Northwest Blues

The Curlew Lake Murder/Chapter One

An early morning rains had blanketed the lake and surrounding mountains with much needed relief from the heat and bone dryness of late August. Thick gray clouds began to break-up by afternoon. The wind blew in forceful gusts from the North West, pine trees sway as if slow dancing to the music of an unseen band. By nightfall the stars were shining with a brilliance few city folk have the privilege to experience.

Driving fast on the winding road over Sherman Pass and turning at Pine Grove Junction, Carl Edwards was oblivious to any beauty Ferry County had to offer. As a city man born and raised, his thoughts tended to focus on only one thing. Money! How he made money, when and on what to spend money, and where to get more, even if he had to steal it. To Carl, money was a game. He never lost because he never played by the rules. His business dealings were always kept strictly confidential.

The new light blue Fox Audi glistened in the moonlight. He punched the gas peddle hugging the inside curve of a sharp s-turn, pushing the car down a short straight-a-way at seventy miles an hour. The car responded smoothly as he did the same thing on the next turn, barking the tires leaving the outside turn. His smile vanished at the sight of several Mule deer caught in the headlights. Swerving into the other lane in order to miss them, tires squealing, he fought to control the Audi by not touching the breaks. His screaming vulgarism went unheard.

“Not tonight, you son’s of bitches. Nothing tonight is going to spoil my celebrating.”

With a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels remaining in a vice grip between his inner thighs, he reaches for the cigarette lighter, fumbles with a pre-rolled fat joint. A pink plastic bag of newly purchased porn CD’s had scattered across the passenger seat and lay helter skelter on the Audi’s dark blue carpeting.

Three startled bucks with trophy racks, leap down the highway embankment and trot into a clearing. They stop for a moment to watch the fast moving car, weaving tail lights disappear around a tree lined curve.

“Almost Home.” He sighs, slowly releasing the long held drag. Driving back from Seattle via Spokane and Colville, most of his weekend had been spent with lawyers signing multiple copies of court papers. The rest of his time spent on phone calls to business associates, dinner, and the night with a high price hooker. He wasn't looking forward to being alone in his almost completed three thousand square foot lakeview log home. A Montana contractor was working on exterior finishing touches, while Salon24, a British Colombia company worked to finish their designer furniture placements. The way he saw it was like this: he would call his real state contract lawyer first thing in the morning, call Highpoint N.C. about the custom-made leather sofa chairs that were late in shipping, and maybe get a few hundred dollars shaved off for his aggregation. Both companies were behind seclude. He took another short puff, held it, exhaled while fingering the window buttons on the arm rest, and flicked the three quarter joint into the night sky.

“Something for the locals.” he sneered and turned onto the newly graveled driveway.

The log cabin with a massive rap-around porch looked like a lodge brochure from a fancy Vale Colorado ski lodge. True, the view of the lake from his hill top perch was worth much more than the rock-bottom price he had paid for the property. What he had spent building his summer retreat, “The McMansion”, the locals called it, was between him and his account. At eleven o’clock on a Sunday night several smaller homes around the lake were dimly lit.

The peaceful stillness seemed spooky to Edwards. In the past several weeks he had stayed at the cabin, he still couldn't get used to the quiet. At night he played the cable entertainment channels to keep himself company. Music blared to the early hours of the morning.

His high-rise apartment in Seattle had already been leased to a Los Angels oil company’s hotshot executive. That deal was a little to smooth to suit his bird dog noise for trouble. Another conspiracy scheme to mull over, because something about the deal just didn't add up.

Driving into the three-car garage, he bumped the front bumper into a low stack of plywood lumber he hadn’t seen.

“Shit! Stupid contractors.” He slurred his words in an evil tone. “If there’s so much as a scratch on the bumper, I suuuu the fuckers.” Business deals, Atlanta, Boston, Baltimore, and San Francisco, were swimming in his alcohol-befuddled mind. Stepping out of the car in the darkness, the whisky bottle shatters on the concrete.

“I’ll makem’ pay for that too. Why in the hell didn’t the weekend crew leave a security light on? It’s piss black in here.” Unhappy at the thought of getting whisky on the souls of his new Italian loafers, Edwards slams the car door and walks around to the passenger side, opens the door and gathers up the scattered CD’s.

“This” is for that local weasel subcontractor Sandy Berky and his dysfunctional wife. He holds up a glossy jacket CD. Gag Factor #2, the title is easy to read in the Audi's dome light. "Give him an idea what I think about him, the money-grubbing son of a bitch. Thinks he can screw me? Hah!”

Thirty-seven-year-old Carl Edwards slams the Fox Audi’s passenger door at the same time a flash appears from the far corner of the garage. gggGun! He spins around seeing, one, two, three more flashes of light with a sharp clapping sound accompanying each flash. The stack of porn CD’s cascade to the concrete, making a louder noise than the silencer on the Victor High Standard 22 automatic. Edward’s knees stiffens as he jerks. Pissing, he’s dead before he drops to the cold garage floor.

A wide red flashlight beem sweeps back and forth, stopping at spent brass casings. One, two, three, and four, each 22 longrifle cartridges is picked up. The red beam is switched off. The smell of gunpowder, sagebrush, and pine trees, mingle with the smell of fresh blood and urine.

A lone shadow weaves through the sagebrush below Edward’s highpriced garish McMansion. Softshoed footsteps crunch on hard gravel, mingling with coyotes singing in the moonlight.

And For The Republic For Which It Stands

Yesterday while driving into town, a U.S. jet swooped down and come in low behind me. At the time, I was the only vehicle on a short stright of way on back road into town. If you have ever had a military jet drop out of the sky from nowhere and make a pass over you as if you were a target..the noise and fear factor sends a message not soon to be forgotten. Later in afternoon, I crossed the border to see if I could pickup a vacuum cleaner bag, I had forgot it on my list of this to pick up while in town. I have never had any problems crossing the border in four years that I have lived here. "I only know what the computer tells me." he said. "You." He pointed his finger in my face. "You have a FBI file that says..."I said, "Look at me. I am not lieing to you. I have no reason to have an FBI file. I have never done anything wrong to have a FBI file."He ask me many questions. I answered his questions with truthful answers.He said, "Get it cleared up."Coming back across the U.S. border, I explained why I had left my country for twenty minutes. "I went to the hardware store looking for a vacuum clearer bag."The crossing guard told me to order anything I needed on the internet because it saves on gas.When I get my courage back up, I will write more, who, what ,when, and where. I don't like to be told to keep my mouth shut, stay at home, etc. Granted I live in the HOT ZONE where many people do as they are told. I am not one of them. I was born and raised in the United States of America, and I will fight for my rights as a citizen of the Republic.I maybe be shaking in my boots with fear from the things I've hear that are going on in these mountains, but that will not stop me from doing my best to write about what I see, hear, and think.  

Yellow Bucket Seats

Opening the glove box, insurance papers, a 1984 BMW owners manual, and a small peril handled 32 automatic spilled to the convertibles clean carpet floor, the pistol nearly breaking one of the imported beer bottles in the six pack that rests between Mary Jo's pink plastic shoes.

"For Christ sake mom, why are you carrying that in the car?"

"Protection honey, it's just for protection. Your father gave it to me, said it was a lady's gun."

"Why did we ever move here?" Twisting her blond hair into a knot, Mary Jo smooths her hair behind her head and fastens a stunning blue and gold native bead work clip.

"You know why, as well as I do." Heather's blue eyes behind Italian designer sun glassed are fixed on the curving mountain road. The scent of the pine forest is as strong as a newly opened air freshener, and the early August afternoon is perfect for a drive over the pass to one of the regions smaller lake resorts.

"Mom. I saw dad in the store." The seventeen-year-old turns her head away from her mother, a wall of evergreen trees blur by. Tears roll freely off her cheeks to be swept away in the hot mountain wind.

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Of course not. That preacher Vandyke was so bug eyed, as if he had never seen bouncing tits before. Sam was as creepy as usual, neither one of them saw the look on dads face, they were to busy watching my ass."

"Please Mary Jo, you've been taught to use better language. Vulgarity is common."

"Sure mom. Whatever! Do you want to hear what happened or not?" Pulling down the visor she flips up the mirror and dabs at her smeared mascara. She pulls a cold beer from the six pack.

"I was going to pick up a couple of bottles of ice water, but dad looked like he was going to loose it, so I swung opened the fridge and grabbed the first thing on the shelve. I was watching dad in the glass door"

"How did he look?"

"What do you mean,"How did he look?" He looked like he had been stabbed in the heart. That's how he looked mom. Like he was going to cry, that's how he looked."

Heather McAllaster bit her lower lip keeping back rising emotions. Her two hands griped the top of the wood grained steering wheel hard, hard enough to dig her perfectly manicured peach pink nails into her sweating palms, the diamond rings on her fingers reflecting light as if under a jewelry showcase.

"I wanted to hug him, tell him how much I miss him. Mom... I didn't pay for the beer. If I had stayed one minuet longer, I would have blown his cover, so I just ran out of the store."

At the top of the summit the convertible pulls off the road to a shady parking area, a small park with picnic tables under a grove of shimmering aspens. Mile marker signs on newly painted posts point to several hiking trails leading off into the forest.

"You want a beer mom? I'm drinking one, I'm thirsty. There cold if nothing else."

"No honey, I don't want a beer. I want my life back." Heather's suntan face shows fine lines of worry beneath her heavy makeup. Her hair is short, wind blown, a beautiful natural red with blond highlights."

"Why did we stop here, don't we have to be at lodge before sundown? Mom I don't want to drive on that dirt road in the dark, it's dangerous." Opening the car door and wiggling sideways on the BMW's yellow leather bucket seat, Mary Jo leans over putting on a pair of red high top tennis shoes, then flings her maryjane clogs in the back seat one after the other. She picks up her beer, brushing off wet aspen leaves stuck to the bottom of the bottle.

"We have time, lets enjoy the afternoon. It's nice up here. I could use a walk, grab the camera and walk with me. I need to think."

"Okay, okay, hold on a second. Where's the trash can?" Mary Jo's voice is strained with agitation.

"Put your empty and the rest of those beers on that picnic table over there, and grab my purse." Pointing to the picnic area covered with aspen leaves, Heather stands in front of the signpost, reading trail names...Grizzly Ridge 7.5 miles, Ridge Top Loop 5 miles, Deer Creek Loop .4 miles.

An old 1960's 2.5 ton military truck is parked in the shade at the edge of the parking area. It's guard rails bulging with stacked firewood. Several chainsaws are strapped down on top of the tamarack load. A blue heeler cattle dog watches with his chin resting on the cab's open window, as Mary Jo places the six pack on the picnic table and hurries to catch up with her mother already starting up the winding trail. The truck owner is nowhere in sight.

"I put Elliot Ness in your purse mom, just in case we meet a really Big Bear." Mary Jo laughs, and hands her mother the thin-strapped silver purse.

"Elliot Ness isn't for protection against bears sweetheart. He's for protection against two-legged predators. Now tell me everything you remember that happened in the store."

"Look Mom!" A doe and two fawns leap across the stream and prance up the trail, their white tails waving from side to side. "What time is it? I want to call the lodge and tell them we'll be on time. The barbecue doesn't start until 7:30 and I want to make sure ass hole is bringing Isabelle."

"Mary Jo, I'm not going to tell you again, stop with the vulgarity, please. And why do you call him that anyway? He's a nice man. He's trying to help us."

"It's his job mom. He doesn't give a rat's ass about us. We're just a case number to him and you know it. Even Isabelle thinks he's a cold hearted bastard, and she should know."

"I'm sure Isabelle loves her father just as much as you love yours."

"Sure, whatever, but my dad isn't a federal agent."

Heather McAllaster's eyes squint shut slightly. "Honey, the cell phone doesn't work in this area, I've already tried."

"Shit!" In a fit of anger, the girl hurries past her mother. The scenic trail ahead looks like a page from Nation Geographic magazine.

Looking like it just rolled off the show room floor, a dark coloured Yukon SUV slowly coasts to a stop next to the open convertible. If the agents behind the heavy tinted windows were trying to be inconspicuous, they were clueless to the forest of sharp eyes watching them.

Huckleberry Brew

"Did you here the news?" says Sammy Parker, turning up his sharp nose from stubborn bug juice splattered on the tinted glass. A ring of dirt and sweat circled the neck and armpits of his gray tee shirt. Wavy lines of crusty egg yolk were visible on his unkempt red beard. The live flies must have been after the leftover breakfast he was wearing. He waved his meat hook sized paw as if it were an airy-fairy fan in an attempt to shoo them away as he hung-up the gas hose. Heat danced in waves from the red trucks polished hood. Slanting white clouds reflected from the newly clean front windshield.

"Ya, bad news travels fast in these mountains." said middle aged T. J. Cornpepper, his back against the side of the truck bed, his arms crossed at his chest, and one dusty boot heel resting on a ten-ply steel belted 75-16 tire.

"Whatcha ya gonna do Teddy?" ask Sammy not being able to mask the excitement in his voice.

"What makes you think I need to do something?" Tall and lanky Teddy Cornpepper bent his nimble frame at the waist, picking up several small round stones in the gravel and rolled them in his left hand like marbles.

"Come on Cornpepper, you ain't the kinda guy not get even. Whatcha gonna do? As God is my witness, I won't tell a soul. Whatcha gonna do?" Stroking his ratty beard, Sammy Parker picked at the yolk with his dirty fingernails.

Unbuttoning his oxford shirt collar, Teddy casually swallowed several times holding back a gag factor of that the locals would consider only a two, or three, on a scale of one to ten. At three o'clock in the afternoon, the roadside store and gas station was empty of any customers other than Cornpepper.

Earlier, seventeen-year-old Mary Jo McAllaster had sashayed through the front door of Shannon's Hodgepodge Mercantile, her Levi cutoffs revealing way more cheek than the preacher of the church on the hill could handle. Her low scissors-cut tee shirt was even more to the point. If old lecherous Henry Hues hadn't already died, the sight of Mary Jo bouncing to the beer locker would have killed him for sure. As for the preacher, his eyes were short circuiting between, ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no mountain low... sweet chariot. He sideswiped a cardboard display of candy bars at the counter, and knocked over a box of beef jerky sticks. His shaking hand missed his jeans pocket, sending nickels and dimes rolling down the store's dirty black and white checker floor.

"Leave it for the kids to pick up." said the preacher. "Gotta go-- I'm late for a wedding." Running both hands through his greasy blond hair, he paused for a moment before opening the squeegee clean double front doors.
Mary Joe had that kind of effect on men and she knew it.
The toothy grin on Sammy Parker's bushy buffet face at the preachers moral dilemma faded as Mary Jo strutted past the checkout counter. Ducking under the preacher's arm as he opened the door, and with Olympic perfection, Mary Jo casually vaulted into a cream coloured BMW convertible with a six pack of Sammy's most expensive imported beer. The other woman in the driver's seat smiled and gave what could be called, a most wicked wink before driving off in a cloud of dust.

"Humm, Humm, jail bait never looked so good."

"Roll your tongue in Sammy before you step on it. She's serious trouble with a capital T."

"I could sure use some of that kind of trouble." He said, as he quickly lifted the counter gate and started picking up the change on the floor.

"What if one of the Border Patrol guys had see that? She could cost you your Liquor License."

On his hands and knees looking for any change he might have missed, His head turning side to side, his eyes raking the floor. He snicked then laughed, "Boy don't you worry about me ever loosing my Liquor License."

The preacher Larry Vandyke stood outside the store still composing himself before walking across the street to his car. His classic 1967 Chevy II Super Sport had seen better days. In a fit of delayed adolescences, he fishtailed from the curb doing a one eighty U-turn, almost hitting Cornpepper's 1952 Ford pickup parked at the gas pump.

"Damn! That was close." said Sammy still smiling. So whatcha gonna do Teddy? Like I said, I won't tell nobody."

Teddy Cornpepper walked down the row of glass refrigerator doors, stopping at the bottled water section. On the lower shelf he pulled out two High Sierra's Best and returned to the counter.

"So whatcha gonna do? Small town like this, everybody knows a piece of the story. Bad news get people excited. Makes them feel good when it's somebody elses troubles. Do you know who did it? I mean Hell, people here will make up shit if they think they won't get caught. Whatcha gonna do?"

Cornpepper rolled up the sleeves of his clean blue shirt, he slowly turned from the counter and walked down the well stocked country store aisle.

"Oh Sam! I almost forgot. Been having gopher problems in my garden. Do you still carry that powder poison you sold to me several years ago?"

"Dang Teddy! That can of poison should have killed every gopher with in miles of your place."

"I don't like to keep it in the storage shed just in case the dogs get in there, so I tossed it."

"Ya, it's on top shelf in the livestock section." He waved his arm like throwing a baseball. All the way back, you'll have to use the ladder to reach it. Remember a spoon full of that stuff will kill a large animal, it's deadly so be careful with it."

"Don't worry Sammy, I'll be careful. By the way, when are you going to get the air conditioning unit fixed? It's hotter than hell up here."
Stepping off the ladder with a can of poison, Cornpepper takes his time in walking to the front counter, stopping several times to fiddle with several items on the shelves.

"I know, I know it's hot. That's why I'm closing the store at four o'clock instead of six-thirty. I gotta repairman is coming over from Wenatchee, it will be fixed sometime tomorrow morning. Guess you're my last costumer for the day. I'm locking the doors as soon as you leave."

"I know you usually drink beer Sammy, but have you ever tried one of these?"
Sammy rang up the two bottles of High Sierra's Best spring water and handed Teddy Cornpepper his change. Cornpepper cleverly twisted the plastic cap off the bottle, handing the ice cold drink across the worn Formica counter top to Sammy.

"Here try this, I think it will quench your thirst."

"Why thank you Ted, that's real thoughtful of you." Sammy said, as Cornpepper left the store.

Opening his truck door, Teddy Cornpepper grinned at the blast of heat from inside the old Ford's fully restored cab. "Damn! he said, it's hotter than the hubs of Dante's Hell-- how apropos.

Teddy Cornpepper may have been a cosmopolitan in his manners, but he had been schooled in small town ways from childhood. He knew from that day on, the local folk would never again make him the brutal butt of, "bad news."

The Pull Of Values

Help me trust others as much as I trust myself.

Help me earn an honest living.

Help me reach out to others.

Help me accept a helping hand.

Help me accept, and forgive those who don't have VALUES.

Beach Nut Gumbo Ice Cream

My friend Captain Ayé and his crew traveled from the City of Angels to the Gilroy's Garlic Festival in the northern sector of the golden state, California. Ships log note and record an encounter with "The Pod Creature" from the Gilroy growing fields, his name, Bubba Clove. As luck would have it, he was not dressed to kill.

The Captain and his crew were able to escape only to meet the double dealing "Cone Man" selling Allium sativa.

Garlic Ice Cream?

Here's the scoop...

Glad to say, the Captain and his crew have returned to a healthy lifestyle.

My vampire hot line tells me, the guzzle goons, and blood suckers will have to hunt elsewhere when they are feeling a pint low. And for an added bonus due to the miracle sweet idea bulb, all home base computers are worm free.

My guess is Captain Ayé will be up for a promotion soon. With his taste for adventure, the vampires haven't got a chance.

Thick Skin and Sweetheart

"Are we're having an adventure Mama?"
"Yes Sweetheart, you could say we are having a real adventure."
"Learning to roll out of the ol' mud hole is hard work. Why?"
"To teach us how to be persnickety."
"What is per-snick-ety?"
"Persnickety is knowing exactly where you are standing in the mud hole, and where everybody else is standing in relationship to you."
"Huh?"
"Persnickety is choosing who stands by your side. Choosing those you trust, so you can be safe and enjoy your mud bath."
"Why do we have to have mud baths Mama?"
"Well Honey, because thick skin can be rather tender, and we need protection from the sun's rays and bloodsuckers."
"Are bloodsuckers per-snick-ety?"
"No. That's why we need to learn how to persevere and persistently out smart them."
" What is per-severe, and per-sis-tent?"
"Ask your friends to help you out the next time you're in the mud hole."
"Okay! In that case I better learn to be persnickety."

The Crown of Air

Sacred keep the mountain view,
The candor caravan of Capulet.
Now only slow Summer days to savor.
Sweet lips press the cup to satisfy,
My Lady's apple pie, the Kettle River...

Fleeting moments travel pass.
This standing so all alone.
Heaven's gate on blue bird wings.
Warm arms reach out to touch,
Her wished for dreams before cast.

What difference thought we,
On pine papered poems of love,
Sent in secret,
Passed down from above,
Below the kins knowing mind.


Before the water came,
Lightening, thunder, darkness in the rain.
Sacred sent in secret,
Still standing all alone,
Damn, the caravan of Capulet.

It's An Italian Thing

Are all people touched by something? Does the flow energy take noodles and meatballs?

As my uncle Nick Cucci would say, "Non é tutt' oro quel che luce / All that glitters is not gold, and prestare attenzione/ pay attention."

Uncle Nick helped develop the petroleum fields in Egypt and Saudi Arabia before they were nationalized. He made big bucks and retired to Pebble Beach to play golf everyday. My aunt Vera owned a restaurant in California and drove herself into the back of a stopped eighteen wheeler. She was going over a hundred miles an hour, driving under the influence of alcohol. Maybe with the helping hand of a twelve-step group she could have slowed down and received the help she needed.

When I now gaze up at the night's sky, I believe they wink back at me, my family of many colours and bright lights. My uncle Nick and aunt Vera's lives were filled with the excitement of adventure, the quest for romance, and sad to say, great tragedy. The memories of my family are a tangle of odd ball stories, treasures I hold close to my heart, they feed me when I hunger for love.

Writing, like a good ragú ( pasta sauce) takes hours to create. Good cooking comes with experience, attention to detail and a desire for excellence. Fresh herbs the memories, aromatic spice the artistic verisimilitude that works together to enhance a memorable meal. The unseen garnish is always a touch of love from above.

Gag Factor of Insufferable Intelligence

After reading a search page on Google intitled "Gag Factor", I need to get off the information highway for awhile, and wash off the trail dirt.

Woo Chow's Kung Foo Steak

A swift hand reaches out, fingers lightly sweep across the chest of his shirt as she brushes between them, and sonders down the sidewalk. Only one of the three bystanders catches a glimpse of her Mona Lisa smile.

"Her name is Esmeralda Jackson." Leaning his back and one foot against the red brick building that faces the busy city street, Bobby Joe Benson fishes in this shirt pocket for a crumpled soft pack of American Spirit cigarettes.

"Damn!" he says in a low almost whining tone, as he gently taps one of few remaining cigarettes in the pack, and raises it to his dry cracked lips.

"She's one brassy lady with a heart of gold. Packs everything she owns in that raggie old pack sack." His right hand digs deep in his dirty military camouflage pants pocket searching among his own carried treasures. He straightens his arm then bends his elbow, expertly opening the brushed silver zeppo against his thigh. The familiar "click" is a second ahead of the flame... the lighter raises to meet the unfiltered cigarette. In a cloud of gray smoke Bobby Joe's up-turned chin motions toward a short wiry person walking against the crowd.

"That was a woman?" says a young office worker. His white shirt and tie are spotless, the puzzled look on his face, priceless. The girl hanging on his arm snuggles closer for assurance, comfort against a gust of icy wind.

"You better get her home, she looks like she seen a ghost."

Bobby Joe casually returns the zippo to his pocket and steps away from the wall.

Down the alley behind a overflowing dumpster, a man on his hands and knees retches several times before spueing the contents of his stomach on the concrete. Another man lay face down not moving.

"Go on now, I'll take care of those two. They won't be bothering you, or anybody again. You get her home where she's safe."

"What was her name again? I didn't get a chance to thank her, it all happened so fast."

Gusts of wind carring the smell of fried grease from the large rotating fan above the Chinese restaurant's back door reminds Bobby Joe he hasn't eaten in several days.

"Her name is Esmeralda Jackson. Sergeant Major Esmeralda Jackson, now go on, get out of here." The tone of Bobby's voice changes to a low growl of authority.

Pulling on the young man's arm, the young woman is pleading in her body language. The couple quickly walk down the street, hailing a cab that pulls to quickly to the curb.

Bobby's smile fades, his eyes redden as he walks into the shadows and towards the man on his knees. With teeth gnashing he takes the last puff of cigarette, and flicks the butt against the alley wall.

"Thank you Ms. Jackson for tenderizing my tenderloin."

USA Paper Wipes Tails In China

This is one of the photos emailed to me from my Spanish language and art teacher Charlene.

News travels fast in this age of electronic information, but for how long?

United States valuable natural resources are being exported to other countries at an alarming rate while the majority of Americana's people sit ideally wondering why their hard earned money is going down the plastic drain pipe.

For those who are blazing the information digital trail through our governments wasteful drain of taxes know the end may be near unless the American people stand up, tighten their belts, and get to work using their heads to vote for balancing the books on economic issues.

Holding corrupt governmental elected officials accountable for their flush disposable spending is common sense. Keeping a focus on world issues while finding solutions to the fast sinking of United States citizen's household debit is frankly crucial if Americans want to remain free.

The price of freedom is in our natural resources which are being sold off cheaply to meet foreign demands. In return, the American public is being fed a study diet of preprocessed crap.

The Whole Story

After several hours of surfing the net late one night, I came across this photo on a political blog. God forgive me, I don't know why, but I snagged it.

Get the picture?

A wooden statue with a copper catheter brings new meaning to: propane, he's on the beaten path, and son you light up my life.

What does the picture say to you?

Please, rush to post tacky feedback comments.

As you very well can see, woody may be a dangerous "Splinter Oh Bomb" in the making.

Blue boy stand back, the man has deadly gas!

Miniature golf can be a deadly game to play.

And for those who like to sing...google the lyrics of Ernie Marrs...The Dance Jesus Song.

CQ-CQ-CQ

A mountain meadow on the third planet from the sun called Earth isn't the worst place to land a cargo vessel. However, the ship suffered some damage to the breaking system after landing.

As you can see by the photo, one ground grabber has deflated. Actually all four should be replaced for safety reasons. The cost is beyond my limited funds at this time, and yet to travel to the Southern regions of this planet their replacement would be prudent. My ship is in good working order, and that's a blessing. Local fuel prices limit any exploratory ventures at this time. Most encounters with the local species have been interesting and quite educational in my understanding of this planet.

Whether I leave for the southern regions, or stay through the winter is dependent on many variables. It was rather cold last night and my heating fuel supply is low. Compared to what locals say is needed to get me through another winter here, my energy supply is dangerously low. I must be prepared to leave, and yet to make a decision now without gathering more information seems foolish. Communications with support team has been difficult due to low levels of gamma rays. Without help, my assignment seems to be doomed, and yet I believe there is hope for me in this world.

It's a beautiful day, and I need to walk along the river to reduce unnecessary built up stress levels. A healthy dose of gratitude and some fresh air is what is called for right now.

I will continue further communications transmissions this afternoon.

Voilá! Arcenciel

The path to the other side,
A slide of colours bright in hue descend.
Frea fragmentary this I of me.
Yet feel the hope to touch again,
The hand of God I call friend.

Bridge of tears the trail above.
Fragile. Slight. Frail.
My soul did fall for love.
Now caught in misery, a mire.. jail,
Remembering my empty cup, the Grail.

Afternoon Shadow

It's a beautiful day outside, so quite I can hear the flag snapping in the breeze. A lady who owns the big ranch down the road rode by on horseback not to long ago. She had two cattle dogs with her, so of course Sarah pulled the eye-hook from the post where she was chained. I apologized and drought her into the house. This is open range country where cattle ranchers have the right of way.

"We'll be driving cattle through here later this afternoon. When those folks..." she nods her head toward the house barely visible on the other side of a thick stand of pine trees on the hillside. Her horse steps sideways as she talks to me. "...the ones that had those big white dogs. The ones before those new people with the kids moved in. I would have to call ahead of time to make sure they would take their dogs in when we needed to move some cows."

"Don't worry about Sarah, I'll keep her in the house until you drive the cattle past here. I don't let her run because she might chase the new fawns. She doesn't know any better not to chase deer, or cows."

We talk about her horse. I comment about the horses I had on my small farm in Pennsylvania. I ask myself will the pain ever go away as I walk with Sarah back to the cabin. Do I suffer from envy? Ya.

Later I getup from my writing desk for a cup of coffee, a baby snake of some kind is coiled up on the bricks in front of the wood stove. Quickly I grab a mixing bowl off the kitchen counter and scoop it up before Sarah has a chance to kill the poor thing. Outside I take a picture, then let it go. It scurries into the wood pile. The photo isn't very good, yet it's enough for me to use as identification later. I know it's not poisonous. I'm just curious as to it Latin name.

The breeze picks up, old Red, White, and Blue waves proudly. Many might say I should take her down because she's tattered and frayed. I choose not to because she's the only flag I have. Today is the forth of July, and a raggedy Old Glory is better than no Glory at all.

Needs

See, each moment a small miracle found,

Sweet blessings of life's magic,

Slowing the mix of thoughts on wing.

Drinking eye shows,

Pie-eyed on beauity sweet sound.

Needle In A Haystack

I found the needle Dad!
The mordant mores tried to stick it in my eye.
I morphed into a eagle, a bear, a matrix butterfly,
And flew through the portal of time.
Loves consequence of what you gave to me,
My twice blessed ticket a golden key.
Consequence, recompense in the lock of descent distinction.
Pietistic elite! She rans on defeat.
Where do all the whiggish go when they run?
To Hell with the digital funny money.
Consequence, recompence, this land of the mighty and brave,
Stave off the foreign master's despot desolation.
Remember yellow waves of past desperation?
History is a tall tale,
Hit-and-run a market swindle game.
I found the needle Dad,
And the thread of truth in so many lies.
The ticket paid with sweat, blood, and tears.
And me with no stack of my own.
Such is Rome and the pietistic elite.
She's still the apple of my eye.

Saving For The Future, Mountain Grown

Above the average bare who wear the texture of strength and fortitude worn with a handmade silver fibula fasten at the shoulder with love.

The Fair Stratagem

Eureka is a captivating little frontier town tucked away between two mountains passes. A place where unsuspecting.... strangers come to get away from the poison gasses of city life among other reasons. If they linger to long, they may discover the haunting truth about the quantal place, the native people, and what lurks within the many abandoned mines.
The frightened townsfolk mass together, safety in numbers is their joie de vivre rule. Power lines feed electric wattage to hungry power consumers, never the less, calamities dispassion lays claim to giving the devil his due. And a river of tears flows to the sea in the name of half-hearted poverty.

The Portal Crossing

Siskiyou sat very still, starring at his salad plate, in deep thought, private hell... the look of a honorable man faced with an unsolvable dilemma. The salad dressing had a delicate magical flavor. He had to admit, Bobby Twofeathers was an exceptional apprentice chief. The new Commandor of the Western Republic Free Space Sector had not tasted such food in months. The smell of roast chicken continued to drift from the kitchen. Sweet floating ribbons of caramelized potatoes, carrots, turnips mingled, weaving their way from his nose to torture his mind and his empty growling belly.

The lights flickered several times in rapped succession, dimming ever so slowly until darkness folded like the sealing of a letter in an envelope.

"Not to worry." said Victor cheerfuly.

"How romantic!" Gertrude cooed. Shay Patrick leaned carefully forward toward the table's center piece, an arrangement of imported North Carolina magnolias and short needle evergreens with several candles artfully placed here and there on the white linen cloth. A metalic click sounded. The flame from the American made Zeppo lighter lit up the dark room like a torch. After lighting the table candles, Shay lit the tall candelabra that sat on the birds eye cherry credenza next to the rather large bouquet of purple lilacs.

"You are most correct my dear Gertrude. Romance is a mood that may be found in the most unfortunate circumstances." Soft light cast flickering shadows on Victor's porkchop

cheeks, his beadywide eyes were shinning brightly, reflecting the study flame of the homemade candles. The magic beeswax candles, a birthday gift given to Pendragon by Gertrude.

"Mother please, it's hard enough to sit here. This opulence is obscene. People in other worlds are starving. Wars rage throughout many lands while we sit here and play nice nice." Commander Dean Siskiyou's voice quivered in anger. He made a sweeping motion over the table. The candles flickered in the motion of air disturbed by the wave of his hand. We are consuming more food in this one sitting than some families I know eat in a month.

"My word." Jeff said, rolling his eyes at Shay Patrick who looked dumb struck.

"Well la-tee-DA! Tisk-tisk, and all that Jolly Rot." Siskiyou oozed, gripped his salad fork as if he were squeezing Jeffery's neck. The cutting edge of his voice, and his starring eyes were razor sharp.

"That's enough of that boys. I won't warn you again." Turning her head to look at Pendragon. She continued. "You must forgive Dean, he tends to be a bit sanguinary, bearish at times. It must be difficult to slide between the many poor and war torn worlds he visits. His passion to save the Republic Federation from the evil alien Corporate Magistrate is-- I suspect directly inherited from his father side of the family. I will say no more on the subject."

Thumping sounds could be heard from the kitchen, it was Junior chewing on his ham bone.

CloudMaker Mountain

Standing rigid and silent with his big hands tightly gripping the back of the dinning room chair, the stranger awaits Pendragons return from the kitchen and his little pep talk with Bobby.
The smell of cannon and gunpowder slowly wafts down the hallway, through the living room, and into the dinning room. Jeff and Shay Patrick look at each other in a casual haut monde manner, and roll their eyes.
"Captain Siskiyou, let me introduce you to my good friends, this is..."
"It's Commander now Victor. I do not wish to seem rude, but I have read the files on each of your friends that now sit at this table and..."
Gertrude stood up abruptly, her small blue eyes sending daggers of light at Siskiyou.
"I'm sure you have Commander, however, you will conduct yourself as a gentle man and an officer at this table. I am aware that you have come through from a parallel world at war. As you know this is a place of peace, a neutrality zone. Pendragon's hard working apprentice Bobby Twofeathers has been so gracious as to prepare a wonderful meal for us, and you will enjoy his efforts. Do I make myself clear Commander?"
"Yes Mother."
With his mouth agape, Pendragon's soup spoon shuttered to an abrupt stop, as did Shay Patricks. Bobby had just picked up the tail end of the conversation as he came from the kitchen carrying the heavy crystal salad bowl.
"Gertrude, you didn't tell us Captain Siskiyou is your son."
"Sit down dear Bobby, your Créme au Potiron is delightful. Don't you agree Jeffery? Jeff's head nodded like a glued on back window baseball Kewpie doll, minus the grin. Victor raised his napkin, light dabbed at the yellow soup that had spilled on his silk vest.
"The Chicken is done, although I think the oven needs calibrating."

A howl erupted from the back yard, a mournful howl as ever was to be heard on the moors of Lockmab. The windows suddenly shook as thunder and lighting light up the night sky. The rain pours down as if it would never stop.
"Go get your dog big shot." said Gertrude with a wave of her hand towards the kitchen and the backdoor."
"I'll get him for you." Bobby was up and heading for the kitchen before anyone had a chance to say a word. He peeked in the warming oven for a moment to check on his chicken, grabbed a large towel from the linen rack, then opened the back door. The wolfhound stood with a most mournful sadness about him. Those sad eyes tugged at Bobby's heartstrings. "Get in here Junior you're soaking wet and freezing by the looks of you." The ham bone remained firmly clinched in the big dogs teeth. Bobby bent to cover the shivering hound with a towel before he had a chance to shake water all over Pendragon's kitchen floor. "Dang dog, I need another towel".
"Here Bobby." Victor handed bobby a large towel, and lay a wool blanket down.
"He's gonna make a mess Mr. Pendragon."
"I know. It's okay, we can clean it up later. He'll be warm and safe for now."
"How come things never seem to turn out the way you would like them to?"
"Never? Are you giving up? "Victor Pendragon's smile always made Bobby feel better. Chin up my boy, wash your hands, and serve our guests their dinner. I'll open that special bottle of white wine I've been saving. I think this occasion calls for something special to go with your rosemary and thyme roast chicken.
The wolfhound lay with his head down as he stretched out on the warm wool blanket. Junior's big eyes seemed follow Victor and Bobby's every move as they returned to the dinning room. His big paw remained draped protectively over the well gnawed ham bone. Some things, like true friendship are worth holding on to.

Ham Bone Magic

Bobby pauses momentarily, almost respectfully, as he places both hands on the counter, and leans forward with his head down. As Mr. Pendragon's apprentice he has spent hours mopping floors, scrubbing pots, peeling vegetables...an experience that was not wasted on him. No one had ever given him a chance before Mr. Pendragon came into his life. Victor was a hard task-master, one had to earn the right to apprentice in his book. Bobby Twofeathers wouldn't give up, he would show up everyday at Pendragons door asking if he could help in some small way. To have a passion to learn about cooking is more than just wanting to cook, it's about loving those you feed, that's where the real magic is.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, bobby reaches for the large cut crystal salad bowl, and the fresh herb dressing.
"What weighs heavy on you Bobby?" Victor's hand rest lightly on Bobby's shoulder. "When you do your best you're really in competition with yourself you know. We're here not to judge, or criticize your cooking skills Bobby, but to enjoy and share each others friendship. Food is a good way to do just that. Soon you will understand that the best cooks keep trying to please themselves first. Now into the dinning room with you and let me introduce you to Captain Siskiyu. That man will eat almost anything when he's hungry. By the way, isn't there a ham bone I was saving for stock in the refrigerator? I'm sure Junior would appreciate something to sink his teeth into."
"That big dogs name is Junior? Bruno, or Cereabus, Killer seems fitting... but Junior?"
A low growl comes from behind Pendragaon's big butt.
"Oh!" says Victor. "We were just talking about you."
A curled lip snarl and a rack of white fangs seemed less frightening than the Irish Wolfhounds big eyes that stared directly at Bobby.
"Don't you be drooling on my kitchen floor Junior, or I'll have Gertrude turn you into a Pink Poodle."
Throwing the ham bone out the back door, the Wolfhound was not far behind.. bounding out into the yard as if he were a happy pup.
"He might be big and scary looking my dear man, however, from the stories I've heard, he has saved Captain Siskiyu's life on many occasion."

The Magic Cook Book/part two

Jeff Fruitnick and Shay Patrick sat themselves on tall kitchen stools. Sipping their sherry, they began playfully ribbing Bobby Twofeathers as he stirred the simmering content of a copper sauce pan with a wooden spoon. With his starched white apron showing his fastidiousness, and his chiefs hat worn low and to one side Louisiana style, Bobby certainly looked the part of a man that could cook..
"Go ahead and laugh." he said with a pouting grin. "You can still be my friends when I'm a rich and famous Chief."
"What's money have to do with it Bobby?" Shay ask.
"What's money have do do with it? Why everything. Jeff has all those leisure suits, and you Shay Patrick are hung-up on bow ties, and I have a dream. Is it wrong to want to be somebody?"
A high pitched voice answered. "You already are somebody Bobby, a very special somebody, my friend, we love you." Gertrude Perlskin stood with her arms crossed, her shoulder lightly leaning against the the kitchen's archway entrance. Her wool tweed jacket, white silk blouse, and grey flannel slacks had seen better days, and yet she wore them as if she had just stepped off a plane from London on a boutique shopping spree. Her ironwood fox-head umbrella rested in Pengragon's Ohio Roseville umbrella stand in the foyer.
Gertrude Perlskin stood half the height of Bobby Twofeathers. She had to bend her neck back to an uncomfortable position to look him in the face. Bobby took several sideways steps from the stove, bent low to kiss her on the cheek.
"Thanks Gertrude." he said, then stepped back to the counter to glance over the notes Pendragon had written out concerning the various recipes for that nights dinner. Bobby vowed he would do his very best. Attention to detail was his forte...he loved to cook for his friends. After all, food prepared with love is a joy in life, pure magic as Pendragon would say.
"As always Bobby, whatever you're cooking smells wonderful. What are we having for dinner tonight?"
"Jeff, you're the man with a keen nose, can you guess?" Victors pearly smile and Bobby's toothy grin turned to Jeffery. Jeffery closed his eyes for a moment to answer.
"Roast Chicken with rosemary and thyme... caramelized potatoes, turnips, and carrots."
"Yes!" said Victor proudly, as he poured Jeff another sherry. Shay Patrick adjusted his bow tie as if he had known all along Jeff would know the answer.
"Victor, where is this mystery man you have invited to dinner?" Gertrude's bird like voice seemed to have a hint of impatiences in her question... just as the doorbell ring.
"Please, all of you into the dinning room." Bobby ladled the Créme au Potiron soup into a large tureen, and pulled a tray of golden brown croutons from the broiler oven. Pendragon's velvet smooth pumpkin purée with fresh ground white pepper is called comfort food. When cold winter rains pelted on the many window panes that looked out over the stormy moors of Lockmab, it is always a warm and cosy time for Mr. P's Créme au Potiron.
"Oh My!" said Gurtrude. She could see into the foyer area from where she stood as they all gathered around the dinning room table. She could see a big hulk of a man handing a wet oiled leather slicker, and a...'what were they called in the American West?' a tin gallon hat to Pendragon. The big man was not alone. By his side was the biggest dog Gurtrude Perlskin had ever seen.
Both Jeff and Shay sucked in air as if it might be their last breath, as they looked over their shoulders toward the front door. Coming from the kitchen, Bobby too looked towards the door just as he placed the hot soup tureen on the table. From the look on his face, and his shaking hands as he pulled away from the table, it was a good thing he hadn't looked a moment sooner, or they would have all been wearing Pumpkin soup for dinner. Without saying a word, Bobby did a quick about-face and hurried back into the kitchen.

Where Do We Go From Here?

A Place To Steep

If I had a postage stamp piece of land of my own, I would build something weird to live in, a place to steep. At this time in my life, I live in a rented house by the Kettle River, and my closet is full of shoes.

The Smell of Spring

After feeding my shadow by writing some weird sf stories, I'm looking forward to getting outside for some fresh air. The grass in the yard and meadow has grown a foot higher in the past couple of days. Spring has so many shades of green. The sheep across the road seem to be enjoying the new grass.







In her victory garden,
The grass grows all around.
She plants, you digs,
She waves her twig.
Sweet Anna Marie Brown .

The Bizarre Is Open

"Penelope! Fasten your fat ass seat belt, and hold on to your thinking cap. We're blasting off this primeval hell hole." From the blackness of night, a dense shadow moves slowly across the desert landscape towards the rocket-shaped silver ship.
"What the bloody hell. Look!" Pointing a shaking finger at the yellow view screen, the overlay web-grid flashes several times and blinks out.
"Didn't I tell you to fix that when we first landed? Didn't I?"
"Don't get your spandex in a wad mama. It's not like we don't know how to blast off blind." With a gloating glance at his brassy bimbo, Bruce Boston flips several agamic FDL switches into action.
"Okay Mr. Machismo." she says in his ear, "But just in case you haven't notced, that mordacious slithering thing has just coiled its self around our ships landing gear."
"It's time to Rock and Roll! Pump-up the electromagnetic magneto Baby, outrageous charcoal barbecue is on the menu. We'll show our Chitauri friend out there, his old space bucket still has a rare trick or two up her skirt fins."
Thumping the console twice with the back of his sausage sized knuckles, Bruce Boston watches the viewing screen explode in raw waves of flesh.
"Oh My! That had to have hurt." Penelope Boston adjusts her shoulders back and forth in her overstuffed chair, her zippered space suit showing the full extent of her full-noon cleavage. Looking at the back of her hand, highly polished plum-coloured fingernails reflect Bruce's toothy grin.
"Where to Baby Cakes?"
In a whorl of gray smoke, dust, and chard cinders, a silver cylinder lifts up.
"I hear close encounters of fifth dimension are playing in Alpha Draconis."
Against the backdrop of black velvet, the darkness swallowed them.

The Lock of Relegate

My ship I fear lost, I have no device to measure real time on this frightful prison planet. I try to blockout the alien's meslée, a mellifluous communication. Their sonic language can kill. It is similar to an earwig that eats into the brain, leaving only a hollow shell of a skull behind, When the madness of being alone weakens me, I listen in the night to their piped-in lies. It feeds on my brain, killing my strength ever so slowly. Soon the planet's temperature will increase, scorching all life on the surface.
"Good riddens remora." I say.
A nasty Epocolips death they called it. In my cell at the bottom of a deep cave shaft, I spit out a hot stream of salty blood after pulling another festering tooth, and I curse their fat rotting flesh to hell.
The cold slime in this prison grows thick, the stench unbearable. What little air allotted to me is feted. A gelatinous insect creature shimmers at my cell door. Casting a faint glow, it speaks in a high auditory tone.
"We offer you the same deal as we offered to your shipmates; comply and we will release you as we did them."
"Eat my shorts mush face." I suck a fresh clot of blood and spit it through the bars of the cave. The creature hue reddens as it turns away... again leaving me in the dark.
Something scurries over my bear feet. I stomp a shuttered dance to kill it, and wonder if there are more of them waiting to catch me off guard. There have been times when I have awakened to them feasting on my feet.
I have escaped this prison many times only to be recaptured and beaten. They torture me in ways only mankind can think up, yet I am still here.

Getting The Picture

"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that will have a feeling of those things as strong as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceburg is due to only one-eight of it being above water. A good wrier does not need to reveal every detail of a character or action." Ernest Hemingway

In todays fast-paced world Hemingway's "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." seems to fit. Flash fiction is snapshot photo in words, ideas and thoughts, something for the mind to savor, like the marrow of a tasty bone.

I remember my dad baking a pan full of beef bones he had brought home from the slatter house where he worked as a skinner. He told me only the very rich knew how to enjoy crackers spread with bone morrow. At the time I thought he was just trying to make me feel better because that all we had to eat. Many years later, as I was reading a menu while sitting in a La Tee Da restaurant in Paris, I remembered what he had said. He hadn't lie to me, and to this day I'm grateful. My dad(Emmit Author)had the mojo as he would say. A magic way of teaching me, that no matter where you are, no matter how rich or poor, food served with soul is love.

The Locked Door/A Short Story

They're not coming back for us are they?

The Enigmatic Game Book

In a mote the stardust matrix slept,

Formidable springe of memories kept,

Hidden, that now waiting end.

Grey manikin, these last days when

Draconian kiss the innocent mirror.

Awake, precisely, time travels in a aery cage,

And I sing of discernments sorrow,

Thus staccoto from my banding love.

Down, down the flexous energy drain,

A bitter rain of flagging stain sapience.

Yet hope to espy before the coda nix.

They betrayed, now nothing more than carrion?

An amalgamate stage and she a cunning thespian.

For to know the secrets of the light,

The brightest live in the dark.

Time erode a way kilter my navicular in life.

Beings lissom her rebellion,

Oh my ringing pate,

Learned junto's bite cut apart my neonate.

Corsairs! Requite reason is hidebound park.

Apogee bonhomie, is the tinny calix of Chimera.

Proscribe, suspire, now I tire...Goodyear but a name,

Fame fan the keloid flame of dormer laver avatar.

The Open Bottle Message

On high a choir of angels sing,

Goes down the lady and her man.

Dark alleyway led by unseen hand,

Both now wear a wedding ring.

Regal lead fat lamb fathered,

The first born misbegoten lame.

Born of natural way,

Up the rebate demond came.

Sticky sweet the soul of life,

Lost is screw-top, an empty bottle sap.

Many pray from pamphlet pages,

Indebt roll, an indecent assault.

Few believe, blood of rape war wages,

Fuel leaking, cold creeping on stage.

Her last chance, this love redeeming.

Introspection, Eat It, Or Wear It

The Flame Of Seide

There are places I remember, galaxies where energy forces appear to blur the boundaries of the natural known laws of physics. These places overlap what is possible and what is thought to be inherently impossible...regions where thought energy and physical reality come together. From the beginning of the idea of time, these places have been called many names in the ancient language of the little know space travelers that guard them.

"You must protect and care for her as if she was born to you. Teach her in the ways of her Drachon ancestors. She is from two heroic bloodlines that were forbidden to marry. However, as you can see, their love and the passion of attraction were stronger than the bonds of planetary rules." Wrapped in a silk woven blanket of rainbow colours, the baby cooed and gurgled, her wide eyes starring at the scare face man who roughly shoved the bundle into the grasp of Wonew Maet. The stout and heavily armored women stepped back in shock.

"You can't expect to take care of this. Are you out of your ever-loving mind? I don't know anything about babies. I lost an arm in battle. You need two strong arms to take care of a baby." Wonew Maet held up her stump left arm as she cradled the baby in her right.

"You will learn. Noblesse Oblige." said the Captain sternly. A slight smile folded the ugly scar that ran from his temple to his chin as if it were weathered parchment.

"What's done is done, what you cradle in your arm is the hope of our people and yours. All of you will be safe here on Ploutos. The Magistrate Dactyls will be hunting for her, so keep her hidden, keep her safe until she is of the age to fight them."

"Oh! Oh! The little..." with a look of disgust, and turned-up nose, Wonew Maet held the baby at arm length.

The laughter of the Captain echoed through the rocky canyon as he walked to his spaceship, the infamous Coq au vin.

Gag Factor

Diane Arbus a gutsy welder,
With a wild wonder eye.
Photos, see special people,
Camera breaking the rules.
Black and white showings,
Tool of the gypsy trade.
Tickets to see, easy to swallow.
To live by the polished sword...
We all get the point in the end.
Tent pegs hold ropes in the wind,
Finger snaps light study,
Caught in the nick of time.

To Be In Balance

This is a photo I took several years ago, it was taken outside by back door after a rain storm.
I'm learning about copyright rules.
When I started blogging, I learned to click on photos from around the world and save them to my computer so I could use them on my blog. Now I find out that's not lawful if the photos are copyrighted. I have a head full of ideas and questions as to why. I don't have the money, or know now to copyright. Does that mean only rich people can be an artist? People have stolen so much from me, I say, take it, but only if I give it.

I am blessed with many gifts. There are many people in my life who know and love me, and most of all, they trust me. I am a trustworthy person. I sleep very well at night (that's a blessing too). I wouldn't think of stealing somebody's art work and selling it as my own...Hell, I give most of my shit away. I would love to have some of my work published, but as you can see my spelling and grammar isn't up to par. So I'm not as smart as those who make moneyat writing. I don't need lots of money.

I know how to make money. Work! I have been self employed most of my life, and didn't have the time for school learning like most people. I was busy working, yet I love to learn, and have paid a high high price. Being cold and hungry, spit on, lied to, etc. is no fun, but it made me dig deep within myself. I can stand up straight even though I'm gay, look anyone in the eyes and be afraid and also have courage. I would like to say what other people think of me doesn't bother me, but that would be a lie, because I do. It hurts me...somewhere I read, "It takes a river of tears to water the soul."(I wonder if the saying is copyrighted?) As my mother would say, "You can't get blood from a turnip, and they can't cut you up and eat you." I don't know ma, they are sure trying. If she was here she would say, "Bless your little pointed head." and follow that with a kiss and a hug. (Mom, I could use a hug right now. Don't worry daddy, I'm still standing. It took four of then to knock me down, but I got right back up. Now there on the run.":) It's hard to stand in the middle ring, to be in balance, tell the truth to the best of my ability. When you tell the truth to the best of your ability... what more could a loving and kind God ask of me? I'm no saint that's for sure, but I am blessed with my life and what gifts that are mine to do with as I please.

I make mistakes true, but I am not a mistake. I learn from my mistakes. It's a blessing to know when to hold on and when to let go, when to fight, and when to forgive. I will try harder to understand about copyright laws, but what has been given to me, is mine to do with as I see fit. Stepping on people's toes just isn't me, but I'm tired of being stepped on.

Because I was taught as a child to be a giving person, people give me things, most of which I gave away to those who are in need more than myself. My daddy never had very much, because he gave everything away. It's a blessing to be able to give. Stealing is something else. As a friend of mine would say, "Touch my cup, and there will be hell to pay." I'll let my friends in high and low places judge my work.

I think my family has been, is, and will continue to be proud of me. My family may have been poor, but they gave me the best they had to give... heard lessions about life and a whole lot of love. Balance is the key. I stand on strong shoulders and walk a tightrope, my net has always been spirit's loving wings. They hold me high and protect me with their love. :)

In The Sack

Times how many do you hold out your hand?
This shaddow I, and the me of self, asking.
No replay...they die in another world,
There is voiceless dead, where heads count.

Rounding window, wings flap and fold.
Time passes, the old die slowly,
My friends, my love, the memories.
Blood, flesh, bones, weeping bodies sold.

The sound of dirt shifting...in fresh grave.
Real, asleep of death, where worms banket the meal.
In the taste of life, the corporal life half eaten,
"Dark this night of death", crows Black Raven.

Gnarled fingers grasp, jaws nash at thick cuts.
Here nothing go to waist.
Edgar's bitting edge, the horror's rich efficiency plan,
Poe's somber, sober, godforsaken, pecks on busting guts.

Spring Storm

Outside my window deer tromp in the heavy falling snow.
Several dance sideways, a stiff legged bounce and hop.
Young prancers in time with Spring's passion romp.
Waving tail, flag held high, they play in the soft wet flow.

Over the rail fence they leap so easy,
Stamp feet, shaking off a melting cape of white.
My picnic table spread with a heap of apples and corn.
This is April's bounty, the joy of sharing life's horn of plenty.

Freedom's Wings

Strong unbroken wings beat to raw red blood, desire,
With the blessing in freedom's mighty might.
Love life flights to live in peace, this ring true,
Each day fight higher in dreams made anew.

Hold this idea above the tempest, admire,
As wing tips touch the fresh clean air.
Mother Nature calls her mountain Brave Heart's,
Come, make a new world family crew.

Alone In The Night

The streets surrounding the El Capitan Hotel in Merced California are empty. The year is 2098, the month, December.In room 512 a seventeen-year-old girl pecks at a computer keyboard. In the night, strong winds blow sheets of rain on the hotel's fourth floor window. The smell of stale rancid smoke and musty mildew carpet permeate the air. Red neon lights flash through sheer grey curtains.The horizontal slats of dusty venetian blinds are half open.A privy pearl-handled 45 automatic sits next to the computer on a dilapidated oak desk.The girls jaw muscles flex as she grits her teeth and wipes black mascara from pallid cheeks. Her plum coloured spiked hair is only a shade darker than her chewed fingernails.Loud male voices and heavy footfalls are coming down the paint peeled hallway. Bam! Bam! Bam!The heavy metal door rattles on it hinges."Police. Open Up. We just want to ask you a few questions."Looking out the peephole, she sees their cocked guns held low to their sides.One is carrying a short-barreled pump shotgun.Black riot helmets shield their faces.A calico kitten jumps off the bed, and strolls over to the barefoot girl."Trust us. We just want to talk to you." One shot rings out in the darkness... then another.

Captain Björn massive meat hook hands grabbed at empty space where Perry's neck had been a moment before an explosion sent both Captains tumbling down the docking stations hallway. Thick smoke bellowed from the bar area as lights flickered off and on. Knocked to the metal deck by the fierce blast, Perry crawled on his hands and knees several yards to where the hybrid sauropod lay face down. Emergency lights glowed in the darkness. Rolling Björn over wasn't easy, Perry grunted and groaned as he grabbed the big guy's shoulder.

"Now that is a face only a mother could love... Wake up! We gotta get out of this place." Perry screamed.

From what was left of bar lounge, several large cockroach creechers quickly creeped down the hallway toward them. Missing antenna and a leg or two, slowed their lopsided scurry.

Another explosion hurled them passed the now two rolling Captains to splat on the far bulkhead. The smell of fresh bug juice laced heavy in the thick smoke filled air.

Björns eyes fluttered several times before he regained conscious. Staggering to his feet he hissed several superlatives in a language unknown to the civilized populations of most planets. He grabbed Perry by the back of his neck, steering him passed an on coming mob of panicky work crew members Many of the space stations survivors were headed for escape pods.

"Who in their right mind would attack a neutral supply station?" Pierry muttered as the hybrid hairy lizard pushed him through the sliding open hatch of cargo freighter.

"All systems report." Björn growled, adjusting himself in his Captain's chair.

Looking around the ships interior, Pierry questioned his sanity. "This isn't a cargo freighter. This is a ..."

Where's The Airport?

Call me a yellow-belly, and I'll drop a water balloon on yo head.

The Smell of Spring in the Mountains

There is something about the sound of Spring rain on a tin roof.

The warmth of a wood stove as it snaps, crackles, and pops.

The smell of homemade bread, and fresh brewed coffee.

Deer walk safely pass my window.

A pair of eagles circle above the cottonwood trees along the river.

Their high pitched calls a time of thanksgiving.

Winter changes and nest building time is near.

As afternoon light fades to an evening blanket of stars.

Coyotes sing in harmony.

An owl hoots from the tall pine tree.

I cradle my coffee cup, and know what it means to be blessed.