Snake Eyed Dragon

This little dragon gale of ocean arm,
Spirit whispers the fist of fury, pain,
Winds sweep ahead of crying game.
Fighting remains of a Southern cross,
Higher shines in Northern sky, low,
Waves of unseen tears wash ashore.
More die innocent of love in rage,
Back! They cry to the unfurled big wind.
Spin, energy enters the fists of dragon.
Dream ghost fighting it's nature.

Hip Deep In Jurisdiction

Sheriff Wilma Reed had just made her second graceful long looping fly cast. The Kettle River’s calm meandering waters reflects gold coins of light around her bicycle patched hip waders. At 7:30 on a Monday morning when most lawmen would be fighting city traffic to get to the office, Sheriff Reed is busy fighting a big rainbow trout. Her fishing vest pocket carries an Altoids mint tin of beautifully made gray-hackle mayflies, a Christmas present from her eight-year-old granddaughter, Magen.

The radio in her Jeep Cherokee parked on the shoulder of road squawks several times before her cell phone begins ringing. She takes a quick glance at her Swiss Army watch and continues reeling in the trout.

“ Let me guess, a rich coasty woke up this morning to a yard full of open range cows and they want me to rush right out and solve their problem.” She grumbles just as the trout clears water and shakes the hook free.

“Good for you my friend, now I’ve got work to do.” The sweet smell of the cotton wood trees reminds her of fishing with her father along the Feather River in California. Securely tucking her dad’s 1940’s split-bamboo fly pole under her arm, she bends and grabs a handful of fragrant river sage growing out of the damp rocks and gravel before climbing up the bank to the Jeep.

The Cherokee’s dashboard is littered with an array souvenirs’ from a woman who loves nature: a hornet’s nest, several turkey, cider waxwing, and yellow tipped flicker feathers. She lays the sacred river sage next to the hornet’s nest and picks up the radio mike while wiggling out of the hip waders.

At fifty-four, Wilma Reed is still built like a brick shit house. Her Doris Day drake’s tail haircut may show the gray, but no one in their right mind would say she was past her prime.

“What’s up Julie, and it better be good?” Reaching under the driver's seat with her free hand, Wilma feels for a small whisk broom.

"Sheriff, I just received a call from Sandy Berky out at the McMansion at the lake."

"Yeah! Come on Julie, I'm waiting."

"I'm looking for the code card."

"To hell with the code card Julie, just tell me what happened."

"Sandy Berky says he thinks that city dude Carl Edwards has been murdered."

"Okay Julie, find the code card. Did Berky call you on the office line? "

"Yes!"

"Damn! Okay Julie I'm on my way. One more question. Has there been any squawk on the Beritta Boy's channel? " Standing in her stocking feet, the Sheriff tosses her sand covered hip boots on to the passenger side floor mat along with the whisk broom and reaches for her work shoes sitting on the seat.

"Yes! There may be a crowd already there Sheriff."

"Double Damn!" she says , "Okay Julie I'm on my way, eta in less that twenty minutes."

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.