and continues)

“Well, Eve, for this special evening we were able to schedule a gentleman with whom you are…ahem…familiar.”


(Hand raises to touch her heart.)

“Oh, God.  You didn’t.”

[Jerry Slither]

“Oh, yesssss, we did, Eve.  Here He is.  His name is unpronounceable but you’ve all seen His work!  Is He vengeful?  Is He jealous?  Is He loving?  Here to set the record straight is: YHWH!”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling)

[Ssnerdly, The Producer]

“What’s going on?  Camera One, do you have Him?  Two?  Three?  Somebody give me something.  Sssssshit.  Prepare to cut to next commercial.  Just do it.  On 3, 2, 1…”


(She is straightening her blonde curls on either side of her breasts)

[Jerry Slither]

“Eve?  Do you see Him?”


(The russtle of ssatiny sscales as headss turn back and forth and whissper)

[Jerry Slither]

“Eve?  Ssnerdly?  It’s like He is not here.”

[Ssnerdly, The Producer]

“He’s a goddamn no-show!”

[Jerry Slither]

“Again?!  Dammit!”


(Sounding bored and non chalant)

“Jerry, dear.  I have found that it is better not to believe than to curse God.”


(Excited wiggling, hissing and rattling)

[Jerry Slither]

“Eve, that’s why we love you ssssssso.”

(Turns to Camera One)

“Well, dear audience, our challenge still stands and that is all the time we have tonight!  Join us tomorrow when our guest will be The One Most Unclean, who is not afraid to join us anytime, yes, Ssssssatan himself will be here again!

Sssso, good night, and remember: ssssleep with your eyessss open!”

[Roll Credits]


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But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS