Songs well

before dawn

make me wonder

So intense

For food or mating

or both

There seems to be

a dominant energy

chaotic intentions

From my view… my ears

Is there an analogy?

Like the human drive

but who’s the driver and

Must we be driven?

By what?

You tell me…

when we sense

the immensity

of the Universe

ourselves are lost

emptiness gained

stars are understood

darkness is a friend

silence is freedom

memories are alive

painful events disappear

new ideas emerge

in the deep night

The Tree (Somewhere in Thailand)

Now that I’m going

to the heavenly sphere

from a christmas tree wire

a little too near

the shock was instant

then the heart clock stopped

then the body went cold

It was then that I dropped

since my disappearance

I’ve lost most my thoughts

but I know I was never

of religions that are taught

jack be christmas

or jack be a gimlet

cocktails and amps

might kill your ambitions

yet everyone dies

and everyone cries

according to their lives

and Nature’s conditions

Oh… by the way, David, ummm do you know where I might get….

The Beauty of Sound

Nature or Human

Here in Vibrations

And chance and circumstance

we listen and receive a million

messages swimming in air

When we were young

We knew this miracle

Slowly we forgot

Magnificence

But never lost love

Never lost love

It is your

birth right and

will always belong to you

The Girl Who Emerged From the Sea

Broke my heart

not because I was

Star-eyed and naive

The girl who made

me mad in love

Was always just

Around the corner

The girl who ruined

her mind was my neighbor

I suppose I loved her

One girl I wanted to marry

Was stolen as I was paralyzed

A girl I didn’t deserve

Is still my ghost friend

But I found my love

along the further

reaches of the World

And where else

could she be

Last wonders are best
Experienced around you
To dodge a bullet

The marksman must

fail even by millimeters

small gestures
across a century
you could meet
your past so quickly

something in your
shoe a stone not
so innocent

Pure lover
beautiful life
live in expectation
don’t forget
the river that runs
through and
cleanses you
makes us free

worried minds

lost in wars

Carry on tomorrow
You are not
the only one
healing your
generation

The Other Shore ~ PART TWO

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Love is a Beautiful Reflection”

T.S. Brock

What we think we see may be an illusion. Everything may or may not look better from another point of view. As the sisters fished in the deep morning hours, they may have seen something unusual. But there had been a party after the rally. The dead man floating in the water appeared to them as random debris tossed out after all the ruckus around the lake. Dismissed. They might have picked it up under ordinary circumstances, but this time they chose to keep on fishing. And the fishing was good.

The twins were always together. Here, Gilda smiling as the rays of sun landed softly on her rosy cheeks. There, Rose cursing the ground as she walked on invisible burning coals. Gilda, light and chatting endlessly and Rose, dark and dreaming, but dreaming may be the wrong word. Only she would know. I’d hesitate to say they were a circus act, but it resembled one. In fact they were two of a perfect pair. But more later.

They have always lived on the lake. They inherited the property from their father who had recently passed. The sceenerio of his “exodus” is a whirlwind of events and can only be told with all the spices from from your racks and then you may be lacking. His new romantic inclenation appeared as a dark haired woman with blue eyes, small breats and, frankly, a near zero personality… Maybe no skills (except the ones given by nature) and droopy loving eyes. Maybe she was 30… or 40… 50?… She was a timeless woman… And she had very little to say… which was much appreciciated by one and all. It was a desperate move by the old man.

He had an incurable disease (prostate) but told no one… Yet his new wife knew of his condition and they married and he allowed her a reasonable sum in the pre-nuptial agreement… The twins had no idea… That seemed best to the old man… They were taken care of as well in the will… He knew his days were numbered.

He and his mysterious bride packed up a 1950 Ford Custom Delux Woodie Station Wagon with a minimal amount of belongings. Father hugged his daughters, then drove off with a smile and a wave.

The twins were shocked but relieved. What is that when we know relationships are no longer working and we consciously choose to end them with no remorse? I call that common sense. And after all, the twins were 25 and single with a beautiful house on a spring-fed lake.

How bad could that be?

The three of them had been a family of laughter and whimsy… As mentioned, the twins were devastated on one side, relieved on the other. They had wanted their father to find someone from the time their mom disappeared. I mean they were nearly teens at the time. They had boyfriends. They were in confusion and lost in pot but not drink. Their father became a workaholic and was rarely home. He didn’t drink. He had a real estate business that thrived… Many of his clients were just simply sympathetic… After all, his wife had disappeared… No foul play suspected sice she was known to have the soul of a cuckoo bird… having no nest of her own. These women are very attractive but unreliable… so it was in this case. And life at the lake went on.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The father wasn’t without a conscience. The bulk of his trust went to the twins. He kept more than enough for the two years that were left to him and his bride, but I doubt his “companion” had any clue. He always kept his “cards” close. When he died, the black hairered, blue eyed bride had only a trailer home in Tampa, Florida..

He sent one postcard a week… and then there were none.

The house, the home has always been immaculate just the way their mother liked it. The twins were well off. This history comes from their mother’s diary, and well, their mother disappeared. In fact she was the “beautiful one” recognized by her graduation. Not the cutest, not the prettiest, no. She was the most beautiful.

Truth remains in limbo. Gilda and Rose relentlessly venture to uncover the truth. There is a library of paperwork in a bookcase in their living room

Imagine a camera (or an eagle) far above their home. We see Gilda. She is a tall fit young woman with a cheerful personality. No one can tell her what to do. She is pretty but not beautiful. She might walk a mile for a jar of jam. She will just play “dumb” when dumb people say dumb things, but she is kind to a fault. She spent hours teaching children how to swim at the south shore beach perhaps because no one had taught her and perhaps because no one else had ever thought to do it.

The same bird focuses on Rose. She is non-identical, not as tall, but with the same coal-black hair… well, she can be cranky with a sassy demeanor, something like Bette Davis. After all, this was the beginning of the 1950’s in the USA. Pop culture was everywhere. It would be wrong to suggest that Rose didn’t succomb to Hollywood icons after she saw “All About Eve” at the movies. Rose went nuts over the character “Margo” even quoting some of her lines:

“Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!” at the
beginning of parties and

“A lost lamb loose in our stone jungle,” when she spied a man she
liked.

The twins had no television, but then most people couldn’t afford one at the time. They did have a Panasonic radio from Japan. Something to dance to. They were and they were not connected to the world at large. In this way, television had little or no effect on their lives. But radio was in the background most of the time.

Let’s just say the sisters were iconic in their own ways. Together they were seen in the community as an anomaly, not strange, just in a world of their own. They were nearly six feet tall. Men would retreat due to their physique, but then the men would melt like butter as they walked closer. They were mesmerizing. Their bodies were perfection. Like a full moon.

“You would think they could fill these damn potholes once in a blue moon,” Rose spoke in a grave tone.

“Don’t you know birds drink from these potholes,” Gilda said cheerfully.

They had a cottage left to them by their grandfather. It was medium-sized but clean and comfortable. There were only four or five homes allowed on the shore.

Friends from high school, but sometimes campers or tourists, and sometimes a neighbor or two. The place was pretty secluded. They had a pavilion and dock only shouting distance from the other homes. The music was acoustic or from their radio. The barbeque pit spat sparks disappearing skyward as the meat and fish dripped into the glowing coals. Beer was on ice or in their frigidere.

Their parties were famous. Always lakeside. They had a long property. You could park up and down the road. But the night crew rangers might take a pass… young park rangers. They came and went with Rose on their mind.

Another diversion. It was obvious to most people that the “Communist Scare” was a third-rate B-movie starring wannabe politicians. Not only that, they seemed to have criminal backgrounds. Over time, they gained momentum. Then campaigned to win on division and fear. I’m afraid this is the old song and dance of desperatos and people who will never be content. I’m afraid for the future, Even the next century.

In fact, the party had moved to the pavilion and the adjacent dock.The twins owned two boats, one with a motor and one with oars.

“Hey Jon, ” Rose challenged. “I bet you can’t catch a fish.” Jon was a former basketball celebrity in their younger days.

“Bring it on,” Jon mumbled in his semi-drunken state.

“Get in the boat,” Rose commanded softly.

“Which boat?” Jon looked excited and confused.

“The one you are going to row,” Rose laughed deeply.

“Where are the poles?” Jon stumbled toward the skiff.

“They are oars, and we don’t them,” Rose got in and Jon began to row.

This act of seduction was something Rose was accustomed to. Gilda always turned a blind eye, preferring her company on land. On this particular night, Gilda walked alone on the wooden steps to the cottage and went to sleep. Needless to say the twins did not go fishing together.

It was a humid day with cigar-shaped clouds occasioning the sky just above the western bluff. UFOs had been reported in the early morning hours. The Rosenstein twins had seen some lights above the lake on many occasions but gave them no mind. A shark would have given them notice more than anything in the night sky.

If the man with the orange-colored hair had floated across the lake, they would have delivered him to shore and prayed for him.

Yet, they were the only boat on the lake just before dawn on that day and did not recall the heavy set man with orange hair washed up under neighbor’s veranda. Further, the twins emphasized that they had never happened upon any celestial nor terrestrial events.

After the “incident” they made a statement: “We saw lights, but we were so tired, we hitched our catch, sprayed off, then we fell asleep…. Maybe 3 or 4 am…” Gilda spoke with balooned eyes.

“We cleaned our catch and hit the sack. We woke up and people were up and about. It was Sunday for Christ’s sake. What do you want!” Rose unleashed her temper.

The next day… and days on end… The sisters pulled their aluminum skiff up to shore and the beautiful morning sun shone all about them except on the rainy days when they skinny dipped just before dawn. They caught pike, bluegills, and sunfish, bass, and on an occasional day, a giant carp. A fish that size is not good eating. They threw all carp back. The bluegills were best fried up with batter and butter but no bones.

Usually, there was more than enough bounty to keep the local reataurant chefs and their customers satisfied. Fresh fish. No one complained. And, of course, money in the pockets of the twins. It was a living.

More Chapters to follow

Thank you for your support!

This work is partially funded by “Nobody”

and the “Nobody” foundation for “Nobody”

spencer

June 12, 2024

Novel

Quotations Out of Context

Ray Bradbury and Gene Roddenberry ~ Two Fantastic Writers

Quote One ~ Ray Bradbury ~ Review in print November 1979

It looks like a dream book. Then you suddenly remember it’s all real. Then the long march from the rim of the cave to the edge of the cliff where we flung ourselves off and built our wings on the way down quickens to focus. It’s all here, in a building, in a book.

Quote Two ~ Ray Bradbury ~ October 1986 UC Irvine Lecture

“Jump off the cliff and learn how to make wings on the way down.”

Quote Three ~ Spencer ~ Here

“Jump off the cliff and learn how to make wings on the way down.”

Quote Four ~ Gene Roddenberry ~ Off the cuff

“We must question the story logic of having an all-knowing all-powerful God, who creates faulty Humans, and then blames them for his own mistakes.”

“Star Trek was an attempt to say that humanity will reach maturity and wisdom on the day that it begins not just to tolerate, but take a special delight in differences in ideas and differences in life forms. […] If we cannot learn to actually enjoy those small differences, to take a positive delight in those small differences between our own kind, here on this planet, then we do not deserve to go out into space and meet the diversity that is almost certainly out there.”

“The Strength of a civilization is not measured by its ability to fight wars, but rather by its ability to prevent them.”

BY RAY BRADBURYOCT. 26, 1991 12 AM PT

Gene Roddenberry asked me to be part of the “Star Trek” family as a writer 25 years ago. He showed me the pilot, and I looked at it and liked it but said at that time that I’ve never been able to adapt other people’s characters–no matter how much I admire them. So, one of the sad things of my life is I was never able to participate in the love and joy that made “Star Trek” so special.

Gene Roddenberry

“For most people, religion is nothing more than a substitute for a malfunctioning brain. If people need religion, ignore them and maybe they will ignore you, and you can go on with your life. It wasn’t until I was beginning to do Star Trek that the subject of religion arose. What brought it up was that people were saying that I would have a chaplain on board the Enterprise. I replied, “No, we don’t.”

You can access all posts in the categories on the left. The first example will appear on screen and the links to the same topic will appear at the bottom of the scroll:

Both are tangled and shoud be discarded

“Try Again”

Yes… Always

• Bird Calls
• Deep Night
• Death by Golfcart
• My Last Christmas
• Sounds All Around

Chapter One

Smoking cigarettes is really bad in a good way… and drinking… but maybe there are benefits… I believe Florida is a good place to die.

October 20 1969

Jack, the old writer, can be seen clacking away on a worn out Underwood typewriter. In fact, he wrote his most popular novel on a long scroll of paper. The paper would wrythe about the room snakelike in slow motion as the narrative met its match with real events.

His room was the size of an old Amtrak lounge car. It was a dusty if not nostalgic place. No images. Just old wallpaper. Empty bottles here and there. An empty suitcase. Clothes scattered across the room as memories were scattered from coast to coast.

Images and random texts flank the old writer like animals that come and go on the savanna of an outcast dream. I imagine his poetry belonged to pencil and napkins. Yet the prose was unbridled wild horses… or a bridled tornado rode with ideas and friends.

He is writing a book. The content is pure and focused. What reaches the pages falls seven stories down. They float like butterfly wings. Minimal weight. Lost in flight on the winds that provide us with the past. Someday to resurrect or perhaps to disappear. Have you heard of the void of forgotten existence. Or perhaps the memory unto eternity.

In the background, a telephone. Jack either doesn’t hear it or has no conscious association with it. It ends. He comes out of his concentrated daze and sips his warm cheap vodka from a paper cup.

When they made love for the first time it was mainly her eyes but obviously her flesh that pulled Jack in. Her exquisite nearly bare mound, her pulsing from under her tight skirt and her lips touching his for the first time. Then, the signs from her body. They invited his touches in and around her. Their lives left the moment and became something else…

Later she would think, “He seemed different to me. I saw it in his eyes. He was honest. Not like all the other men I had known. He was here because he needed to meet me. I felt a deep connection with him. I wanted to love this man and I thought he could love me back. This was not desperation. I was as sure as ever that life could go on forever”.

Chapter Two

Imagine music and the history of our existence are inseparable.

Have you ever seen a “Sky Saw” click ? My guess is that is lightning…

Sometimes a walk along the beach

gives you comfort

Take care… and care for others…

The Shack

Living in the shack wasn’t as bad as all that. We had indoor plumbing. And the hole went down to infinity as far as I know. We were illuminated by a microwave oven hooked up to solar panels. We cooked using sun ovens (when they worked) and we had a million pounds of canned goods courtesy of the good ole USA government right here in the desert.

People get sick and die all the time, but it’s easy to bury them in the sand. Ummm… yah… ahhh… wind direction is important. There is an art to it. I mean so they don’t float. Some of them just blow away into the horizon.

Of course when the canned goods (I like the Chili) and water (We aren’t sure) run out we will take the pills. It was a solar flare that knocked the world on it’s pretty ass. How’s that for irony. The Sun Giveth and the Sun Taketh Away.

Note: Links to more stories below…

2 ~ Bee and Jo

3 ~ The Jackhammer

4 ~ The Gambling Den

5 ~ Beautiful Monday

Prelude: Poetry and Lyrics

Memory, Reflection, Imagination, Biographs, and other Expressions…

Lyrics and Poetry: Lost Companions ~ Prelude

Where do lyrics and poetry meet?

They are the same in the medium of message. Poets and musicians suggest language can change themselves and can change history. They are correct. Language is the spirit of our imaginative mind. This space is sacred. It’s also possible that poets and musicians, perhaps not the Greeks, went ‘south’ in the sense that they, more or less, lost their connection to the world as we know it and made an exit into oblivion. I will not name them nor judge them.

All is beautiful when language is pure and simple like the haiku or the rhymes in nurseries. Yet there is a spectrum that changes over decades and centuries in all communication all across the world.

Every country and language arguably forges a symmetry and direction through their culture as it occurs at irregular intervals: their “ups and downs”. Some are less developed than others, but given a thousand years, the tides may turn and these tides make sense to all people around the world.

Some are monotheistic, some are non-theistic, some are polytheistic, and some are animistic, then there are rare few that may be mystic. Given Hope and Fear… Love appears to be the central theme. Music is the destination.

Just Check these people out: Brian Eno, Talking Heads, Radio Head, John Lennon, Patti Smith, Tina Turner, Aretha Franklin, Frank Zappa, The Pretenders, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, Barry White, Frank Sinatra, B.B. King, Tony Bennet, Nat ‘King’ Cole….

It’s possible to say, these extremely creative and wonderful people were more interested in our minds. They had the depth perception to help us relate positively to ourselves, our societies, and our cultures. Let us appreciate the people who gave us beautiful songs and movies.

Finally, love, patience, generosity, discipline, energy, good thoughts, compassion, and overall well being wherever you exist should always be given their proper and permanent place in our lives.

Perhaps poetry belongs to meditation and mind

a beautiful mind usually looks to the sky

RANDOM ESSAY ~ JUST FOR THE HELL OF IT

Sisyphus and Tantalus

Tantalus was made to stand in a pool of water beneath a fruit tree with low branches, with the fruit ever eluding his grasp, and the water always receding before he could take a drink. Hades punished Sisyphus for cheating death twice by forcing him to roll an immense boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down every time it neared the top, repeating this action for eternity. 

To say these punishments are fair causes injustice in our minds. But what REALLY are these myths about?

Complicated… Nothing is simple.

It appears that Tantalus is a metaphor or better, an analogy of human greed… the desire for more and much more… I want this and that…

Sisyphus was simpler to comprehend. He committed an act against the authority, ultimate authority, and was punished according to the ultimate law… This practice is now defunct… It no longer exists… Let us say

The laws that made Sisyphus guilty of a crime no longer exist. Peace be with you and peace be with me. These are tales of morality and perhaps NOT wisdom. I would suggest they belong in the category of biblical tales.

Poetry and Lyrics: A Universe of Endless Imagination

Where do lyrics and poetry meet?

If you happen upon the most fantastic Dictionary in the Universe, there will be a countless number of emerging, progressing, recessing, and dying languages, and we could easily regard this communication cycle as endless in computation and infinite in quantity. In other words, language belongs to evolution. Or more likely, language emerged parallel with evolution. All poetry, song, and lyric belong to the cosmos including all communication on this planet for better or worse. Consider the works of the great poet Jorge Luis Borges and the Labyrinths he described.

It would be possible to bring this conversation into the world of math, but I will not. Math is a form of language, but biology brought forth its blueprint. It has resonance with music but seems a distant cousin. They don’t often meet. Math can explain many wonderful phenomena, but it appears as a skeleton… There must be other approaches to song and lyric and poetry.

Out of the blue, the Big Bang appears in retrospect. Life is timeless, infinite, and cyclical. Language is embedded in the cycles of the Universe and will go on forever. Go forward and you end up with imagination. Go in reverse and you are on the roller coaster of memory. Stay still for a few moments and you are in the profound space of now. Don Quixote in his prison dreamed of other places. But his vision was elsewhere. Only the author knows such dreams.

First, obviously, shed light on the original culture of Australia. The native people there (some 250 tribes) named places but had no definitive name for a territorial land. This indicates a point of view not familiar with historical thought. Heinrich Meyer, an ethnographer travelling the Outback in the 1850’s (Public Library of South Australia) documented this song poetry from the native people’s oral tradition:

“The moon (reflecting from the sun) is also a woman and not particularly chaste. She stays a long time with men and from the effects of her intercourse with them she becomes very thin and wastes away to a mere skeleton. When in this state Nurrunderi (a creator being, perhaps the sun) orders her to be driven away. She flies and is hidden for some time but is employed constantly in seeking roots. The medicine is so nourishing that in a short time she appears, fills out her body, and becomes herself again (slightly paraphrased).”

Remember, this is in the form of song and has/had been passed down from time immemorial. It’s difficult to imagine any present day lyric or written poetry reaching the depths of imagination conveyed by this ancient song. Perhaps this ritual song, and its rhythmic and tonal qualities, perhaps lost, provide a benchmark for what came later, what we perceive historically as lyric, what we call poetry in our world today.

This aboriginal song may well be an allegory of the lunar cycle. In fact, it may seem obvious even to the casual observer. Most of human history has been a curious and humble relationship with nature. Curiosity created the stories and myths reflected from the wonders of Nature that have always existed. But where did “song” originate? And why was song poetry (lyric) the preference among the ancients?

Considering the origin of song, and potentially lyric, there are a few considerations just from an enquiring point of view. One, birds and animals predate conscious communicating humans by millions of years. In fact, it is my opinion that Earth is flora and fauna’s domain and we are just visiting. In fact, we appear to be belligerent guests at best.

Henry Ford and the like may disagree, but in the court of the Universe, there is an obvious indictment and conviction. We are guilty of atrocity. And it seems we have little capacity for apology nor constraint. Best case scenarios are diminishing… Unfortunately, it looks like the powers that be are in control of our destiny.

Setting that upbeat news aside, we can examine the communication of animals and birds as related to the origin of human speech, communication, lyrics and poetry, and consequently the development of language. Not a Sunday drive, but an exploration worthwhile. Yet, there is a human element to the creation of rhythm and sound. Consider this poem:

Communication

I watched a stream

and became aware

of how music began

water flows across stones

beyond streams

waves meet sand

rain sounds on every object

rain meets our bodies

passes through our minds

and makes a home in our hearts

beating and pulse

the rhythm of life

birds and other animals

making orchestral sounds

across the expanse of planet

creating melodies

calling to each other

for one reason or another

preserving their space

In their competitive place

beasts across forests

jungle and plain

signaled intention

from pleasure and pain

sounds that remain

in our history

no mystery

the musical tones of life

human community

watching carefully

spirited language

borrowing thoughtlessly

In clumsy gestures and expressions

from those animals

both friend and foe

countless ages

of development

evolved our tongues and ears

for speech

when we were finally able

to take care of each other

and accomplish

the miracle of

Communication

John Wayne’s Horses

Waynes horses ran

away and returned

to the place from whence

they were captured

There were cultures

living on the lands

you call the arid zone of sand long before

the movies

believe it or not

animals know

where their homes are

and return to their

native lands… and people…

they also try to return

Here is something to chew on:

Some of the tribes of the Southwest:

Ak-Chin, Tohono O’odham, Pinal

Akimel O’odham, Hia C-eḍ Oʼodham

Maricopa, Cocopah, Yuma, Somerton

Colorado River, La Paz, Chemehuevi

Mohave, Hopi, Navajo, Apache

Gila, Yavapai, Maricopa

Havasupai, Coconino, Havasupai

Hopi-Tewa

Ky kots movi (?), Hualapai, Yavapai

Hualapai, Kaibab, Coconino

Southern Paiute

Pascua Yaqui, Pima, Pascua Yaqui            

Languages

The indigenous peoples of Arizona speak a variety of languages from several different language families. Speakers of Yuman–Cochimí languages include the Havasupai, Hualapai, Yavapai, Mohave, Halchidhoma, Quechan, Maricopa (Piipaash), and Cocopah.

The Navajo and Apache are Southern Athabaskan-speaking people who migrated into the American Southwest from the north, possibly around 1300 AD

Point being: The Native population of of the continent were (and are)

very intelligent and in harmony with Nature. But can we catch up…

“Ameria” (How embarrassing)… Here you can find “facts” on google:

“Did Christopher Columbus or Amerigo Vespucci discover America?”

“Columbus found the new world, but Vespucci was the man who recognized that it was a new world.”

This is ridiculous…

How can people think in absurd ways over generations? Analogy:

“I found a penny on the sidewalk, but my sister recognized it was a coin, so I gave it to her.” But, in fact, it belonged to someone else!

Absurdity in Reverse: Native people go to Europe in the Dark Ages. They conquer the sick and rotten communities and take over the land. In that case, would we say the Mayans discovered Europe?

Furthermore, it would have been in Europe’s interest at that time, since half the population was carted away into mass graves. In contrast, the cultures decimated by the Europeans seem to have been thriving at the time.

To be fair, First Nation people were certainly no more ethical than any other tribal nation. Name one territory that has held peace with a close neighbor over generations (OK, except Canada and the US). On the other hand, Native American weapons remained simple over generations. There seems to be no escalation of violence in warfare.

On another note, most likely First Nation people were more intelligent in relation to the natural environment than we in the indutrial age.

What is called the “industrial revolution” lead to people tossing personal sewage onto the streets in piss pots and shit buckets in Paris, London, and other Metropoli. Child labor, poverty, imprisonment, and other social atrocities were common.

Meanwhile, the First Nation people went their “own way” with Nature. It appears their greatest defect was territorial warfare.

Finally. We must admit, at least, the invasion of the Europeans into what is now known as “the Americas” was a monumental genocide.

 It was a decimation of many beautiful cultures.

Now we think Europe is such a cultural haven, but at the time, they became barbarians… dragged out from the sewers of the renaissance in a frenzy to find gold. Put on ships to conquer new worlds. “Make your country rich!” “Mow down the enemy… Be a Hero!”

And history repeats itself time and time again…

Here gold, there oil… What’s next?

The bar remains so low due to this cowardly “conquest”

And the minds of the “conquistadores” remain

In their elaboration of dress and exploitation

And the gold remains in Spain. Have you ever Thought to give it back? Such is “humanity”…

Pigeons

Pigeons are doves when they are pure white. See the magician pulling the bird out of a beaver-skin hat… and a dove flies effortlessly into the unknown. The bird is amazing in its resilience.

Mesopotamian cuneiform tablets mention the domestication of pigeons more than 5,000 years ago, as do Egyptian hieroglyphics. Research suggests that the domestication of pigeons occurred as long past as 10,000 years ago.

But I want to talk about the fear of pigeons. Have you seen people becoming anxious around these all pervasive but obviously wonderful birds? See the iridescent rainbow-like sheen on their necks, in some cases, or the variety of coloration. Perhaps we disregard them simply because of their numbers. Then how does our perception of them reflect upon us? Something to ponder.

Is it Alfred Hitchcock we have to blame?

Back to pigeons, their uncanny ability to disregard belligerent humans, I mean they have no more care for a human than a human has a care for them. I suppose humans regard themselves as the most intelligent being on the planet. Perhaps pigeons are of the same mind. In fact, they can fly and mate for life… Who is to say they are not more suitable to this world, earth, planet…

But the homing pigeon is as loyal as tea is to the Queen… My mistake… the king.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pigeon_post

And fools often find their way into high places. Let me jest for just a moment…

Although as far as mating goes, the seemingly dim-witted feathered creatures possess a far greater intelligence than we may want to admit. Theirs is a dance of politeness and grace. This experience, a voyeur’s experience of the mating of pigeons, is no small matter. The male chases and dances intermittently, while the female keeps him just out of reach. Finally, she yields in a false sense of misdirection and the excited and flustered male does the act… with precision and excellence. Were it so for the human species, we would not need the collaborations and elaborations in the all too many documented cases.

Waynes horses ran

away and returned

to the place from whence

they were captured

There were cultures

living on the lands

you call ari zona long before

the movies

believe it or not

animals know

where their homes are

and return to their

native lands… and people…

they also try to return

Here is something to chew on:

Some of the tribes of the Southwest:

Ak-Chin, Tohono O’odham, Pinal

Akimel O’odham, Hia C-eḍ Oʼodham

Maricopa, Cocopah, Yuma, Somerton

Colorado River, La Paz, Chemehuevi

Mohave, Hopi, Navajo, Apache

Gila, Yavapai, Maricopa

Havasupai, Coconino, Havasupai

Hopi-Tewa

Ky kots movi (?), Hualapai, Yavapai

Hualapai, Kaibab, Coconino

Southern Paiute

Pascua Yaqui, Pima, Pascua Yaqui            

Languages

The indigenous peoples of Arizona speak a variety of languages from several different language families. Speakers of Yuman–Cochimí languages include the Havasupai, Hualapai, Yavapai, Mohave, Halchidhoma, Quechan, Maricopa (Piipaash), and Cocopah.

The Navajo and Apache are Southern Athabaskan-speaking people who migrated into the American Southwest from the north, possibly around 1300 AD

Point being: The Native population of of the continent were (and are)

very intelligent and in harmony with Nature. But can we catch up…

“Ameria” (How embarrassing)… Here you can find “facts” on google:

“Did Christopher Columbus or Amerigo Vespucci discover America?”

“Columbus found the new world, but Vespucci was the man who recognized that it was a new world.”

This is ridiculous…

How can people think in absurd ways over generations? Analogy:

“I found a penny on the sidewalk, but my sister recognized it was a coin, so I gave it to her.” But, in fact, it belonged to someone else!

Absurdity in Reverse: Native people go to Europe in the Dark Ages. They conquer the sick and rotten communities and take over the land. In that case, would we say the Mayans discovered Europe?

Furthermore, it would have been in Europe’s interest at that time, since half the population was carted away into mass graves. In contrast, the cultures decimated by the Europeans seem to have been thriving at the time.

To be fair, First Nation people were certainly no more ethical than any other tribal nation. Name one territory that has held peace with a close neighbor over generations (OK, except Canada and the US). On the other hand, Native American weapons remained simple over generations. There seems to be no escalation of violence in warfare.

On another note, most likely First Nation people were more intelligent in relation to the natural environment than we in the indutrial age.

What is called the “industrial revolution” lead to people tossing personal sewage onto the streets in piss pots and shit buckets in Paris, London, and other Metropoli. Child labor, poverty, imprisonment, and other social atrocities were common.

Meanwhile, the First Nation people went their “own way” with Nature. It appears their greatest defect was territorial warfare.

Finally. We must admit, at least, the invasion of the Europeans into what is now known as “the Americas” was a monumental genocide.

 It was a decimation of many beautiful cultures.

Now we think Europe is such a cultural haven, but at the time, they became barbarians… dragged out from the sewers of the renaissance in a frenzy to find gold. Put on ships to conquer new worlds. “Make your country rich!” “Mow down the enemy… Be a Hero!”

And history repeats itself time and time again…

Here gold, there oil… What’s next?

The bar remains so low due to this cowardly “conquest”

And the minds of the “conquistadores” remain

In their elaboration of dress and exploitation

And the gold remains in Spain. Have you ever Thought to give it back? Such is “humanity”…

• The Tribes in the Americas before the Conquest
• 1) Winnebago
• 2) Navajo
• 3) Sauk
• 4) 1000 more

Music below

This genre may be considered a short-short story or if you prefer, a “vignette” in the elegant, distant, surreal French tradition. Here, It’s a fictional post (versus an essay, poem, partial novel, or diatribe). It’s meant to be enjoyed, like a quick afternoon martini. Add to, comment on, dismiss, or praise as you like.

Bee and Jo

Bee was a recycler from Busan, South Korea. In the West, he would be equivalent to the scavenger of aluminum cans and the like, but here in the wild, wild East, in the sing song post-war prairies of Dong-nae City, practically everything short of edible food was carried off to recycling centers, centers that sunk into the urban landscape like bad poetry.

Splintered metallic objects, their parts wrangled and unidentifiable, were stacked up in absurd but slightly elegant piles. Artwork by accident at best. They awaited grumbling trucks with gigantic holds. The stationary loader had mantis-like hydraulic grips. It ripped into the sky to feed refrigerators and car parts to the trucks’ empty holds poised like the mouths of monolithic hungry dinosaurs. It dropped the resistant metals into the beds of these hermetically sealed shaking vehicles. Such crashing, resounding elegance. Such delicate catastrophe.

Jo befriended Bee because Bee allowed it and it benefited his empty heart. Members of the community would have to measure the plusses and minuses of a relationship between them. Truth be told, Bee was South Korean but had no cares regarding his community. In this way, he was independent. But Jo, she was North Korean and she was sensitive and wounded. Perhaps her pains were greater than his and this made him empathetic. She had survived the war and somehow made it south…maybe she was a miracle.

“Bee… Can I make lunch now?”

“Why do you ask me? You are not my servant.  I’m Bee… Just a normal man Ha!”

“No… You’re Bee… Expert in Junk. What’s that name mean anyway?”

“Bees make honey Ha! No thanks!”

“Ah… What?”

“It means “No thanks!”

“Why are you called “Jo”?

“Ji eye Jo gave me the name.”

“Who the hell?”

“Yah, who the hell…”

“Who the hell gives us theeese cans of meat and… phoey.”

“I’m tired of this canned food… Jo… Let’s make a garden!”

“I know how to do that!” Jo raised her smiling face.

“Don’t ignore me Jo. I want you to be my partner.”

“Yes Bee. We will be partners and make a large garden”.

“Demmit! We will make a wonderful life.”

Jo appeared exhausted but happy. She was unbathed but beautiful.

“So let’s have lunch…” They looked deeply into one another.

Then they had lunch.

The Jackhammer

The jackhammer began its insane choppy drone at eight am on Sunday morning. What a relief. On Saturday, it was seven am. Now coffee. Now tolerance. And this is the ‘Land of the Morning Calm’. I beg to differ. This is the “Land of the Painful Hangover”.

But this distinction does not belong to Korea alone. All across the world people drink in social places or alone or on cruise ships, and even in prisons. Well, as nature demands, we wake up with nausea and odd forms of headache and anxiety. Pardon the cliche: “Pay the fiddler.”

But the jackhammers (so much concrete to crush) and the barkers selling goods on bongo pick-up trucks, well, they get up quite early in the morning, and they multiply the deleterious effects exponentially. Thus jackhammers and bongos are to be avoided by most drinking folk.

Then came Monday. Along came the jackhammers at 6:43 am. At 6:44, I heard a muffled cry. I looked at my bed table clock and it was 6:45. No jackhammer. I fell on the floor and spilled an open bottle of water. Picked myself up and looked out the window. I saw a flash. Black like silk in rain. I Shook my head and went back to bed. Waiting for the cacophony. Nothing. And in seconds there was the humming of cicadas in the early summer morning. Bewildered, I got up and made coffee. Often looking out my window.

The next day, Tuesday, nothing woke me up. In fact, I was late for work. And I was happy. Since that day, at least in my neighborhood, this has been a “Land of Morning Calm”. No jackhammers, no barkers, only the sweet sounds of bird songs, light traffic, and cicadas. But I’m sure the jackhammers and morning barkers in bongo trucks will return. I only hope the mysterious figure will return as well. Until then, all is like a ship on calm water in an uncharted sea. What winds will come to soothe or ruin our wonderful mornings. No one knows.

The Gambling Den

My apartment was on the seventh floor with a veranda overlooking shoulder to shoulder small buildings. There were many one or two-story homes and businesses. The view was a 280-degree radial circumference perched on a diamond-like platform in a neighborhood that was noisy, busy, and near a high school. “From the apartment, It’s like looking down on a crowd of concrete chess pieces on a crazy confused chess board with ant-like people running around and all through it.” My friend Aims was known to say. Then I died.

But I’ll get back to that. By the way, Jean-Eugène Buland painted this wonderful image. His work is unsurpassed and beautiful. See the faces, all looking up in bewilderment. They look away as soon as they meet your eyes. How curious that seems until you realize that when people see you, in fact they see themselves. Healthy people look, smile, and go their way. There is nothing they need to see.

If you walked out the door, went down the elevator and connected with reality, you would be in the world of sound and fury as one writer put it. “Life is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing.” Macbeth. But did the bard really mean it like that. Faulkner. I don’t know. I guess they call that irony. Pages upon pages of a challenged individual. Not so much an idiot… Anyway my point is that it can be “harmony and passion” and let the fury burn out. Or use sound and fury when you need it. Emphasis: Choose to use it.

The proprietor of the bar was a skinny narrow-eyed pesky fellow with an absence of any social capacity at all. He’d drag down one cigarette after another and fill a beer glass like a laboratory tech. His clientele… almost all, no, correct me. They were all gamblers of the losing kind. End of their rope so to speak. All in debt to bad sources and unable to quit.

As in all card games, there is an origin derived from divination…. It isn’t remarkable that the modern Western deck of gaming cards had arisen from Tarot. And Tarot is as ancient as card structures come. I was in the neighborhood, literally. I was a writer researching this gambling den. I was announced as a gambler. I was looking for a story. I was sweating and felt agitated. The atmosphere was akin to the latrine in a submarine. I sat down to the table. I reached in for my wallet.  Guess what card came up.

Measuring Souls

“Clear skies and copious flasks of ambrosia strapped to our shoulders we ride and we travel like giant birds with strange wings across a very long stretch of land eventually reaching our next birth or our ultimate death…

Like the Egyptian gods with scales testing all souls’ departure. They are no less alive in the ether…

placing the invisible heart on a scale against a featherwhich will take the weight north or south…

yes, this determines the path of the departed whether toward heaven or toward earth again as there is no hell…

Hell has been established beyond a million times on Earth…

As the illusion has always been a ruse for power and injustice.”

Thus the experience millenia past rings true to this day. Therefore we begin the story of the modern-day Khufu (around 122 generations later) and I (no one in particular) from the brothels of Cairo (longer delay than planned) into the desert (by jeep taxi) then into the Great Pyramid (simple bribery).

And who am I but a guide and a friend. To bring Khufu back to his roots. His motherland. Umm… OK…

When we arrived at the entrance we were fantastically entranced. It was beyond our expectations in size and architecture. I was stunned but compelled to enter.

My apartment was on the seventh floor with a veranda overlooking shoulder to shoulder small buildings. There were many one or two-story homes and businesses. The view was a 280-degree radial circumference perched on a diamond-like platform in a neighborhood that was noisy, busy, and near a high school. “From the apartment, It’s like looking down on a crowd of concrete chess pieces on a crazy confused chess board with ant-like people running around and all through it.” My friend Aims was known to say. Then I died.

Pascal’s wager: “If you believe, you are not punished if you are wrong.”

But I’ll get back to that. By the way, Jean-Eugène Buland painted this wonderful image. His work is unsurpassed and beautiful. See the faces, all looking up in bewilderment. They look away as soon as they meet your eyes. How curious that seems until you realize that when people see you, in fact they see themselves. Healthy people look, smile, and go their way. There is nothing they need to see.

If you walked out the door, went down the elevator and connected with reality, you would be in the world of sound and fury as one writer put it. “Life is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing.” Macbeth. But did the bard really mean it like that. Faulkner. I don’t know. I guess they call that irony. Pages upon pages of a challenged individual. Not so much an idiot… Anyway my point is that it can be “harmony and passion” and let the fury burn out. Or use sound and fury when you need it. Emphasis: Choose to use it.

The proprietor of the bar was a skinny narrow-eyed pesky fellow with an absence of any social capacity at all. He’d drag down one cigarette after another and fill a beer glass like a laboratory tech. His clientele… almost all, no, correct me. They were all gamblers of the losing kind. End of their rope so to speak. All in debt to bad sources and unable to quit.

As in all card games, there is an origin derived from divination…. It isn’t remarkable that the modern Western deck of gaming cards had arisen from Tarot. And Tarot is as ancient as card structures come. I was in the neighborhood, literally. I was a writer researching this gambling den. I was announced as a gambler. I was looking for a story. I was sweating and felt agitated. The atmosphere was akin to the latrine in a submarine. I sat down to the table. I reached in for my wallet.  Guess what card came up.

10 photos for 10 chapters

The Gambling Den

My apartment was on the seventh floor with a veranda overlooking shoulder to shoulder small buildings. There were many one or two-story homes and businesses. The view was a 280-degree radial circumference perched on a diamond-like platform in a neighborhood that was noisy, busy, and near a high school. “From the apartment, It’s like looking down on a crowd of concrete chess pieces on a crazy confused chess board with ant-like people running around and all through it.” My friend Aims was known to say. Then I died.

But I’ll get back to that. By the way, Jean-Eugène Buland painted this wonderful image. His work is unsurpassed and beautiful. See the faces, all looking up in bewilderment. They look away as soon as they meet your eyes. How curious that seems until you realize that when people see you, in fact they see themselves. Healthy people look, smile, and go their way. There is nothing they need to see.

If you walked out the door, went down the elevator and connected with reality, you would be in the world of sound and fury as one writer put it. “Life is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing.” Macbeth. But did the bard really mean it like that. Faulkner. I don’t know. I guess they call that irony. Pages upon pages of a challenged individual. Not so much an idiot… Anyway my point is that it can be “harmony and passion” and let the fury burn out. Or use sound and fury when you need it. Emphasis: Choose to use it.

The proprietor of the bar was a skinny narrow-eyed pesky fellow with an absence of any social capacity at all. He’d drag down one cigarette after another and fill a beer glass like a laboratory tech. His clientele… almost all, no, correct me. They were all gamblers of the losing kind. End of their rope so to speak. All in debt to bad sources and unable to quit.

As in all card games, there is an origin derived from divination…. It isn’t remarkable that the modern Western deck of gaming cards had arisen from Tarot. And Tarot is as ancient as card structures come. I was in the neighborhood, literally. I was a writer researching this gambling den. I was announced as a gambler. I was looking for a story. I was sweating and felt agitated. The atmosphere was akin to the latrine in a submarine. I sat down to the table. I reached in for my wallet.  Guess what card came up.

The Jackhammer

This genre may be considered a short-short story or if you prefer, a “vignette” in the elegant, distant French tradition. Here, It’s a fictional post (versus an essay, poem, partial novel, or diatribe). It’s meant to be enjoyed, like browsing magazines at the dentist’s office. Please don’t add to, comment on, diss (?), or praise. Yet… It’s up to you.

The Jackhammer

The jackhammer began its insane choppy drone at eight am on Sunday morning. What a relief. On Saturday, it was seven am. Now coffee. Now tolerance. And this is the ‘Land of the Morning Calm’. I beg to differ. This is the “Land of the Painful Hangover”.

But this distinction does not belong to Korea alone. All across the world people drink in social places or alone or on cruise ships, and even in prisons. Well, as nature demands, we wake up with nausea and odd forms of headache and anxiety. Pardon the cliche: “Pay the fiddler.”

But the jackhammers (so much concrete to crush) and the barkers selling goods on bongo pick-up trucks, well, they get up quite early in the morning, and they multiply the deleterious effects exponentially. Thus jackhammers and bongos are to be avoided by most drinking folk.

Then came Monday. Along came the jackhammers at 6:43 am. At 6:44, I heard a muffled cry. I looked at my bed table clock and it was 6:45. No jackhammer. I fell on the floor and spilled an open bottle of water. Picked myself up and looked out the window. I saw a flash. Black like silk in rain. I Shook my head and went back to bed. Waiting for the cacophony. Nothing. And in seconds there was the humming of cicadas in the early summer morning. Bewildered, I got up and made coffee. Often looking out my window.

The next day, Tuesday, nothing woke me up. In fact, I was late for work. And I was happy. Since that day, at least in my neighborhood, this has been a “Land of Morning Calm”. No jackhammers, no barkers, only the sweet sounds of bird songs, light traffic, and cicadas. But I’m sure the jackhammers and morning barkers in bongo trucks will return. I only hope the mysterious figure will return as well. Until then, all is like a ship on calm water in an uncharted sea. What winds will come to soothe or ruin our wonderful mornings. No one knows.

Bee and Jo

Bee was a recycler from Busan, South Korea. In the West, he would be equivalent to the scavenger of aluminum cans and the like, but here in the wild, wild East, in the sing song post-war prairies of Dong-nae City, practically everything short of edible food was carried off to recycling centers, centers that sunk into the urban landscape like bad poetry.

Splintered metallic objects, their parts wrangled and unidentifiable, were stacked up in absurd but slightly elegant piles. Artwork by accident at best. They awaited grumbling trucks with gigantic holds. The stationary loader had mantis-like hydraulic grips It ripped into the sky to feed refrigerators and car parts to the trucks’ empty holds poised like the mouths of monolithic hungry dinosaurs. It dropped the resistant metals into the beds of these hermetically sealed shaking vehicles. Such crashing, resounding elegance. Such delicate catastrophe.

Jo befriended Bee because Bee allowed it and it benefited his empty heart. Members of the community would have to measure the plusses and minuses of a relationship between them. Truth be told, Bee was South Korean but had no cares regarding his community. In this way, he was independent. But Jo, she was North Korean and she was sensitive and wounded. Perhaps her pains were greater than his and this made him empathetic. She had survived the war and somehow made it south…maybe she was a miracle.

“Bee… Can I make lunch now?”

“Why do you ask me? You are not my servant.  I’m Bee… Just a normal man Ha!”

“No… You’re Bee… Expert in Junk. What’s that name mean anyway?”

“Bees make honey Ha! No thanks!”

“Ah… What?”

“It means “No thanks!”

“Why are you called “Jo”?

“Ji eye Jo gave me the name.”

“Who the hell?”

“Yah, who the hell…”

“Who the hell gives us theeese cans of meat and… phoey.”

“I’m tired of this canned food… Jo… Let’s make a garden!”

“I know how to do that!” Jo raised her smiling face.

“Don’t ignore me Jo. I want you to be my partner.”

“Yes Bee. We will be partners and make a large garden”.

“Demmit! We will make a wonderful life.”

Jo appeared exhausted but happy. She was unbathed but beautiful.

“So let’s have lunch…” They looked deeply into one another.

Then they had lunch.

Measuring Souls

Clear skies and copious flasks of ambrosia strapped to our shoulders we ride and we travel like giant birds with strange wings across a very long stretch of land eventually reaching our next birth or our ultimate death…

Like the Egyptian gods with scales testing all souls’ departureNo less alive in the ether…

placing the invisible heart on a scale against a featherwhich will take the weight north or south…

yes, this determines the path of the departed whether toward heaven or toward earth again as there is no hell…

Hell has been established beyond a million times on Earth…

As the illusion has always been a ruse for power and injustice.

Therefore we begin the story of Korfu and I from the brothels of Cairo, into the desert and into the Great Pyramid.

“On the Sea, we review our views of life.” T.S. Brock

Painting by Franz Kupka… “The Wave” Paris 1902 in the “Symbolist Tradition” and why not… The painting clearly symbolizes a woman taking on a wave… A woman taking her rightful place in nature and thus in society… The 20th Century at its origin… Brava! And then crashing down comes the merciless wave. The woman has been swept away… Or has she? There is NO indication of defeat. My estimation is that she surfed the wave in perfect harmony and rode the return settling on the beach under warm rays of sun…

Preface

Back in the day, ships sailing to the New World transported horses in order to trade for goods on the shores of the Americas. These ships usually got stalled for days or sometimes even weeks due to the changing winds – high pressure creates still winds – 30 degrees north and south of the equator. Out of drinking water, the crew were unable to survive. To save themselves, the sailors would sometimes throw the horses they were transporting overboard. Horses drink lots of water. Thus, the term, “horse latitudes”.

Horse Latitudes

I don’t think of horses

When I can’t sleep

in the early morning

but I think

of the horse latitudes

These creatures may be described

as gangly elegant beings

eyes first gentle with

such beautiful tranquility

like the grace of relationship

when stars and moon meet

are we not the same

I suppose animals have  

a more expansive vision

in their environments

Horses were never born

for man’s adventures

It was an opportunity

A chance meeting

Certainly not destiny

Yet put into servitude

Put into Wars and on Farms

Beaten down and

Refused dignity

worse things

have happened…

to our kin and kin

where other poems may begin

Sleep beautiful friend

For now you pass

Into the fields of heaven

When the winds fail

In mid-ocean

no motion

To remain on land

Would have been

The best notion

With the promise

of slipping into sleep

among the wonderful

worlds above and below

Let calm return

to our minds

slowly our ship sails

back to the sea

Shooting Stars

do not fall that far

we measure them

by the maple leaves

aligned on a tree

surrounding the sky

you sitting next to me

and it was so instant

glances from everywhere

strangers far and wide

would set it aside

as an anomaly

Yet it is just a stone

origin unknown

no one appears to

question its existence

the sky at night

a dark and bright wonder

what makes night special

is the unknown

an amazing home

of endlessness

where impossible stories

beyond our worries

exist in the same heavens

we strive to imagine

this is to say this star

no… not a star but a little

piece of stone

this falling stone

making itself known

when our luck runs out

will be a giant rock

immense and final

Remember us as wonderful beings

No. truthfully. We were idiots

We were wonderful idiots

We were what they called…

human beings

Falling Down

The perfect collaboration

between pain and embarrassment

love and abandonment

hate and retribution

has a previous context

but I’m not willing

to say these events

were pre-ordained

When falling

in a dream

It could be

from the moon

When falling

in love emotions

run wild

When falling on earth

It’s different

another form of

gravity called

injury

Poem One: The Moon and You

The comforting glow

Of the moon

Is really the reflection

Of fire

From the sun

During the day

A collection of celestial

Snowflakes out of place

Unnoticed looked at

In disbelief

At night an anomaly

To be wondered upon

Sometimes golden

Sometimes almost absent

Yet the sphere manages

The waters of the Earth

And takes care of us

With love like a mother

Poem Two: Please Fall in Love

Smog wafting above cities

Its breeze from Spring to Summer

is like falling in love

There are moments when

lovers feel the sickness of this

beautiful malady

the anomaly of body and mind

chills and fever near panic

with no weather forecast

on the horizon of sanity

sun, rain, wind, or snow

Who cares?

Nature has a way

To sort the human condition out

Please fall in love

and make yourself whole

Appreciation to Pink Floyd for all the poetry and sonic wonder

Poem Three: One Degree of Insanity

It’s insane

But you can hear

Screams in the evenings

In peaceful cities

And in war zones

In the first are games

Children play

In their back yards

Like hide and seek

Come and go interactions

On picnics

Seeing spiders and

On Halloween

In the second, the other

con text, it’s bombs

In the front yards

While fam ilies crouch

Under tables

Machine guns pelt

The lim ited oxygen

Mad Maddened soldiers

Near star starvation

Steal food and water

People scream

who were never

anyone’s enemy

never this close

to horror

were they meant to be…

Tell me it’s not insane

20230415_131952Download

Poem Four: Birds Rule the Morning

Most birds, at the break of day,

Always have a lot to say

but the magpie sleeps

Nothing to say

In the morning

Like a drunk

That can’t join

Reality

OK, the sparrows

Chirp endlessly

But send the same message

All the time

Just like our spouses

Spouses of any gender

Now the crow (not blackbird)

Is some force of nature

Can never be reckoned with

They have been known

To attack humans and

Other large creatures

Unlike the magpie

They wake just after

The songbirds

I hesitate to suggest

There may be a reason

So here I make my point

Songbirds have been the poets

Of nature’s sacred language

Relentlessly offering

to our windows

the miracle

of the morning

endless songs of beauty

the origin of music

and the voice

of the gods

Reconcile the Morning

POEM ONE  Reconcile the Mornining

Night is Fantastic

Morning is beautiful

birds before dawn

sing their songs
to make their food
appear to them

from the soil
and to make

delicate flight

like magicians

navigating the sky

landing with care

to open mouths

in an exquisite

and symmetrical nest

with careful precision

feeding their young

hatchlings sounding

terrified beaks almost

to the breaking point

with care natural

and complete
and then silence
sun and heat

placing the worm

perfectly

Another flight

changing to hunter

again perhaps to

worm’s delight

exposing the cycles

related between sky

and earth

to feed the feathered family

the sacrificial worm

I suppose reflects destiny

POEM TWO Colorado White Chili

Estes Park Colorado 1988

Driving along the highway
in the Colorado mountains

near a park around midnight

with radio songs filling
the beautiful Chevrolet Malibu
way out of our territory
along sad gray switchbacks
bullet-like stars began
to fall from the sky

Bottles were jangling under
the driver’s seat

music humming

wind splashing

from outside
brown long-legged
deer flying

like pagan angels

over my roof

Cracking a beer

to rinse the dryness

in the Sun’s first light

The big brown bear
ran across the highway

as if on fire
I raised the bottle
from my lips

stopped my Malibu

in the middle of nowhere

Got out of the car

Then threw the bottle

At the beast

Being drunk and stupid

But the giant had no anger

It roared cautiously

Then we met eye to eye

and we became parallel

in time and space

Oddly enough raindrops

Began falling and

the bear disappeared

Car-door open

I fell asleep

At the side of the road

I awoke by state patrol

Soaked in my clothes

Brought in for questioning

And then released

As there was nothing

To charge me with

I got back into the Malibu

And drove back to Denver

Parked my car

Then went across

The street and ordered

My favorite breakfast

Colorado White Chili

POEM THREE First Principles

A thousand arrows
pursued me as I rode
bullet-like from enemies
on my horse, Xenophanes

Blasting past illusions
delusions, and false claims
We rode out the night
and came to rest

On the river of death
my horse drank
and grew wings
We became immortal

We took flight
toward the sun
hoping to enter
the Elysian Fields

As we approached
Xenophanes with
burning mane
fell to the waters

And became
the father of
sea horses

while I sank
deeply in peace
mixing my flesh

with coral and light

POEM FOUR Love is a Stone

rolling down mountains
like an  avalanche

Mud slides
are inevitable and
the magnitude
of runaway
conversations
destroys homes

So many
good relationships
go south

some for winter
but others forever

when the credit
card was lost
the trigger cost
some lives
some the end

And the pretty
American Dream
will often
slip like fish

from our hands
into the gutters
of destinations

But
Who were we
If we did not try?

POEM FIVE Road Kill

Feeding Eagles

The deer laid on the side of the road

two left legs slightly risen

white belly bulging

from the organs beginning

to bloat looking absurd

to children in buses

Right legs crushed and tucked

under the carcass revealing

both origin and landing

The tow truck was pulling

the smashed gray car away

no make visible in the mist

Two men in a pick-up arrive

just the doors open and shut

“What do you figure, one-thirty?”

“Yah, about that. Good meat.”

they roped the neck and dragged

it onto the bed of the truck

Driving down the road

they imagined vultures circling

and following them

“Bare-headed bastards gone south.”

“Yah, about time. Ugly-shouldered

bastards… but majestic in flight.”

Listening to the wind

and other evening sounds

the men drove

calm and quiet

watching the roadside

and the sky as always

later

when the sun

left the horizon

the two men unloaded

the deer near the shore

of a river

One lantern permitting

they opened the carcass

on the sandy bank

reverence unspoken

their blood red hands

finally washed clean

In darkness

They pitched tents

and slept

The moon

disappeared

and dawn emerged

As they woke

the eagles came to feed

landing on high perches

then on birch branches

then on the shore

beautiful scavengers in morning light

Copyright 2023 Humbird Outpost

Edgar Allen Poe link: Ed Poe

Poem 1  Ed Poe

Where
did you go
How did you
pass your
final days

I guess you
were bit in the
toe by a rabid dog

the crazed bastard
frothing and
growling and pacing
the streets
as you woke in a daze
In the early morn
on a park bench
along a Baltimore
Boulevard

As songbirds and
sparrows were
drowned out by ravens

You succumbed
to the poisons
from the jowls
of the heathen

amidst songbirds
and sparrows
and ravens

You spoke
nothing
but fainted
into the long
passage
into

the
place
beyond

Baudelaire was a poet. Famous for a collection: Flowers of Evil… Considering the photo, I believe he was just taking opium and often hungover. Yet the poems are beautiful… perhaps not destined for catholic or Desantos-type libraries but free press will prevail online (ha!): click here

Poem 2  Baudelaire’s Ghost

is in the sky
by day and at night

the words remain
as soul intent

ennui, paranoia
Catholic guilt
all dissolved
into quiet
meditation

so his bones
tell the tale

there are no
creaking boards

The ether has
made the poet
a drifter in time

And Poe belongs
in the same room
in perfect mystery

like a bird
arriving daily
at the same time
on your windowsill

half-dreams
fall into
overflowing
vessels

drown
in simple
death traps

or resurrect
in complex
life nets

or become
historical
hysteric
real stories
on the tip
of our
tongues

Poem  3  Jesus and Women

are friendly to me

whether it’s sunny

or there is a storm to be

They appear on my screen

so religiously

I’m inclined to pay them

collectively

I prefer a merlot

to Christianity

but I can’t exactly

describe pornography

To the left

there is astonishment

and to the right

there is admonishment

But, nonetheless

Jesus and prostitutes

are friendly to me

though the weather and I

often agree to disagree

Poem 4 Apples

from town
roll down the windows

Autumn breeze

upon our faces
there were hints
of apple everywhere
peach-colored
butterfly wings
floating like snow
and we drove up

the honey-hued
hill and the sky
spilled blue
until it
opened

and stars
emerged

Yet we were
driving up and
up to the place
of apple cider
wide open pavilion
apples and ciders
in abundance
beautiful apple
faces and conversation
glorious reunions
and celebrations
It seemed endless
And so it was

Poem  5  Poets are Ghosts

their words scatter

like space debris

across the universe

of language

barely breaching

our blue

atmosphere

plunging into dream

waking to painful light

drifting through day

dying into night

Copyright TLW 2023

End of Poetry Group Two

Poetry One

T S Brock

We had been living in Tokyo, but we ventured to other countries 2 or 3 times a year… Money was good… In Japan, near Tokyo, every chance that chance gave us… Well… We often wandered around the country sides of Japan, places not far from our home, but far enough to experience the deeper culture. So I asked my wife to take this photo of an abandoned Toyota… There were fireflies at night and elusive mosquitoes… But the wonder, the natural wonder was the symphony of cicadas making magical sounds all around us, hypnotizing our minds into sleep…

Poem 1 Cicadas

Sounds of summer

no one complains

don’t ask why

their rhythms

bother only

the most sensitive minds

They relieve our heat

and related pains

while their quiet

roaring bells

set us to relax

as decibels

slip deeply

like tranquil streams

into our ancient memory

1000 species across the world

living in the earth

as I’m told

emerging in luster

teen-aged and flustered

What brilliant energy

do they possess?

Their mystique has been

worshipped, feared

cooked and eaten

studied and collected

filed and defeated

On my balcony

my ears are captured

exquisite sounds

and rhythms

never before heard

These are the sounds

of the cicada in mass

presenting their

symphonies

in harmonious unison

How many million changes

Does it take to make

such a miraculous evolution

And now, my wife calls me

And now, I will fall asleep

to the sounds of the Cicada

And I will dream

Poem 2 Communication

(walking from above)

I watched a stream

and became aware

of how music began

water flows across stones

beyond streams

waves meet sand

rain sounds on every object

rain meets our bodies

passes through our minds

and makes a home in our hearts

beating and pulse

the rhythm of life

birds and other animals

making orchestral sounds

across the expanse of planet

creating melodies

calling to each other

for one reason or another

preserving their space

In their competitive place

beasts across forests

jungle and plain

signaled intention

from pleasure and pain

sounds that remain

in our history

no mystery

the musical tones of life

human community

watching carefully

spirited language

borrowing thoughtlessly

In clumsy gestures and expressions

from those animals

both friend and foe

countless ages

of development

evolved our tongues and ears

for speech

when we were finally able

to take care of each other

and accomplish

the miracle of

Communication

Poem 3 Winter Skating

Preface ~

“All the mischief of young people
trying to be in love
While parents hollered
for their children to come home
them slogging with skates
frozen to their love-lorn feet 

miracles of endurance”

Story ~

They made their way

slow and desperate

to the ramshackle cabin

at the corner of the ice field

to retrieve their worn-down and

half-frozen shoes

laughing in pain

amid the smoke of

a warm smoldering fire

burning in an antique barrel

stove squat center in the

shack among walls laden

with poetry, graffiti

proposals of love and hate

phone numbers and obscenities

when the old stove finally

lost its heat

the pond became

an oasis of moonlit

silence

dreams descended

then we embraced

and the universe folded

into our heaven-like bodies

https://www.lang-works.com/0-Pompei-07/index.html

Poem 4 Angels

Even Einstein
would agree
semantics aside
spirits could glide
from sea to sea

Of course
winged benefactors
aren’t probable
which is a difference
of mystery

Seems there’s
something looking down
giving us a frown
then waving a wand

trying to cast
a magic dream
like an office
of the lost and found
that has always
been empty

It could be
a four-leaf
clover
that no one’s
looking over

the Universe
is too wide
for me to decide

religions to me
evolved in the sea
and are corrupted
As they emerge

On the shores
of restless minds
and the lesser
of humankind
despite that…
the angel in my mind
comes and goes
endlessly upon

ideas and empathy

Poem 5 Voices

Voices falling from stars
and Venus and Mars
floating like snowflakes
and landing on warm lakes

The gentle fall breeze
brings the tones
to grace

solitude
or shared
the tones move
in our minds
and make our daily work
the music of heaven

End of Poetry Group One

~ T S Brock ~ A Novel ~

CHAPTER ONE

 Some days are better than others. And some days are strange. Karen Wellington was baking two loaves of bread while having her morning coffee. She preferred to be naked after she woke but on this occasion she put on her robe as she was summoned to her balcony by the waves making a peculiar sound.

When she looked down upon her long bed of daisies near the dock there hugged a dead body floating in the shallows. It was tapping against the shore like a watery metronome. The body’s hair caught moments of brilliant sunlight waving in the waves in an animated and orange absurd fashion. It wasn’t a dummy. It was a dead body. She called the police.

 Detective Cray Morris and his partner Pepper Hendricks had just arrived having been caught off guard on a quiet Sunday morning. There were a few neighbors scattered along the narrow lake road. Some in their pajamas. Others just bewildered.

Cray sketches a long resume. He was a petty criminal in his youth but now he’s been a bona fide police officer for twenty odd years. Pepper is a human leopard. She’s not a rookie. Nothing moves from her gaze.

The two, Pepper and Cray. They had a real friendship. It wasn’t a passionate love affair. Pepper liked women. Divorced with family far away, Cray was now a bachelor. Why would anyone marry a cop in the first place? His wife, girlfriend from the ninth grade, just, well… She left with two young children… to her mother’s home a long way away. Namely, San Diego. If you want to know the details, well, just read between the lines.

Anyway Cray was handsome and popular. He wasn’t alone… Lonely is something else. He sent money to Colice and her children every week and lived like a saint. But he was never really alone. Life. Just live it!!

Pepper was the best daughter a mom could have. In my opinion, friendship is the beautiful connection that all people experience, and love is the bond that friendship offers… and we accept it…So everyone on the planet can experience friendship and love… Pepper was more instinct-driven. It was sometimes hard to say if she had even a spoonful of compassion in her make-up… One can only guess.

See a man in a colorful cotton pajama and a couple in jogging sweats. They appear dazed and confused by the presence of the police cars. After all, police cars are rarely seen in this quiet lakeside community. Their whispers and chatter are absorbed by the deep woods all around them.

Doc Burdock, the local forensic, soon arrived in an old Ford squad car. It was black, and there was a ton of metal around it. It puttered out and he got out. He was thin and tall and could have been handsome were it not for his over-sized ears.

    “Hey Doc.” Cray spoke past the toothpick in the corner of his mouth.”        

    “Looks like a big dead man, Cray.” Doc was clear and resounding.                                                                                                                                   

    “I would say a somewhat familiar big dead man at that.” Pepper added.                                                                                    

    “Soon to become front page news.” Cray completed the picture.

     “Apparently being dead didn’t improve his looks any. Though he was kinda ugly in his own right.” Pepper offered.

Cray held back a laugh and pretended to cough. He glanced at Pepper.

Doc leaned into the dead man… “He has contusions on his head and it appears his neck is broken… as far as I’m able to judge… Well, I suppose he fell onto the rocks and drowned.”

    “Is this your first, Pepper?” Doc asked.

    “Nah. I saw my dead grandma. She looked much better than this guy.”       

    “Jesus, Pepper…” said Cray.

    “Are you kidding. I’m from Chicago.” Pepper spat then drank from her coffee.

    “You got a COD, Doc?” Cray asked as the doctor took hair samples from the clothing.

    “Well it’s probable his head dashed against the rocks.”

Doc paused to look at Pepper. Frankly, she was fit and attractive. And the doctor was just like anyone…except he was 70 years from his birth… Everyone loves beautiful people for that matter and forever. He was human and in his youth, he would have asked her to dinner. Maybe a Martini… He fantasised. In that moment he was young again.

Yet, Pepper did not like men. The story is the same story and I will not tell it here. She is who she is. Strong and beautiful. She liked to be intimate with women. Yet, there was a dead man on the table.

He continued. “There are weeds and even a snail on his clothes. We have to check for water in the lungs. Of course there is blunt force trauma to the cranial region… but that looks like the work of the rocks near the shore.

Doc looked up at the sky then cleared his throat then pulled the thermometer out from the dead man’s liver. He continued. “I would say round midnight… Let it be noted, August 31st 1952… exactly 10:11 am. Yes, I call the time of death at around midnight. It’s a wrap.”

    “It’s a shit show, Doc.” Pepper side-stepped away from the scene.

    “She did get that one right.” Cray followed.

    “We’ll have to put him on the old porcelain slab for some answers.” Doc offered.

Cray and Pepper turned around in unison with puzzled looks on their faces. How did a corpse cross a lake in just 10 or so hours.

    “Yet the time of death wouldn’t put him here. This place shuts down early.” Pepper stitched her brow and cossed her arms in contemplation putting her left hand to her chin.   

    “Yah. These folks are teetotalers and bible thumpers.” Cray added.

    “That’s right.” Doc said, “He came from the other shore. For sure.”   

     Cray and Pepper continued walking away as the onlookers on the road above grew in size. Newly arrived police advised the curious crowd to move on. few stayed behind.”My advice is to go home and do whatever ya do.” Doc called out. “I’m gonna have breakfast then take a nap. I suggest you do the same.” His admonishment was swallowed up by the din of nervous humming voices.

They seemed to be complaining while moving back to their summer cottages to sleep… Then to wake up to a breakfast of orange juice, pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and coffe and milk. Perhaps just another day.

     A sudden gust of wind bristled the pines and a strong scent of rotting wood rose and wafted from out of the forest.

    “Do you smell that?” Pepper coughed.

    “Yah. That’s the forest.” Cray sighed.

    “No Cray. That’s the smell of a dead man.” Doc looked at them with a wry smile from down below. Turkey vultures began to circle. The ambulance arrived and they hauled the corpse up a flight of old rickety wooden stairs.

    Neighbors woke and eventually took their places along the road most of them dulled by sleep or just hungover. Eventually they returned home. Cray and Pepper drove into the forest and back into the city.

Note: Links to nine more chapters below…

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

T S Brock Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

    Audrey pulled her battered buffalo-skin suitcase by its strap from the silver winged storage compartment into the shade of the Greyhound bus. It tumbled onto the street then slumped on her shoes. She made it upright and dragged it to a concrete bench. Then she sat in the blinding sunlight. It was late summer 1950.

    “Good Luck.” The tall thin driver said with a wink. He pushed the unit shut, smiled, careened into the bus, then landed awkwardly on his squeaky seat. The doors slammed shut and the bus roared forward disappearing into the dusty summer heat.

    Audrey took in the small town surroundings. She cleared her throat as a person might in a windy parking lot near a desert. The address of her ‘would be’ apartment was running through her mind, “401 Rosaline Avenue.”

    On her right, just across a street winding downhill, was a worn tired grocery store. A pot-bellied balding man stood out front smoking attired in an unbuttoned army jacket. He had a bent restless posture. His left arm swung up at regular intervals to catch a puff of tobacco. It reminded Audrey of the consequences of war and made her sad. There was a row of one or two-story shops and houses behind the hill bending down, but she didn’t have time to look.

    “Hey! You must be the new teacher!” Jim Wolfe, the local sheriff, called out through the passenger side of his battered green patrol car. He was parked in the shadows of oak trees across from the bus stop.

    “What?” Audrey blocked the sun with one hand and placed the other on her hip. She noticed the glare of his siren lights reflecting from the roof of the car. “Are you a cop?”

    “Sorry mam… We don’t have a lot of…”   

    “Where can I get a taxi around here?” Audrey lit up a cigarette.

    “I was just going to say…” Jim paused, elbows on the roof. “Well, you’re lookin’ at it.”

    She blew smoke. “I’m sure there are many folks who would beg to differ considering you have the umm… the wrong kind of lights on the top of your car.” She called out while gazing at a flock of pigeons and the smoke lingered. Some moments passed and Audrey folded her arms looking pensive.

    Jim scratched his chin then bellowed out in his best manner, “No. I’m here because there are only two taxi drivers in this town. One is dead drunk, and the other is sleeping off his hangover. I guess I’m your only option at this point.”               

    “Sounds like it couldn’t be worse.” Audrey laughed nervously. “But I’ll give you the benefit of my bad luck.”

    Audrey released an enormous sigh then flicked her cigarette into a storm drain. She dragged her suitcase in awkward elegance. Jim leapt from behind his vehicle and began to assist in an ostentatious display of courtesy. Audrey balked and stepped back. Jim took hold of the strap and put the load in his trunk. In another wink, he opened the passenger door and Audrey got in.

    Swinging around the hood, Jim jumped in and started the car after a series of reluctant whines from the engine. Audrey, arms folded, was now sitting, somewhat uncomfortably, in the front seat next to her perfect stranger.

    “You put on quite a show. Where did you learn all that gentlemanship?” Audrey began to speak just as Jim was putting the car in gear.

    “You might call it small town hospitality.” Perhaps glancing a bit too long into her bright green eyes.

    “So that’s what you call it.” She put on a pair of sunglasses. “I gotta say it’s been quite a while since I’ve been in one of these fashionable rides.”

    “I guess that was under different circumstances?” Jim raised his brow and wiped the sweat from his face with a wrinkled blue handkerchief.

    “Yah… So how was it you happened to be patrolling the bus stop just as I arrived?”

    “News travels fast around here. They said you were coming today.”

    “So I’m not under arrest then.”

    “No.”

    “And who are ‘They’?” Audrey peered from under her shades.

    “Well… I guess ‘They’ are just about everyone.”

    “I see. And I suppose you know where my apartment is.”

    “Yes.”

    “Welcome to Wisconsin.” Audrey said under her breath.

    “That’s right. Welcome to Wisconsin.” Jim laughed boyishly.

    “I guess I didn’t get your name.” Audrey insisted.

    “Jim Wolfe.”

    “Audrey.” She offered a firm handshake. “But you already knew that.”

T S Brock Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

    They went down the street to the center of town, less than a five-minute drive, and parked in front of a grocery store. There was a sturdy wooden stairway diagonal against the side of a two-story wooden building going up to the floor above. In front, a variety of produce was arranged in crates on the sidewalk. A woman sitting on a canvas chair under a low canopy was reading a book, perhaps in another language. Her hair, layered in white, gray, and black, was pulled back and tied. She wore jeans and an un-tucked sage and maroon flannel shirt and appeared as a thin sprite woman.

 There were apples ruby red and vibrant green, tomatoes, cauliflower, asparagus, broccoli, and various herbs. Watermelons, one of them almost bursting at the seams, even pine nuts, red onions, and lemons.

    Naomi rose from her chair as soon as she saw Jim’s patrol car pulling in.

    “Afternoon Naomi.” Jim called out from the driver’s seat as he pulled up to the curb.

    “Hey Sheriff.” Naomi tossed her book on an upside-down wooden crate. She gently focused curiously on Audrey in the window on the passenger’s side just near her.

     “Hi. You must be Audrey.” She held out her hand greeting Audrey in the car. Audrey was somewhat dumbstruck and opened the door to get out. Naomi stepped back and arranged her hair. Audrey stretched, looked at the sky, and smiled to her own surprise.

    “That’s right,” Audrey laughed nervously taking Naomi’s hand. “I guess the whole town knows I’m here.”

    “Probably,” Naomi rolled her eyes. “Except for the hermits.”

     The doors opened. “Hermits?” Audrey thought a moment. “Ah, yes, the hermits. There must be hermits living here.” She pointed effortlessly in the direction of a bluff, not a mountain, not a hill, just a bluff cradled in a small valley. Her response was uncanny and took Naomi aback. Then there was a glimpse of a lake with a crescent of light reflecting in the late afternoon sun.

    “I see you’re a quick study.” Naomi was impressed.

    “Naomi owns the apartment above. She’s your landlady.”

    “Thanks Jim. No one’s called me a lady for quite some time.” Naomi slapped his shoulder then put her hand to her forehead bending forward in laughter.

    “My pleasure.” Jim chuckled and unloaded Audrey’s bags from the trunk. He then decided to haul the leather suitcase and a smaller bag toward the stairs.

    “No. I can get that.” Audrey admonished.

    “O.K.” Jim looked disappointed. “Nice to meet you… Bye Naomi.” Jim got into his car and glanced back toward Audrey. “See you later.”

    “Thanks Jim.” They said in unison.

T S Brock Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

    Audrey dragged her buffalo skin suitcase up the steps like a hunter. Naomi opened the door with a skeleton key. There was sunshine everywhere, the kitchen was immaculate, and the furniture was clean and attractive though minimal and relatively antique. Audrey was visibly in a state of awe and relief. It was like walking onto the stage of a movie set.

    “Here’s your new home.” Naomi offered.

    “Damn, this is nice, but it’s just …well… too perfect.” Audrey slid the buffalo suitcase into the living room feeling the pain in her arms subside.

    “That’s because the last tenant was a real clean freak. He mopped the floor every morning and who knows what else.” Naomi said. “But you don’t have to… that would be a real pain in the ass. I mean, to be honest, Melvin was a real pain in the ass.”

    “What do you mean?” Audrey sighed. Then she plopped down onto a silk-covered sofa.

    “Not a big deal.” Naomi gently pulled Audrey’s suitcase into the bedroom. “The poor guy met his end at the lake. He just up and died. Had a heart attack on a hike.”

    “Oh, not good… Was he old?” Audrey asked.

    ” Ninety.” They both chuckled under their breath.

    “Anywhere to get something to eat around here?” Audrey brushed a bead of sweat from her brow.

    “Of course. You must be starving.” Naomi pointed to the window. “There’s a place just across the street.”

    “What about your store.” Audrey jumped up in anticipation.

    “Ah, Bill will take care of it.” They descended the stairs to the front of the store. “Bill, you back there.” Audrey sang out. There was a banging sound coming from the back and something fell to the floor.

    “What’s that? Yes, yes…”

    “I’m going across the street.”

    “OK. Got it. Yep…” Bill called from the shadows.

    Naomi took Audrey by the arm and they walked across the baking hot street to a restaurant and bar on the corner.

    “Bill your husband?” Audrey asked.

    “Yes. But he had a hard time in the war…”

    “Hmmm…”

    “Darling… Bill was in the Japanese War in the Pacific.”

    “Is he OK?”

    “Not really, but… I’m taking care of him. He’s still there in some sense, but the poor man is damaged.”

    “I’m sad for that.” There was a short pause.

    “I must ask you.” Naomi looked deeply into Audrey’s eyes. “Why did you come here Audrey?”

    “I needed a job.”

    “Yes. I know that. But really…”

    “I’m really hungry… How’s the chow at this joint?”

    “It could be worse.” Naomi offered.

    At the restaurant, Audrey was out of sorts for a few moments and Naomi helped her to a chair at the back of the shop. The French décor was not French, and the food was definitely not French, but it tried to be French. The sophisticated clientele, as far as the midwestern pallette may permit, order pan-fried walleye fillet, which is somewhat sautéed, with scalloped potatoes and boiled spinach finished with a rosemary butter sauce. To wash this meal down, the regulars drink brandy and cheap wine and help themselves with an extraordinary number of breadsticks.

   “Please bring some water and a bottle of Bordeaux.” Naomi ordered. It came almost instantaneously, and they began to drink, water first, then wine. Then food. Then conversation. Then laughter. Then a kinship began to form between them, like a friendship that occasionally appears with a magic seemingly out of nowhere.

T S brock Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

The county courthouse perches like a recovered spaceship spank central on the town square. A large green-lacquered canon from the War is the obvious monument outside the halls of justice. Often mounted by children climbing on its metallic instruments. Parents take photos. It is pointed at the Woolworth ice cream soda shop just opposite on the street below. Naomi and Audrey are on the bench, just under the canon. Both of them are drunk.

    “I heard you think Bill might be your dad” Naomi said.

    “Well, you heard right. Maybe. My mom and Bill were high school sweethearts here back before the war.”

    “Yes, Audrey. They were lovers long before the war. So. How old are you?” Naomi asked with a touch of trepidation.

    “Twenty-four…” Audrey rubbed her eyes.

    “That fits the timeline…”

    “So you met Bill after…?”

    “That’s right. Just four or five years ago.”

    “Not to be…”

    “No, no… Don’t go there. It’s simple. He needed help. I was there. I lost my husband at Normandy. I met Bill and we fell in love. I can’t explain exactly.”

    “No, I get it. I mean… well… It kinda makes sense.”

    “And that’s why you are here now. Isn’t it?”

    “Yes. But you already knew that.”

    “Yes, I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

    The sky opened into the night and a roaming star appeared on the horizon.

T S Brock A Novel

CHAPTER SIX

   It’s Sunday Morning at the Mercury Café. The décor could be described as a monumental wooden quilt bonanza. Black walnut shines with wave-like rings on the endless booze-stained bar. There’s knotty pine with time-frozen sap between the crags on tables and even the ass-chairs in the John are fitted with apple wood. You might stick once in a while. But, don’t panic.

    Floating patterns of maple, well, they ornate worn down bar stools. Elegant drifts of cherry season the window sills and are dashed by shards from angry bottles. And like the Irish, “Who counts”… Those events were violent enough to put people on a horse-driven ambulance even if there was no such a thing back those days.

And yet the grit and wood of these people’s histories has so little to do with progress, I mean the culture, that being the thread that begins a fabric of community modest and deep. The architectural structure itself has significance, the building’s fashioned from the forest’s plenty. But the conflicts with those who were on this land before, their strength formidable, timeless remains a stain eternal on the culture that replaced it. Imagine a 300-year massacre which became what is today television 1952. The worst of all is the children’s games of ‘Cowboys and Indians’.

    This is the day of the political rally. Lisa, a stocky girl with almost albino-white skin shines a cherub’s smile and displays circus-like rosy cheeks. She is tucked tightly into a tight tan uniform. A golden daisy-patterned apron is wrapped around her like a wreath of flowers. She is perfect in the knowledge of her work. “So what will it be for the Smith’s this morning.” Lisa asks with bird-like metrical feet and wonderfully-fit rubber-soled shoes.

    “I’ll have the pie,” says the man, head bowed, betraying serious hesitation.

    “You want the PAIIEE! … In the morning?” shouts his rotund wife, Norma, with robust, practiced disbelief.

    “Yep. Get the wax out of your ears.” The man articulates quietly with false bravado and a kind of shaky demeanor.

    “You get the wax out of your, you’re, you know what.” She shakes her finger at him.

    “Can you save us the damn… the lover’s quarrel,” Lisa intervenes, “and excuse me Norma, but please let Jonny have the goddamn pie.”

    “Amen,” proclaims Pastor John, sitting alone in a corner that hugs the expansive storefront window as if he were chatting with Cezanne on a holiday in the Alps.

    “Pastor John, you’re amazing in your wisdom.” Lisa casts the pastor a wink and he doesn’t see it because he’s not looking.

    All the regulars are seated with coffee, tea, leftover breakfast, and a fair amount of anticipation as Audrey has not yet arrived. She is the speaker for the Sunday brunch. Being coincidental with various church services, there is no small amount of debate and animosity in the community with the timing of a weekly event like this.

    Audrey pushed through the screen door, glanced with an amused grin at the table to her left, and announced her arrival. “Morning folks!” She pulled up the chair that was waiting for her, slapped down a notebook, glued paper strips sticking out like eagle feathers, and then she let out a long indulgent sigh looking toward the bar.   “Mama, make me one of your fine Irish coffees and please don’t be shy about the finer ingredients.”

    “I can do that.” Jamaica bellowed out song-like, natural, and angelic her white towel draped across her right shoulder, thin arms triangulated with hands firm on the long walnut wooden bar. Jaine is a small woman with beautiful curves and graceful gestures that bring her bright black eyes into focus, but only if she seeks your attention. Of mixed Native and Black American ancestry, she commands a smile that can melt cold hearts and a fierce gaze that can put shivers up the spine of demons themselves. And she has met not less than a few of all kinds… and she is timeless.

    Jamaica reaches under the shelves of liquor. A realm not reflected by the long wall of mirrors behind the bar. Such a place is embedded like some portal into a parallel dimension. She pulls out an unlabeled golden brown bottle from the invisible cabinets below then pours half a cup of fresh coffee from a Sunbeam percolator then finishes it off with a quick velvety stream of native mushroom whiskey. All happens in the blink of an eye. Blink.

    J-Mama brings it over to Audrey and carefully sets the glass in front of her as one might handle explosives.

    “Here you are, darlin.”

    “Much obliged.” Audrey grins and nods, lowering her eyes, peering around the room of friends that have become her family. Then drinks.

T S Brock A novel

CHAPTER SEVEN

    “O.K., O.K., you can have the damn pie. I’ll have the pancakes, and don’t be shy about the butter and syrup, Lisa.” Norma insists.

    “Let’s get started.” Audrey says taking a long sip from her cup. “I think we all know the gravity of this situation. Don McDonald wants to represent us and we know he is a liar and a cheat.”

    Jackie, a local reporter in the community, as usual, butts in, “But he is regarded as a respected politician, is he not?”

    “Yes, but under what conditions?” Audrey continues, “He appeals to anyone with hatred and contempt. His aggression toward people is shrouded in fear-mongering. He openly attacks those that do not agree with him… Junior high school students have more common sense and compassion. We somehow have to address the rally at the lake this afternoon with that in mind. We are dealing with a criminal hiding in public space.”

    “McDonald is up in the polls by almost forty points in our county and more than ten points statewide. And I’m afraid Fairchild couldn’t talk his way out of a paper sack.” Eva, the owner of a popular local hair salon suggested as she took a drag on her long filtered menthol cigarette.

    “But Fairchild is as judicial as the day is long and has as good a chance as any Democrat,” Alfred, the newly retired accountant, offered.

    “I think we may be missing the point here.” Audrey placed her hands on the table. “As it stands, it doesn’t look too good for November. Of course we can’t give up, but McDonald has public opinion by the balls with this Communist scare. As I said, I think our priority is to figure out what might go down at the lake this afternoon. Can we do something to demonstrate our voice… Can we expose the man? Can we show Don McDonald, the real Don McDonald as the criminal that he really is?”

“I think common folk like criminals… Like they would be a criminal but their religion derides their basic instinct… They are stuck between the guilt of sin and unbridled lunacy… There they are, lying naked on their living room carpet watching TV”

 As always, Pastor John made all contemplate some moments after his speech.  

T S brock Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Just as the discussion was about to heat up, the screen door squeaked open and in walked a stick figure of a man. He fashioned clean tan slacks and matching shirt with embroidered gold and red beads threaded in the prevailing Mexican tradition. He squinted like he needed glasses and donned a crisp stylish cowboy hat. Jim was just taking a bite of his blueberry pie, hesitated, and looked up in bewilderment. Lisa, the waitress, was just setting down a stack of gleaming golden pancakes in front of an ecstatic Norma (Mrs. Smith) but didn’t spill anything.

    Customers all around stared as if a predator had entered into their territory trying to abscond their provisions. The quiet din of environmental confusion and muted conversation filled the place. But all at once, it all came to a standstill, and the stick figure cowboy was standing in the doorway.

    “What can I do ya for Mister?” Jamaica, the owner, swung the question like a boomerang from behind the bar.

    “I don’t suppose you would have a cup of coffee.” The man nodded and tipped his hat with deliberate reverence.

    “We have lots of coffee but, if I may ask, what’s your business.” Jamaica began to lighten up and seemed to recognize the man if only from some obscure circumstance. Perhaps Déjà vu or maybe it was the effects of mushroom coffee. She softened momentarily.

    “Please allow me to introduce myself,” the thin man bowed. “I’m Luke Williams and my band and I are, well….” He rubbed his forehead, “Well, we’re playing at the Lake House tonight. I just come here to invite ya all. I know it’s Saturday and all, and it’s the weekend and we intend to provide some fine entertainment. That’s what I come to say. But. True tellin. I would love a cup of coffee.”

    “Sure enough, Luke Williams and the Gun-Slingers, I saw you down in Tennessee not long back,” Howard Johnson, a travelling vacuum salesman recalled. “You were quite something else… and you have a woman fiddle player!”

    “That’s exactly correct, sir. Much obliged. And Macy Jay, she is the best. You know she played at the Gran Ole Opree… well, come to think, the Holiday Inn Grand Opening as well… “

    “Yah! Macy Jay. By gosh sir, that was it!” Howard rose and shook Luke’s hand.

    “It just so happens I have lots of coffee. Have a seat,” Jamaica gestures. Luke looked around the room then moved in measured step toward the pastor’s table and sat down with him. She brought Luke Williams a steamy cup of strong black mushroom coffee. “You take sugar or cream?”

    “No, mam… thank you,” Luke nodded.

    The din picked up, and discussions of the afternoon political rally were sidetracked. Audrey walked around the lively space making conversation with Luke and all the customers. It was uncanny. She had the ability to bring conflict into harmony in most situations. Yet plans to resist the political offence of Don McDonald never left her mind. She knew any opposition would be week. Nothing to do but go ahead with a protest.

After all, politics almost always succumbs to friendly conversation… Not reality.

Audrey ended up sitting with Pastor John and Luke Williams looking out into the sky and enjoying the warm sunlight near the window next to the door. It turned out to be a beautiful morning. And the mushroom coffee mellowed all…

   

T S Brock Chapter NINE

CHAPTER NINE

    It was the last Saturday in August perfectly noon. The Lake House Bar had just opened as usual. Albert Strongbow was at the end of the bar reading a book folded out before him. His large silhouette captured a fair amount of sunlight flooding in from the long row of lakeside windows. The beach was already full, more blanket than sand, and hungry, hot, and thirsty bathers stood in long snake-like lines at the concession stands which were out of view. One could hear the thick wooden door being pushed open.

    Breaking the calm, Richie Flack perched on a stool near the entrance. “Give me a beer.”

    “You eighteen sunshine boy? Let me see your driver’s license.” Susana had known Richie Flack as the son of Molly Flack, owner of a massage parlor for as long as she cared to remember, but this was his first visit. Richie flipped open his billfold and handed it to her.

    “Shit. Just yesterday. I’m afraid your free drink has expired, kid.”

    Richie swilled his beer in magnificent jest and ordered another. He slapped two dollars on the oak bar then swilled again and ordered again. Susana was pissed off not to mention concerned.

    “Hey, little Richie. Take your birthday party elsewhere… You ain’t gettin’ no service here no more.”

    Richie turned to Albert who had been absorbed in reading. “What you reading degenerate?”

    Albert paused and glanced toward Richie, squinting. “I’m reading a book. How about you?” Albert focused on the boyish figure, knitting his brows.

   “I ain’t reading shit.”

   “That doesn’t surprise anyone.”

   “Are you trying to insult me, mister?”

   “No, I think you can do that all by yourself.”

   Susanna couldn’t hold back her laughter, “Boy, you’re really not going to make trouble here this early in the day. I can guarantee you that.”

   “I don’t need no smartass tellin’ me shit like that.”

    “I agree,” Susanna faced the boy and looked him directly in the eyes. “You need the sheriff to tell you shit like that. Now get the fuck out of my bar. And… if you try to enter that door again… It won’t be pleasant.”

    Albert returned to the book in front of him and ordered a beer. Sal, Susana’s husband, who had been shadowing the situation, escorted the delinquent off his stool out into the glorious bright, bright, sun-shiny day.

T S Brock Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

    The rally was to begin at 3 pm. From late morning, people began to wander into the Lake House. In the style of a chateau, this large elegant mostly wooden structure served as a grocery store, souvenir shop, bar, and music hall. There was a soda stand just opposite the bar catering to the younger clientele. Just to give you an idea of the size of the place, there was capacity for 300 people to easily move about, shop, dance, and mingle.

    Long and wide windows faced the waters. The building jutted out significantly onto the lake. There was a large stage at the back, behind the bar. Solid oak plank floors and a state-of-the-art sound system put the venue on the map for the most popular venues. And so Luke and the Gun Slingers were damn happy to be booked on this Saturday night late in August.

    Yet the day had just begun in terms of entertainment. As mentioned, there was a political rally happening on the beach. It was a rarity for this vacation spot and was sanctioned by the state government just a few days earlier. Nonetheless, the rally gained momentum and became an event.

    As the clock struck 3, all could see the large man, carnival-like, arms outstretched in the mid-afternoon sun, armpits sweating, the white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and the gold necktie askew. Don “Joey” McDonald held the audience hostage with sing-song patriotism and calculated fear mongering.

    “Drake Parker and his Commie newspaper print nothing but fake information. They twist things up so bad, so bad, they don’t even know what they are talking about. Sooo bad.” He sweet-talked into the microphone as one might into a lover’s ear.

    A large group in the front rows waved their banners and signs, clapped their hands, snorted, giggled, and jumped up and down, while other sycophants and followers gathered closer and closer until the mass became an absurd collective audience reaching down to the shore and even into the shallows of the lake.

    In the recesses, Herbie Block and a group from the Mercury café, including Jamaica and Audrey, stood in measured postures, partly in shock, jeering at McDonald and his supporters carefully. There was a portend of violence in the hot summer breeze as if a cloud of humidity were about to burst, as if all hell might break loose.

    “And beware the pixies in your government offices cause they’ll turn on a penny if they’re exposed to their friends and family… and to you brother and sister as well.” He continued in the manner of a minister or car salesman. “These pixies are liars and thieves. They will steal the paychecks you work so hard for every week, and they won’t bat an eye. Believe me… I mean… You know how disgraceful that is? Am I right? Really folks. Aren’t I right?”

    Don McDonald smoothed back his orange hair, perhaps oiled or given a treatment. “If you vote for me on election day, you will have eliminated the Communist and pixie threat within this beautiful country. Imagine…” Don lifted his arms like a revivalist his bright blue eyes star-spangled in the heat of the sun. “Imagine the Grand Canyon in the hands of Russia!” The crowd broke into enthusiastic boos, cheers, and chants.

     “Make us Great! Make us Great!”