funeral in Spring

For John, and the farm, the country and his family, that same small town and its neighbors tending the land and their community, its familiar landmarks and services surrounding, that allows one to come home however long they were away.





geese flying home
above the Willow River
as for Our Saviour
a little late before we leave





a funeral in Spring
Country Western from the radio
melt water fills the fields




wait, there's more ...





outside of Sibley County
almost to Le Suer -
a Green Giant greets us
standing on a hill





bare trees, their blunt tops
wore down by the Minnesota River -
Le Traverse De Sioux





" if a guy were smart" he'd say,
looking away
at an object in the distance,
you might look there, too
to see who's there,
or what was comin'
but what he was sayin' ,
was really about you"







his wardrobe was unique
flannel shirts, just red or blue ...
I cant think up a poem
about all those ears of corn






each voice in the choir
on its own, distinct
the congregation, rising
feeling on its feet






it's time to leave
the service is over
all of us together
we lift our keys
and shake them
in the air










John was an outdoors man.
You could always find him there
grading the neighbor's roads
sittin' up on his red tractor
or a tree stand in November
he'd built for some friends
by a corn field above the snow
trolling in his v hull, maybe
little kids with so he'd go slow
and once he took me fishin'
out on the ice, in wind and cold
me, a city boy, we just made a few holes
he left me with a jiggle stick
in a fold up, with Mr Heater
out of the air so I'd be warm
after awhile, a meditation later
'what's that smell' I began to wonder
just like hair and smoke and oil
that Mr Heater it turns out
got too close it burned my jacket
as well the lining and the down
to my embarrassment, something to behold
he come back and had a look
he laughed a little but - i did, too
he made it feel a rite of passage
our gentle laughter
just between he and I






John liked to toast
with a tall brandy seven
if we drank beer
it'd be somethin' old
like Hamm's, Schmidt or Buckhorn
we'd laugh so much it'd just get warm






"well, looks like we better go on in."

Noon in the Middle Kingdom (amerikan spoken here)

hmm, look at that baby, clean lines, Corinthian leather, and,
(sssnnniiifff) that new weapon smell!

· Reply · 44m

I think the Chinese are trying to bankrupt the US. They prefer that to actual war.

· Reply · 1h

that's part of war - they stopped buying treasuries already - "death to Amerika"

· Reply · 34m

Yes, but I like to mince words.

· Reply · 33m

no, no, no, that ain't me babe - ` made sure to put it in quotes

· Reply · 33m

Yes, but Uncle Confucius wants YOU! Use your head, son.

· Reply · 31m

come on board for the big win... sir?

· Reply · 30m

No, just follow the Middle Way.

· Reply · 30m

observe the squirrel - yes, I think I understand now

· Reply · 29m

Good. Now leave all your aircraft carriers in my bath tub.

· Reply · 28m

what about my ducks?! ... oh

· Reply · 27m

We can use then for firing practice.

· Reply · 27m

get an estimate first

· Reply · 26m

Bashaar plus 20.

· Reply · 26m

from a reliable contractor - betty's list?

· Reply · 26m

Betty crock of what, eh?

· Reply · 25m

a service to find services

· Reply · 25m

but remember - back down the ladder may cost you more

· Reply · 24m

The true searcher for the way enters the rock cliff cave and then contemplates the guano.

· Reply · 23m

I love a good guerro solo

· Reply · 23m

That figures. I'll tell president Xi that one. He'll have a good ho ho ho.

· Reply · 22m

not now it's nappies

· Reply · 22m

everyone's asleep

· Reply · 21m

But it's noon in the Middle Kingdom.


Manage
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· Reply · 20m

Commentary: Mad Verse

I don't want to sign up, sign in, register, log in/or out and I'm not rollin' over - I eschew your f'in' Help button - it's a dreamer's madhouse, really, the paying customers subjected to tiny harpies with booming voices demanding, " Did this answer Help?" - a hundred monkeys equipped with Android apps could deduce the meaning of life and publish a NYT best seller before that happens.

So why limit ones self to overt manipulation?

Don't ask me. I don't tally the votes. As though anybody has control over my problems, let alone their own. But for those psychopaths, those crazies from the Sales Department - mutineers all, I dare say - they've taken apart the hoopty of human decency, run it into the ground, drained the oil and loosed the screws, jacked the tires but call it do God's work - chanting Mandalas of Infinite Solicitation slapped together from spare parts left on the shelf, then re-submitted, re-labeled, trotted out and offered again with the same old promise - it's New, Our Materialism, who art in Marxism, strange as they may seem ... Amen. If Duct Tape is already a gift from the God's, how then do you bend her to your will? You needn't bother.

Could it be the herding instinct, or an ill nature of Cycles that makes us adapt to others will, with their TVs and their radios, far out and solid state, embracing scraps of the dead and dying from digitalia exposed full frontal to weaken our already mutant resolve, to run away, catch up, heinous acts of repetition, and follow follow follow follow follow the ultimate obscenity so gruesome it's impossible to look away from. Just try ducking those errant microwaves - primal, raw, they'll eat your brain if you let them - but, isn't it easier that way?

Give up and surrender. Leave just enough cells to plead and cajole, begging for sweet, sweet mercies and then asking for MOAR. 

It's different this time - You've pressed Enter - without removing your card, here, have some kibbles washed down with Likes - wait for it! Anathema or instant gratification, what the fuck you gonna do about it? Well, feel lucky, punk? Fill out this form - while you're at it, click on these other offers, ,,, #aumf Look! Another false flag to justify another war for another millennium and another dead and another maimed and legions upon legions of dead dead dead . . . (yawn)

Even now, what they say is comfort, through prayer and worship to their inestimable Gods, is lying in wait and raking it in. Bernays has finally delivered Ganesha - his downfall due to the ultimate weapon, a Feedback Loop Set to Infinity Approaching Inertia - how do I look? OK? They're waiting to harpoon your unsuspecting Self, claiming they're here to help, or so they say.

Yet they bid you Death by a thousand sharpened pencils, shamelessly provide just one nibble at a time from the miasma lurking in Rain Forests of fine print, the final offer directing you to conformity - I won't roadie in that traveling circus, so put that Kool Aid away, Missie, lemme see your hands and then show us your tits. You might earn Goebbels beatific smile, or another persuasive erection ... feel better now? I don't.

I reject your misleading FAQ's, you sick bastards, try to hide an answer and I'll lower your standards while I raise the alarm. I escaped the Labyrinth long, long ago, a penknife and Idiom to defend and sustain me yet nearly succumbing, caught in a web of political collectivism - all of it, it's yours, will be yours, what's mine is yours - while you stood there, posing in clown shoes, polished uppers and blackened souls your best advantage, a squirting flower pinned to your wide lapel, batting those Emmett Kelly's primed with vitriol in baby blue, talkin' smart and recitin' the Mantra, was it tin pan alley or just another ruse?

The Clown Boxer's contention, a ring of black velvet on a green screen backdrop, those wistful bruises and yellow eyes pasted in, certified Organic and quick to anger, unsweetened rabbit punch and cauliflower ear the only things on the menu and a door prize of perception rendered in charcoal, anime of Whizzo behind bars - Free Whizzo the Clown! - a chance of a lifetime, but there's a catch, a trade off of cheap thrills for what you truly desire, a year's supply of pratfalls and a laugh track all its own thrown in - all entries are shall be rewarded with the Slap and Tickle administered by a glove with four fingers, more than a whiff of rot embedded within; an unwavering ability for deflection, to determine someone or something, a projection, a different entity, made from scratch, an invention of make believe, just anybody at all on who they can place the blame.

No wonder you scare the children.

,

` Hell, No, It's Not For The Glory!

Last Man

My best friend Steve is a Vietnam vet. Bless his heart, he never broached the subject, nor did I until I’d known him for a few years. He did share some odd tales about the war with me then.

A natural story teller, he was witty, sardonic, with some hilarious punchlines thrown in. And, quite often, disturbingly surreal. He’d won a medal for stealing a jeep once … it’s a long story, I couldn’t tell it like he could.

We have a last man's club of sorts; one bottle Johnny Walker Black, one pair clean socks, a pack of Winstons – everything a guy needs, stuffed into a re-gifted wine box.

Someday, one of us will get to piss on the other's grave.



Dragon's Breath
the forest alight in flame,
red, green, orange, black!
laughing, a ghost beckons,
beautiful and serene








Two Years Gone By

500,000 Iraqi Children Die