Sunday, April 2, 2017

Songs Written in Desert Vista Hospital

Creativity Created Whilst in Evaluation

Farseer’s Son and Admiral

The sad girl and her happy lover
Lived just down the way from each other.
One day they were a-strolling,
Her dainty gait and his sailor’s rolling
Always - led to the meadow.

For there they knew their love was safe.
And yet her father espied them in his cape,
Riding hard to the village - the sailor’s life to pillage
Coming upon the square he cried,
“My daughter’s rape! Are none of them safe?”

The town was quick to mount,
Their intention to waylay.
Having no interest in what the lovers said,
The crowd hauled two great barrels.
Singing war carols, they tramped away, away/

The lovers heard the tune of war,
Thinking to face punishment or…
“Elope I say! Let’s get away
The world is only as vast as a sea can sway.”
They left the town and their chasing hounds to bay.

Jim the Long

O Jim! O Jim! They called him Slim
But ne’er to his face.
For e’en though he was fat
He won every race!
The huntress blessed him to be long and swift
And never would he lose!
He jigggled and wobbled
His gross shaking from the booze!
One day his challenger thought Jim was ill
Afflicted by winter’s cooool
They though the Long Man tooo ooooold!
They started from the village quick,
Jim smoked the flower and expelled his sick
‘Twas only from excess snoooow!
Patrick thought he drove them out,
Yet little did he know the songs
Are needed only for sons’ trees to grow.
We druids ne’er left the land,
Just stored our seeds to sow.
We druids never left the land,
Taking only what’s needed in tow.
O Jim! O Jim! The one called Slim
He summoned up his power,
Picking only the finest buds
He smoked the hand-leaved flower.
His back a-cracked and his aches left
He whistled a tune without breath!
Launching down the way a curse he did not say,
His challengers were caught in fog,
And fell into the the bay.
As Jim raced by he claimed his name,

Crying, “I am Jim the Long!
And you are nowhere close to same!”

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

For the girl I still love.

It was Friday the 13th
I was thinking of you and my liver
The first two lines of this were in Tom Waits' voice
That night I dreamed of you and me
On awakening it made me shiver.

I once loved the daughter of Diana
Once I loved a girl from the moon
I still thank her for being
It was truly me she was seeing
And kept me from leaving too soon

The injuries inflicted, again and again
For her and for I, scars covering our eye
So let's dance to erase it - with joy replace it
Together we whirled, outside this world
Merging in and through, over and under
Sharing memories and drama
Each step in the dance, healing the trauma
What a mess my lover, our unbalanced blunder
Three legs between us, our dance was the meanest
Destroying our boundaries, while creating foundries
For tools we never used but will need

Still I love this child of Luna
I still love that daughter of the moon
Her life in my dreams, more than it seems
A cove in the ocean, waters of emotion
Swim! but don't dive too deep

We had so much to share, to give and receive
But too much pressure for either to grieve
Our child-like selves, put up on shelves
Together, maybe we could retrieve
Not innocence lost, we paid that cost
But rather the will to believe
What you already knew and as a mother you grew
Life is worth living my girl
Soul roaming - astral projection providing protection
Release and surcease from the demons
My body and soul a sword to use and to twirl
And with a cry your vict'ry flag unfurl

I love that daughter of the moon
Diana's little girl still fills my inner world
See this sword aflame only for you my dame
With you at my side, locked in stride
My world would never be the same

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Massively Multiplayer

Len - 2040

The finished basement was filthy. Strewn about like the carnage after a battle - one where pizza boxes, wads of paper, soda cans, and cellophane wrappers were the contestants - trash occupied the majority of the room’s space. A path of shallow refuse led from the stairs to the computer desk. Here, the sole area of clear floor in the basement, was perhaps four square feet of carpet visible beneath a plastic runner. The computer desk itself was also littered with refuse - crusts, cans, paper plates, plastic utensils. In the midst of all of this garbage sat a large man, his height was average for his time - just below 2 meters. Girth was another measurement and his friends jokingly remarked his belly’s circumference must nearly match his height. While the remarks were not accurate, the man’s bulk did ooze through the sides and spaces of his office chair.

The 5,000 credit unit virtual processor sat on the desk, barely larger than one of the energy drink cans but emitting a harsh, bright glow that illuminated the desk and the room’s inhabitant. This was the provider of his every need excepting food, sleep, and excrement. The man’s job, his social life, even his romantic encounters all took place via the virtual world. Len spent most of the day “invirt.” Although he didn’t perceive his life in days, just spaces between “going live” and back to invirt where he was a shining exemplar of health, wealth, and power.

Every year Len spent five kilocrednits on the newest virtproc, fiendishly obsessing over the smallest upgrade in specification, the latest substrates and nanotechnology used to grow the quantum-entangled crystal circuitry, the various interface modulators which helped regulate his brain’s ability to perceive the virtual world through his neurocortical shunt, and lately his focus was the various sleep simulation engrams which were being developed to clear the toxins from the microtubules of his brain. He regularly bellowed his ire at the local network’s extreme congestion and the network company’s refusal to upgrade the antiquated fiber infrastructure laid in the 2020s. These were the two concerns of his live life - all of his finances, including rent, utilities, and food delivery were organized via invirt management firms for the most connected of clients. Len sometimes pondered in those few moments he went live what he would be doing if he had decided to pursue football at university instead.

Len - 2018

Those students at the adolescent school who had gained some satisfaction from verbally abusing other children quickly realized that insulting Len led to a crushingly acerbic, monologous reply. Most were left bereft of confidence and the ability to reply in an intelligible manner - those that did reply often embarrassed themselves and fled the scene with lame excuses. The few football players who had dared to insult him in class soon found themselves planted into the field as if they had grown roots. The massive lineman in glasses was a force to be reckoned with but he had no friends. Thanks to his sharp tongue and his “gardening” on the football field no one spoke to him except about classwork.

The nerd elite of his school Chittered of his victories over the school’s infohub. He was soon dubbed Troll Crusher by those obsessed with the virtual gaming realms. The tormentors turned victims often tried to report his fanboys to the moderator for “personal attacks” and the legend soon grew within the virtual neighborhoods his fellow students frequented. On the gaming pinsquares - communities where one’s avatar was “pinned” in-game so the express purpose to communicate was preserved and trolls could not disrupt the talk - Troll Crusher was renowned as their outside defender. After much deliberation an invitation was extended to Len to attend a Loch Sesh Monster event. While local network session gaming was not something their hero was known to enjoy, they eventually mustered the courage to send him a direct addressed Chit. The promise of free booze, cannabis concentrate, prescription drugs, psychedelics and the possibility of female attendance was enough to draw the lineman to the nerdoisie event of the year.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Today's Crap

As a Walker and Weaver
There are few things that I know
For it is within one's fantasies
That each of us can grow

I have walked the Way
Weaving light in and out of dreams
My works not limited to the nocturnal
Sewing together those bursting at the seams

Yet for myself I know not how to stitch
Those holes deep within, ragged they gape
Running around inside, clueless
Hoping only for a momentary escape

Spinning gets old and tiring fast
Body fatigued, legs and arms failing
Collapse imminent
This soul is ailing

Longing is the worst
The Friend's absence concerning
Yet always there within
Spinning faster, slower, always yearning

Closer, speak quietly, breathe
To share, sing, weep some more
I can Walk while you Weave
Integrated inside us both, buried in our core

If dreams are private myths
And myths are public dreams
Then you and I are more
Than either of us seems

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Retrieval Process

I've been having a hard time with electronic housekeeping lately and didn't want to lose more stuff.


A young village boy approached an elder
Asking for advice, 'How does one address God?'
The elder looked upon the young one
He said nothing but beckoned
The boy followed

The elder walked well away from the village
Stripped himself before the boy
Danced naked in the sands of the desert
All the while chanting nonsense
The boy left clueless

The next week the boy approached again
The elder beckoned him forward
The pair came upon the well
The elder dropped his loin cloth and pissed
Happily around the well

The boy was confused
He asked, 'Why are you so foul?'
The old man shit in his hand
Made dolls and balls
Threw the shit high into the air

The boy was distraught
He asked, 'Why do you poison us?'
The elder then milked himself
Rubbed his seed upon his body
The boy cried out in anger without words

The elder left the boy
Saying only three words
His back unbent
Filth covered body, eyes bright
'God, please forgive.'

An Explanation

My late night practice
Enhanced as usual by ancient medicine
I was enthralled, taken in, and flew away
Vision expanded, such a high vantage
I was given knowledge and power
Over things far beyond me
It take others decades
To even consider such an act
I jumped in with both feet
The pool was like fire in my mind
Its waters like vacuum
Deepest lake of fire and ice
I shouted loud, disturbed the resting
Those dwellers of the deep
Listened to such piteous wailing
They offered rest, just breathe deeply
I breathed in great gasps and drowned
There I was shown how to love
Without thought or consideration
I spun wildly, triangle to circle, square to cube
Cube to sphere, sphere to torus, torus to disc, unknown shapes
On, and on, around and up, in and out
Then called to and came to me a sphere
I spun with great intent
My cube self is not a cube
My sphere self is not a sphere
I showed the sphere how to extend
Change, do this! Challenge your shape!
Tentatively the sphere opened
We met and joined, it was beautiful
Immortal seeds planted, both spheres gone
One capsule where once there were two
When finally pulled from such a lake
I was drowned but again breathing the thin air
This air is lacking, filthy, and nigh on lifeless
Gone what once was and ever transformed
Ah my Love, you were not conscious of this
You have been there many times though
We will be there again, together

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Some More Stuff

I just realized that I have not updated this in some time. Here is something that got wonderful reception at the Cultiv8N Culture open mic in Phoenix.

The Piper and the Swordsman

Forgive the plaintive songs
This reed sings what it knows best
There was little sweetness in its bed
It was plucked green
The cane dried and yellowed
Cut down to size and drilled
Holes along its body
For the air to pass, creating
Melody, harmony, music

The remainder of the reed
Split and bound
Wrapped in cloth and leather
The two halves sing for each other
One sings its sweet tune. longing
The other has no voice
Whenever it is swung the air passes
It hears its other half
Cries in its quiet way
Whooosh, crack!

One day the two halves reunited
The flute was being played as usual
Its master begging in his tattered robe
The other carried by a traveling swordsman
Looking upon the flautist the fighter frowned
He said, "The song you play hurts me deeply
I cannot stand to hear it any longer.
It is too much for me to bear, my heart
Longing to leap from my chest."

The musician looked upon the fighter
His response, "Blowing air through this
Sad, abused reed is what I need.
The joy in my heart is not apparent
As I expel sadness from my lips.
Leave me now, I have played here for years."
With a lightning quickness
The swordsman lashed out
Cane whooshing, then CRACK!
The flute's sad music ended
Each half having met, both broke

The piper looked up, stricken
Flute smashed, so was the practice weapon
Seeing the swordsman's face
Crying over his broken stick
The musician laughed and rose
Walking calmly he bid the man,
"Peace unto you my brother."


I'm still working on this one at the moment, I think this is the first verse but... I need to do more work.


Come, let us sit and speak, I long to listen
Smoking, sharing, making signals as we gesture
Spiraling smoke, spinning vortices, dervishes in the air
Breathe out, so I can inhale the vapor of your words
Being that high, from your thoughts
Pour another whiskey, golden liquid
Quenching throats with this: water of life
Closer, lean in, I long to drink your smile
Dropsy takes hold, drunk on that distilled happiness
Light a new flame, I see the fire reflecting
Staring into the mirrors of your eyes to see myself
Who is there? Not who was before

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Those Same Knives

There was no glory in it, pride, yes. Vanity? Check. Were they adolescent White boys you may have thought they were about to play hacky sack. As the old man put it, "In the old days it was all us good ol' boys but now it's been overtaken by Spics, Flips, and us Whites are stuck on the outside of the circle." Most of the men were Mexican with a few Filipinos and White boys thrown in for some variety. Papa Carl hobbled up to the circle to talk shit and look over the competition. I headed away from the ring, around the shack and back to the truck.

Carl's little brown pickup was a Mazda that had seen better days. The paint had been scratched away by use and oxidated by the sun. Dust and mud caked the tires and its rear wheels were somewhat low from the load of crap he constantly hauled around. Topped by a white camper shell, no one could tell what was inside by looking through the scratched and encrusted tinted window. Standing against the cornfield, it imprinted an agricultural scene that will never leave my mind. A sweet and grassy aroma from white corn was light in the air as the dust cloud from our trip into the middle of the farm settled. Gravel crunched beneath my feet as the summer's wet heat made sweat drip from my brow, into my eyes and then down to soak my shirt even more. The cocks were restless and in anticipation they slowly sighed like a quiet siren singing to Death himself. The men's banter was just under the volume for speech to be understood. Sunlight shot the dust cloud through and through with diamonds. Each ray highlighted the spinning air as if each eddy was a dervish slowly descending from paradise. Farm life was never something I enjoyed but I could see its beauty in those small, quiet moments.

Up went the hatch to the camper and I pulled down the gate, pinched a finger in the latch and cursed ineptly. Each rooster had its own A-frame enclosure tacked together from plywood. We were only going to enter two into the ring, Old Man Davis had heard that some of the bettors had some high quality fighters with them and like any boxer knows: you win some, you lose some. According to modern science, many dinosaurs had feathers and birds are just an evolution of the more quickly developing species. This evolutionary lineage was not lost on me and their ferocity was astounding. The razor sharp blades strapped to their feet made them deadly. Training the birds had been long and hard work, this made them winners.

Every time the weather allowed in the spring or summer and if we had birds of the right age they sparred. Trimmed combs and wings made each rooster look streamlined as we strapped on a chicken's equivalent of a boxing glove to each foot. A friend of Carl's would usually help us when it was time to spar. Lucero would bring his little boy who was about my age to help. After strapping the "gloves" on to each cockerel the little brown boy and I faced each other in anticipation as we carefully released the birds and backed away. They fought in a flurry of feathers and dust. Screams escaped their craws and their necks were frilled out with feathers from top to bottom like metal Christmas trees. After a few minutes of the two birds abusing each other viciously, Lucero would grab them by the neck to stop the fighting. Carefully removing the "gloves" so we could return them to their respective rooster teepees was the scariest part of the process for Lucero's boy and me.

Today was different from those training sessions, instead of the "gloves" we had tied the knives to their feet. Those same knives were ordered special from magazine ads and were sharpened, polished, and stored in a place of honor. Those same knives made the blood bubble, the feathers fly, and the occasional head flop to the floor of the ring. Those same knives still shine in my mind's eye whenever I think of a blade well made. I can easily recall the anticipation I felt every time I would sneak into Papa Carl's spare bedroom to look at those same knives.

The men there called to me as I slowly brought the enclosures to the ring. They would speak to each other en EspaƱol and the only reason I knew they were talking about me was because of the words cuarto, poquito and guero. My father was Mexican but you never would have known it. My Germanic heritage showed through, every summer gave me the same appearance: sunburned bright red with blue and silver eyes shining through the red. Since he left when I was very young I only picked up whatever Spanish I knew from the other kids in town. The hubbub died down as the birds were matched up.

Carl conferred with Old Man Davis. Old Man Davis was nearly senile but he stood up straight as a rod and hooked his thumbs through his overalls as if this were the most entertaining thing he had done in a long time. A huge smile overtook his face as he recognized some of the men in the circle. The two old men leaned in toward each other. Papa Carl had to adjust his crutches to get closer to Old Man Davis. Finally they made their bets.

Betting always turned out the same in these circles. Everyone wanted to know how Carl would bet. Some bet in line with his opinions and others bet against him as a matter of spite. He wasn't known as the premiere rooster breeder in the region for nothing. I knew our match was coming up shortly. I watched the first two fights before I went behind the shed to stare off into the sky and tried to attain a state of no-mind. When Papa finally bellowed out my name I ran back to the ring, ignorant of how much time had passed.

I picked up the first enclosure and opened it slowly. The Filipino man across the circle was only slightly taller than my prepubescent self. He stared fiery hate into my eyes and cursed under his breath in Tagalog. I removed the hood from our bird almost simultaneously as he did. Both his bird and the one in my hands were pulling for the fight. Once the count was finished we released both roosters and backed out of the ring quickly. Feathers and blood already lay in the dust all around the ring, there were scratches on the ground where they had launched themselves at each other. The two birds for this fight were well matched.

Still the brunt of the Pinoy's hateful gaze, he would occasionally flick his eyes back to the ring. Jumping, clawing, pecking, screaming, a flopping carcass that didn't know its own demise and at last, it was over. "Look at your chicken's head Flip! It's limped over to the right and it ain't ever coming back up. Just like your tiny dick ya shit licker," Papa Carl continued to bellow his victory in ever ebullient torrents of filth for a few minutes until the short islander cleaned up his bird and left altogether. Looking back, that gaze during the fight was probably directed at Papa. I saw the money change hands and Carl handed me one of his sticks as he shoved a wad of cash into his sweatpants pocket. The second fight was coming any moment and I was ready to go home. Stuffing the winning rooster back into his box was always a matter of agility and avoiding those same knives. Blood from the match was all over my hands and pants by the time I got the first cock contained.

Our second fight was with a Mexican fellow's bird, he was a friend of Lucero's and greeted us warmly. My grandfather understood him easily enough and let out a "bway-nose dee-ass" in his thick Arkansas accent. I looked at the man's son, a few years older than me, he was more nervous than a Chihuahua on coke. The two birds played out their danza de espada much like the last time. Our second bird was also victorious, the other bird lost a foot and its wing was hanging from its body. The stump of its leg kicked spasmodically as the blood pooled under it. The second rooster we fought that day was much easier to coax back into its box.

Papa Carl and Old Man Davis were happier than pigs in shit to have won and were debating on further matches. After a few more fights the men implored us to leave, a phone call had been received and apparently the Filipino was angry because of the match. Word was he had gathered his sticks and was coming. The fellow was a well known practitioner of Eskrima. We left that day, our fortunes determined by fate, the roosters, and those same knives.