you've got a

Blue eyed soul. And I don't think you will ever let it go.

You are a cymbal crash and a snare drum bang. A roughstock pony and a Sundance all rolled up into a difficult sequence. Your sky is a star-quilt.

You wear your hat at a tilt because you can't get it right and you don't rely on mirrors. You walk with a limp because the world has worn half of you down.

An owl follows you. He's telling you to go home. His night-time song haunts your last days. He's waiting just like you.

He follows you to White Clay, lands on your old Ford that won't start. So you start walking north with the others.

They might make it. You won't.

scare easy

My love's an ocean
You better not cross it
I've been the distance
And I need some rest
Yeah I had somebody once
And damn if I lost her
I've been running
Like a man possessed

I don't scare easy
Don't fall apart
When I'm under the gun
You can break my heart
And I ain't gonna run
I don't scare easy
For no one

Yeah, I am a loser
At the top of my game
I should have known
To keep an eye on you
Now I got a God
It ain't never the same
Yeah, I got a dream
That don't ever come true

I don't scare easy
Don't fall apart
When I'm under the gun
You can break my heart
But I ain't gonna run
I don't scare easy
For no one

Sun going down
On a canyon wall
I got a soul
That ain't never
Been blessed
Yeah and I'm a shadow
At the back of the hall
Yeah, I got a sin
I ain't never confessed

And I don't scare easy
Don't fall apart
When I'm under the gun
You can break my heart
And I ain't gonna run
I don't scare easy
For no one

Tom Petty

i did

Have you ever had something beautiful come into your life when you least expected it? When you were so lost you thought you might go blind? When you were so hot in the blistering desert sun but still feeling cold. The wind blowing dust around like snow.

Then she comes into your life just like magic. You see her and you can't look away. Can't pretend you're lonesome anymore. Her heart takes you to the other side. The side you weren't on before. She makes you feel high and wide. Big as an ocean. As tall as a tree.

I heard that music and felt the pulse. I saw her and everything else looked better, felt better, even in the background. Hell, the background faded from view. I could only see her.

I saddled my horse. Rode out onto the range. Listened to a perfect opera. It was hers. She sang it to me. She broke through the fences I'd put up. Crossed the cattle guard to my heart. Jump started the old truck. Smiled and made the sun rise again.

So if you ever ask me the that question, have you ever had something beautiful come into your life when you least expected it, I'll answer.

I did.

shaken not stirred

I rather be shaken than stirred. Been both. Stirred is too slow and deliberate, shaken is right here, right now. No time to lose. A freefall hurricane. Maybe you catch yourself in time, maybe you don't. You hear the sirens. You get in the ambulance and take the ride down to the infirmary. You're a thunderstorm. An earthquake. Shaken not stirred.
Just a sack of dust, just a bag of bones. A rodeo down the road. It's not where you've been, it's what you understand. Not thinkin', just feelin'. Roll out your bedroll in the back of your truck and roll it up again. Busted flat in a bar in Lame Deer. Goin' the full eight on the rankest bull. Throwing your rope at the right moment. Winning the girl and a little cash money.
Sittin' at a truck stop. Taping the knee and joinin' the rosin on your glove to your rigging. Boy, you better make it count. So heat it up first.
Shaken, not stirred.

dad gum

Dad Gum is keen on Lola Simpendorfer. Lola pushes soda pop at the cafe in Wasta and goes dancing at the Two Bit in Quinn every Saturday night. She paints the barn and puts on her best dress, hose and shoes. High heels. She can dance in them.
Dad Gum came in one night after cutting hay all day and saw Lola sitting alone across the dimly lit saloon and steakhouse on Highway 44. He couldn't look away. He decided to ask her to dance even though he was dressed in dusty overalls and work boots and hadn' t shaved for days.
But Dad Gum was an accomplished Cali, Columbia Salsa Style dancer. Dad Gum preferred the common name Boogaloo and pumped two bucks into the CD jukebox, calling up his favorite, King Bongo. This caught Lola's attention. She herself was an accomplished Salsa Cubana dancer and the styles are complementary.
Dad Gum always keeps a red rose in his truck for just such occasions and went to fetch it. Lola's anticipation grew. Dad hurried, he didn't not want to miss his chance but as Dad went out, Enrique De Santiago went in. With slick black hair, a pencil thin mustachio, red polyester pant-suit and shiny shoes he swept past, reeking of cheap cologne. He glanced derisively at Dad Gum.
Dad Gum grabbed his rose and and hurried back inside, expecting the worst. But it seems Lola had seen Dad looking at her. Watched him fire up the jukebox and decided he was for her and she for him. She nodded at Enrique, indicating she was taken. She gave Dad her best smile and nodded yes. They tore up the place. Truly brilliant Salsa.
And made plans for next Saturday and a life together.
Dad Gum.

antidepressant

I take an antidepressant everyday. It's not a drug, but works just as well or really, a lot better. I simply text my best friend and she texts me back. It always makes me smile, sometimes I giggle. Yep, the old man still has some giggles left in him and she finds them every time. I love her for it. We are peas in a pod. Like goofy kids in school.
When I'm with her time stops. Or rather, it goes too fast. Way too fast. Hours evaporate. When I'm not, everything I do reminds me of her. She is the catcher on my baseball team. Catching all my dreams and pop flys. She is my running back. She scores touchdowns and never fumbles. She smiles at me in a way that melts my heart. I can't take my eyes off of her.
She is my sophisticated date at the best restaurants in town. She always tries to get the check before I can. She charms the waitstaff. She leaves a big tip.
She is my candied apple. My pumpkin pie. My heart.
She is everything to me. She is my best friend. She makes me a better person.
I love my best friend.
I always will.

pepa asalto

Is from Buenos Aires, Argentina. She is beautiful. In spirit and appearance. She is intelligent, sophisticated and charming. She is my friend. I am lucky that she chooses to be my friend also.
In her honor,  I support Argentinian football and I don't call those islands the Falklands, I call them the Isles Malvinas.
I would love to go to Buenos Aires. Meet Pepa,  her husband and her children. I'm sure I would be brought into her home and treated like a long lost friend. A kindred spirit. A world citizen. Like her.
It probably won't happen. But that doesn't matter so much. We are both Americans (there is a north and a south, you know) and we are friends. I will always have a place in my heart for her. I hope she's made room in hers for me.
Vamos Argentina!

let's get lost

Tripped over a dog in a choke-chain collar.
Traded a smoke for a food stamp dollar.
A weekend away from the cavalcade.

I never really ever had a problem because of leaving.
No one's gonna fool around with us, Angel.
Ours is a ballad of big nothing.You can do what you want to whenever you want to.
There's no one to stop you. It doesn't mean a thing.
Big nothing.

Smoking Camels. Picking lemons.
We don't belong here. Let's get lost.

Drink up baby, stay up all night.
Look at the stars.
Keep things we forgot.

Let's get lost.

for peets sake

Peet Terwilliger married Hedder Hoy on the 5th of August in 1999. You can probably guess what the theme for the reception was as both favored Prince at the time. Hedder wore a purple dress and Peet a purple velvet jacket and frilly shirt. Their spotlight slow dance was to Purple Rain and they left in Hedder's Uncle's van dedicated to Prince.

They drove pell mell into Wyoming, with reservations at the Buffalo Bill Super 8 in Cody. They were headed for the Bighorns and then on to Yellowstone. But something happened. The trip was cut short. Prince had left his record company and changed his name to The Artist. Peet was dissappointed, Hedder was intrigued. The Artist was traveling too, hitting swanky bars, playing country tunes at VFW's and Shriner events. He was in Rock River at Bill's Casino and Slots that Tuesday.

This was Hedder's chance. Catch The Artist while he's down, nurture and revive his musical soul. Drop Peet and move on. Right after the bond had been certified in the Lutheran tradition.

Peet could sense the tension. He couldn't keep his mind on the road. He couldn't stop wondering. At mile marker 116, Peet pulled the van over and ripped the neon guitar from the purple carpet wall of the customized van. He tossed the vintage 8 tracks onto the road. He pulled Hedder from the van. And gave her an ultimatum. I'm your Prince, he shouted, big rigs zooming past, smell of diesel and asphalt in the air. I'm will die for 4 u, he screamed, paraphrasing the title of another Prince hit.

Ms. Hedder laughed. A squeaky little erp of a laugh but just enough to set Peet off. Peet swung the neon guitar over her head and into the dry grassland adjacent. Another sqeak. Peet lost it. He stripped off his purple velvet jacket and frilly shirt and bolted into the roadway.

A Sweedish Hanna couldn't stop in time. The length of time to stop an eighteen wheeler is 40% greater than that of an automobile.  Depending on the weight of their load,  whether they are bobtailing,  road conditions,  and other factors.  To be sure,  it takes a much greater time to stop than an automobile… period. Pete met his fate on that lonesome Wyoming highway.

Asked later, Hedder refused to answer any questions and sat silently hurting. 
For Peet's sake. 

country dick

How did I miss his death? I met Country Dick Montana in Vermilion, SD in the vast Lakota Feeding Trough at the University of South Dakota Student Center we called LaChoka. The food was that bad.
Ol' Country passed in 1995 and I missed it. I must've been high.

cheese

Velveeta Linklater grew up in my town. She was genuine. Her toes pointed inward and she'd stand arms akimbo, admonishing us boys in PE class.
Her nose was chiseled to a fine point and when it pointed at you, you feared the worst. On that day when it came to my attention, we were practicing "tumbling". A vague word for cruel and inhumane punishment. Enforced with a relentless zeal by Velveeta, a failed high school gymnast.
We were directed to line up and run, one by one, jumping on a "mini" trampoline, to execute a "forward flip" and land on a mat two inches thick. I was not a natural. I usually landed on my ass. Velveeta had the solution. It seems I was closing my eyes (as most would when facing impending doom), and thus, according to Velveeta, losing my "gravity compass". This seemed sensible if incomprehensible and I was determined to give it a try.
I did. And the fear generated by the world upside down sent me sprawling to the floor, missing the mat entirely. Nonetheless, I gamely got up and limped to the back of the line dreading what was to come next.
But I got lucky. The exercise was suspended. Velveeta stood to the side, a veritable gusher of blood and tears. I said 'jeez, what happened'. My classmate Marli said, 'you went totally out of control and accidentally kicked her in the face, you didn't mean to, but it was really funny'.
I have to admit I laughed a little inside, a little payback for the unreasonable imposition of emotional and physical distress. And I thought, why would I need forward flipping skills in adult life? If I was going to make the circus a career maybe, but even then I'd probably be detailed to sell corn dogs, dill pickles and cotton candy.
Velveeta didn't like me much after that errant flailing kick but, heck, it WAS her idea.

she writes too

Ninjabeth writes well. Very well.
How does it happen, this ability to communicate so much with so few words? To establish a compelling grouping of words that blow up into a simple, fantastic melding of mind and universe? Why can some do this while others fall short?
Heck if I know, but I highly recommend her. Her writing is real. You will love it. I do.

sara

Sara likes Bob Dylan. A lot. So do I. Sara's from Oklahoma. I've never been there. She makes it seem really cool though. It must be. She's there. By way of San Francisco or the east coast, I can't remember which.
Bob just announced the US leg of his tour. One stop was Sturgis, ND. Yeah ND, not SD. Either way I might go. He's worth a road trip. Especially if Sara comes along.

but if you try sometime

You can get what you need. Like if you want a pony, maybe settle for a goat.
Bigfoot always wanted solitude, he got infamy. He wanted a splinter-cat, he got bitten and scratched. He wanted a bathtub, he got a pond. He wanted a friend, he got me. He wanted an iPad, he got an iPod Touch.
I asked him. Are you bitter? He said no. I got what I need.

new post

Sometimes when you ain't really got nothin' new to say, you just hit "new post" and wait for the flow. Sometimes it don't show up on time so you freelance. You make it up.
Maybe you ran out of cigarettes and the tank in your truck is gettin' low. Maybe your cat gives you a look, sayin' what's up Pa. Maybe your CD player broke and your girlfiend noticed. Doesn't want to see you no more. You think about takin' up rodeo again, but you're too old for that business. Gave your riggin' away a long time ago when you couldn't get a PRCA invite. Your rope is loose and your saddle's worn. It hurts a bit. The busted neck in Bell Fourche, collarbone in Payson. Losing your best friend in Layton. Missing the cut in Pueblo. Those good rides in McLaughlin, Sundance and Lame Deer come to nothin'. A few eighties don't make a career.
But a cowboy has a job to do when he gets thrown, when his rope slips, his horse stumbles through the gate. He get's up, finds his hat, dusts it off, smiles and keeps on cowboyin'. Guess I'll do the same. Washte kolas.

closing time

When the clock turned, I was suddenly one year older. Like magic. A whole year of work and perilous danger subsumed by a number. In an instant. It doesn't seem right. It took a whole year to get here. Now that year is history.
Funny. I still have the same friends and a few more new friends. Some re-connections with friends thought to be lost but really just out there wondering what the hell I'd been up to.
Yes. I've become lame. I drive carefully, keep the speed down, let others cut in front and refrain from using my cell phone while driving and at the gas station because the sign says I shouldn't. I eat more dark green vegetables. Wash the dishes by hand. Buy recycled paper products even if they cost more and they always do. I sold my guns and quit hunting and shooting animals except with a camera. I provide fresh water and litter for my cat almost daily. He notices and I think he appreciates it but how would I know. I just figure if I was him, I would want someone like me to do the same. His name is Willie. He likes country music just like I do. He's hoboed from Arizona to Minnesota with me.
And I still like punk rock. I'm still a straight-laced prep frat-boy in appearance and action. I voted then, I vote now. I pay taxes. I'm OK with both. I take a vitamin supplement and drink a lot of water. Usually only fruit if I want a sweet snack. But I still love cookies (I'm eating one now), ice cream and cupcakes. Overall, I'm a happy boy. I guess that could be brain damage from my years of excess. They're behind me. I've become more subtle.
I'm old now, but young at heart and in spirit. I wonder if it's because I took the time to make so many friends. Some go back to first grade, some farther. Some are more recent, but bonds build over time. Some quickly, others more slowly, and require careful consideration. Some I've had to let go as our paths diverged. But, that's part of the enjoyable challenge of it all. Like a warm chocolate chip cookie or your Mom's smile when you did the right thing. Or eating spinach. It grows on you and makes you stronger.
Closing time for me is a long way off. I can't get enough of this. Figure I'll stick around for a bit. So, for all of you friends, the bigger and the better and the in-betweens, thank you for carrying me this far. I won't forget you. Ever.

eating soup off the top of your daddy's head

I hadn't heard this phrase before tonight. The explanation was satisfactory but the image remains. Wouldn't the soup simply drain off? If Dad had a bald spot, wouldn't it be worse? A scald. A third degree burn. And a good pot of soup lost.
Like a pick-up game on the playground. You lose so often until you decide to stop losing. You get taller than your Dad. You scrap it out. And when the day comes when you're taller than him, you eat soup off the top of his head. And sink the winning basket.

could you would you

If you could I know it would be so good. The Magnolias have re-united but when will the Johnson brothers bring Run Westy Run back to life. We all wait patiently. Never missed a show. Usually a packed First Ave main room gig. Sometimes in the Entry for old times sake. Hanging from the rafters. Stocking cap studded with burning incense. You would have had to have been there to get the full picture.
Then there was the Iffy experiment. That was a chick magnet. Saw them at the 400. My cell was in my pocket. It redialed my girlfriend Mara at home. She heard us discuss the merits of various hot babes. Back in the car after, phone still broadcasting, she heard me tell my buddies that she was hotter than any chick there that night. Close call. Turned out well though. Still love my cutie from Grand Forks.

almost

Almost old. Almost. I'm fighting it. But if by chance I do get older, I'll remember all the special people in my life. There are so many.
I spend my days playing a game I call jump, jump, jump climb. I get tied up in it.  Then I hear from a dear friend I haven't heard from in years. Her smile is beautiful and it makes me happy. And the years fall away. Tomorrow, I think I'll play in a sandbox. Ride a swing. Take the neighbor kids for ice-cream. There's more than one way to jump, jump, jump, climb.

garrett bryan holly bryan

Garret Bryan Holly Bryan was poorly named. As a result, he suffered horribly at the hands of the grade school bullies and the assembled crowd. Chased, caught, wrestled to the ground for an Indian haircut, the turkey-peck or the dreaded "snake-bite", he'd take his punishment and shuffle off. Just a little tore up.
But then Garret Bryan Holly Bryan met Marli Feller Feller Marli. The prettiest girl in third grade. He carried her books home after school. He held her hand.
The bullies wouldn't stand for this behavior and so upped the ante on Garret Bryan Holly Bryan. But he remained true to Marli Feller Feller Marli. Sixteen years later, he married her. She kept her maiden name, so now she's Mrs. Garret Bryan Holly Bryan Marli Feller Feller Marli. Can't wait til they have kids!

the brown acid

When I was little, I spent some time on my Uncle's dairy farm in western South Dakota. My brother was working as a farmhand for him that summer and my Uncle and Aunt were such nice people that it was a very popular place to be. Cousins and neighbor kids scrambled over fences and chased the chickens, avoiding the evil flock of geese. My Uncle grew apples, cherries and plums. My Aunt tended a massive garden of tomatoes, cucumbers and corn.
While visiting, I used the second bed in my brother's room. He had a record player and he would play records at night. A favorite was an LP of the Woodstock Festival. I remember the guy over the PA saying, "Do not eat the brown acid." Apparently it was bad acid. It was years before I even knew what he meant or what "acid" was for that matter. I thought, who would eat acid anyway? Wouldn't it hurt or at least burn a little?
Well, yesterday, I think I ate some brown acid. I left some delivery pizza out overnight then put it in the fridge in the morning. When I got home from work, pooped after a long day, I microwaved a slice and headed for bed. Six hours later, it was a jailbreak. The pizza wanted out and it got it's way. More than once. Several times in fact. It fought the Pepto Bismal, and won. It even refused water. Eventually, it escaped entirely. I emerged from a virtual fugue state about 4:00 PM. A day lost to the brown acid. Don't eat it.

skin of my teeth

When you get down to the skin of your teeth you look carefully for the next crack in the sidewalk. You pretend you can see it coming. You don't turn the lights on even when you're in the dark. So you trip, you fall, again.
Get back up. Hope. Cause hope won't weigh you down. Be a dreamer. Dream and sleep. You might fall, but you will wake.

buttehead

Dude. I hope you don't mind but I'm posting this because you write so damn well and I am Impressed. Plus, in reviewing your profile I saw influences ranging from the Tao Te Ching to Thunderheart and Pow Wow Highway. And darn it if you don't hunt and fish too. Bet you're not unfamiliar with an occasional beer on Sunday during football. Party on Buttehead, you rock.

So folks, get your butt over to Buttehead.

http://buttehead.blogspot.com/

The last Buttehead post follows. Awesome.

 

 

That Midlife Thing

I guess this is that time in life. Back when Dad was acting pretty strange after their divorce, I remember asking Grandpa if he went through some sort of midlife crisis, he just said, "Hell, I never had the time!"

I'm thinking it has to do with changing your mindset. When I was younger, it was always a matter of what I was going to do some day, what my potential was, what paths I would take? Now I begin to realize that some potential doors are closing, that I do not and will not possess certain traits I admire, and there is only a finite amount of time to accomplish a seemingly infinite amount of dreams and goals.

I also think that men tend to pine for what they perceive they have missed out on. I think this is why many family men buy the Corvette or run off with the secretary, looking for that adventure they didn't have living the culdesac lifestyle. I think it's why guys like me who have climbed the mountains, jumped out of the planes, ran the wild rivers, begin to miss the family that never materialized. What would it have been like to marry that sweet girl years ago, wake up next to her now, and be sending the kids off to college?

Not that there are serious regrets. I've been a lucky bastard. I've had a chance to realize many a goal, been blessed with a great extended family, a few solid friendships, and have worked at a career that has allowed me to be a positive force in many lives. I wondered what it was going to be like to get to this stage in life. In many ways it probably hasn't completely sunk in, and in many ways I'm just damned fortunate to have made it this far.

bdl

I was in Wisconsin today and learned to my surprise that there is such a thing as a BDL. A Bovine Drivers License. Bovines can legally drive in Wisconsin.
I knew that cats were legally licensed in New York. Hence, Toonces, The Driving Cat popularized on SNL. I did not know about bovines in Wisconsin until one backed into me in the parking lot of the Superamerica and dinged my bumper. She mooed loudly and called in a flock of crows (oops, I meant cops). I still have Arizona plates and an Arizona DL so they brought in the drug dog. Two and one half hours later, I am free to go. Apparently it is legal to have chewing gum in your vehicle in Wisconsin because that's all the dog found of interest.
The bovine, on the other hand, will be buying me a new bumper. It's a small ding and I would have let it go, except for the mooing, which annoyed me as much as the crows. Cows and crows in Wisconsin. A wonderful afternoon.

it all comes together

If you make it a priority, work at it, persist at it; it all comes together. You learn to approach with consideration. You learn to give without expectation. And it all comes together. Suddenly, you become rich in spirit and your soul learns to fly.
This is what it's about. This is why we're here. Simple, isn't it?

pancake rabbit hat

I bought a bunny today. It came with a pancake for a hat. I consider that a bargain. I can have the hat for breakfast and the bunny for lunch. Genius! Thinking of buying a franchise. This is big in Japan.

amboy crater

Cognitive dissonance. Amboy Crater has it. Heck, she's full of it. Up to the gills and down to the fat around her ankles.
Amboy rides in the back of Will Crater's Nissan, even when it's cold, with her Pitbull Terrier, Arlys.
She listens to Maya Arulpragasam, M.I.A., and pines for the forests of northern Sri Lanka. She wants to be a Tamil Tiger. Live off curried shrimp and rice with coconut juice. An occasional mango. Maybe some pine nuts. She doesn't know about the recent genocide. That's what Maya called it.
Amboy wants to get a tiger tattoo. Will won't let her. He got one in Sturgis in 1985 and nearly died from the resulting staph infection. He contracted Hep C at the same time and is slowly dying of cirrhosis. Liver failure. It's a sad, unfortunate situation. Amboy's afraid she'll catch the Hep C. That's why she rides in the back. With Arlys. No tattoo.

happy boy

I was walkin' down the street on a sunny day
hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
Feelin' in my bones that I'll have my way
hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba

Chorus:
Well, I'm a happy boy (happy boy)
Well, I'm a happy boy (happy boy)
Oh, ain't it good when things are goin' your way? Hey hey

My little dog, Spot got hit by a car
hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
Put his guts in a box and put him in a drawer
hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba

(chorus)

I forgot all about it for a month and a half
hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
I looked in the drawer and started to laugh
hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba

beat farmers

laser cat

Laser cat lives in the crotch of a tree in my backyard. He is useful. The power of his lasers illuminate the patio after dark. He can kill an ant from a great distance. It has been rumored that he can even fly. Like a squirrel.
Last night, I caught laser cat rifling through the papers in my briefcase. I know he uses my laptop when I'm not home. I had to get new credit cards. But what he was doing reading the company's collective bargaining agreement with the union of service workers, I cannot determine. Maybe he is a spy. On a double-super-secret mission.

beads from arletta

Arletta Wounded Arrow lives in Wanblee on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. She is the prettiest girl in town and an accomplished dancer. She made a pair of beaded mocasins and gave them to me. The beadwork was on the soles. When I asked her why, she said, "These are for your journey. When your feet no longer touch the ground."
I hope I don't need them soon, but when I do, that's what you'll see as I fly away. Beads from Arlettta.

you

You used to have all the answers. You still do. You just know. You just do. We watch things on VCR's. With you the paving stones on the streets in Rome are on fire. Sharing a bottle of wine on the Spanish Steps we threw two coins into the fountain. One to say we were here, another to say we'll be back.

so we shot ourselves into outerspace

Hitting 94 East towards St. Paul. Gotta visit St. Joe's. Need more skin grafts.
Get in the door. See the surgeon. He suggests a pre-surgery debridement. I think, cool. Cause that means morphine sulfate and percoset. It's how I originally met Bigfoot. After a CAT scan  in Phoenix, I used my hospital-drug-induced imagination to shape-shift. Into a splinter-cat. Right outside of Vancouver, BC. I guess it's raining in Vancouver, but I don't give a fuck. I'm coming home tonight.

In Vancouver,  my favorite writer, already dead, introduced me to Washington Weelford. A Canadian Bigfoot. He gave me a screech owl and a pine cone. We consumed edible roots and fermented chokecherries.

Then me and Washington shot ourselves into outerspace. I'm not sure whether I ever came back.

PS: The writer's name is David Foster Wallace. RIP David.

sack tap

I live in the Sweet Part of the City. I drive the freeway everyday. Sack taps slow me down. One sack tap brings everything to a grinding halt. Then I get to the office. I have reserved parking on P1. The spaces are small. I've been tapped twice. No note. No apology. But I have remote server access to real time digital cameras. When I find you, and I will, prepare for a different kind of sack tapping.

cheeseburger, no bun

that's what I was told at the deli today. initially befuddled, and before i could inquire, i was asked to select a secondary cheeseburger delivery platform bread-wise. my consternation was evidently apparent as a manager was quickly summoned to explain. conventional buns had been sold out, she said. there was a supply glitch. nobody's fault. just a sequence of unfortunate events. 
i requested an accommodation. a discount, so to speak. my request was circumvented. i was presented with a cheeseburger on buttered, grilled sourdough. it looked tasty. it was. with fresh lettuce and tomato. i'll probably order it that way again. not soon. they must be punished for not being more clever.

where does it go

Wonder where it goes. As a cat, my intellect is limited. I lose so many things everyday. My toys, my favorite rug. My heart. I wonder where it goes. It never comes back. No matter how much I wish it would.

how to really leave

1. Leave.
2. Don't look back.
3. Don't go back.
4. Forget.
5. Renew.
6. Repeat.

writer

You see him quite wrong, evidently, and would persuade me that he is a genial creature, full of sweetness and amenities and superior to his talents, but I fear he is harnessed to them. He is too consummate an artist to have a thread of nature left. He daunts me! I have not the key.

amity

Amity Amity Amity Amity Amity Amity Amity caught stars in her arms
Hello hello kitty happy in in New York City Amity walking like a lucky charm
I'm a neon sign and I stay open all the time
So let's go, go go go

Amity Amity god don't make no junk but it's plain to see he still made me
He told me so
I'm good to go
I'm ready to go

'Cos you laugh and talk, and 'cos you make my world rock
I'm so, so so so
Amity Amity Amity Amity Amity Amity Amity good to go

je ne sais pas

I don't know. Maybe her or better yet her. One's there, the other's here. Seems obvious doesn't it. It ain't. Not to me. Long distance, I have the friend of a lifetime. Up close, I have new uncertainty, intrigue. Both are challenging. Both require attention and thought.  Maybe it's just a kissaway trail.

charlotte zoolander

Los Angeles, CA. My friend Steph's daughter, Charlotte Zoolander. She is so fashionable, she has so much style and class. Must have got it from her mother.

almost gone john

John is a painter by trade and lives in the basement of the house I am renting. He's a morose son of a bitch. Tall, thin and laconic. He mopes around, lamenting his lack of work, but he don't seem to try too hard to get any. Instead, he sits in the dark, "just thinkin' about things". That's what he told me. I figure him for an imminent suicide. Figure each time I go downstairs to the laundry room, I might find him hanging from the floor joists.
I ain't seen him around lately. Neither hide nor hair. Maybe he's on the lam. Maybe he's just gone or almost gone. Later John.

dick peterdick

Dick Peterdick was a roper, bulldogger and bareback bronc rider hailin' out of Kyle, SD on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. He was also a meth cook and quick draw specialist. Some say he was a shape-shifter. It's too soon to tell. Dick's legacy ain't foretold and Dick ain't nowhere to be found.
Some say he became a three-legged dog. Others say  he's a magpie. He was last seen in Hays, Kansas south of the rails down by the cottonwoods along the creek. Everyone knows he keeps his guns clean and his powder dry and sells methamphetamine to the suburban crowd in Kansas City. The toothless, Mountain Dew fueled dumpster divers. Dick's crank wasn't much better than cheap trucker speed, cut with strychnine to bring on a fever.
Dick rode the roughstock series. Couldn't afford the PRCA events. Slept in a Dave Ellis cowboy bedroll in the back of his '96 F-150.
No topper. If it rained, he moved under the truck.
You can only live like this for so long. One day, the chills build and the drugs kill the liver. Dick Peterdick saw it coming. But, by the time it passed, Dick was down. Broken heart, broken spirit. Dick died.

cleveland onionpockets

Cleveland Onionpockets lives in Morongo Valley, California just north of Palm Springs. His yard ain't got no grass. His home is a hollow metal cylinder laid on it's side. He don't got  windows or heat or air. It smells pretty bad in there what with his staph infection and all.
Cleveland raises spiders. Big spiders. He skins them, tans the hides and makes fur jackets for Barbi Dolls. He sells these in Quartzite across the border in Arizona at the flea market. He rides his old Schwinn 3-speed bicycle over there once every three months. After he tops the valley it's an easy ride. Spider skins are light.
The jackets sell for $40 apiece and Cleveland usually sells out whatever he's brought along. Money in pocket and a song in his heart Cleveland tools back down one hill into the valley and up the other into the mountains hosting the grand city of Morongo Valley. He buys a carton of straight Pall Malls and a case of Keystone Light beer. He sits outside his cylinder in a purloined patio chair and roasts a potato over a cardboard fueled fire. The streetlight overhead lights up his piece of the world.
Cleveland used to ride bulls on the southern Cali circuit, pining for the PRCA NFR in Vegas. But, dang if he didn't get thrown hard against the steel of the chute, smashing his elbow and injuring his brain. The doctor said,  Cleveland, your brain is broken. You ain't the same.
He felt the same, except for the elbow, but forgot where he lived and just wandered off, winding up in Morongo. He had followed a spider through the Mojave and was struck by lightening next to a Joshua Tree. He didn't eat and he didn't have any water, but he was never tired, hungry or thirsty. He had no money and had worn through the soles in his shoes. He was taunted by the Trickster,  Iktomi, but he did not yield.
Forty days later, Cleveland emerged from the Mojave and came upon what was to become his home. The cylinder. It was built to divert flood water but was large enough diameter-wise for him to stand up in. He inspected it and gave it a nudge. And another. It groaned and rolled. It kept on rolling, rolling right across Paradise Lane and coming to a stop in a weed-choked vacant lot. His broken brain told him he was home.
He was. And he's still there, raising spiders under the streetlight.

a fond farewell

I see you're leaving me and taking up with the enemy
The cold comfort of the in between
A little less than a human being
A little less than a happy high
A little less than a suicide
The only things that you really tried
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend

pretty (ugly before)

Sunshine been keeping me up for days
There is no nighttime, it's only a passing phase
And I feel pretty, pretty enough for you
I felt so ugly before
I didn't know what to do
Sometimes is all I feel up to now
But it's not worth it to you, 'cos you gotta get high somehow
Is it destruction that you're required to feel?
Like somebody wants you, someone that's more for real?
Sunshine been keeping me up for days
There is no nighttime, only a passing phase
And I'll feel pretty another hour or two
I felt so ugly before
I didn't know what to do
I felt so ugly before
I didn't know what to do
I felt so ugly before
I didn't know what to do
Ugly before

some time

It can take some time. Sometime. Like waiting for the pizza guy or the laundry cycle. Or making a new friend. Adopting a cat. Growing a cactus. Filling a swimming pool. Buying new shoes. Sweeping the patio. Downloading anything.
But if you listen you'll hear the world's energy. Sometime time turned into whenever. Whenever turned into now. Welcome to right now. Where are you?

owl city

I work a lot of late nights. It's three freeway interchanges to get home then up the avenue next to the light rail. Past the 24 hour Burger King on 46th, the 24 hour McDonalds on 42nd, the light rail stops to my left. People dart from there across Hiawatha in front of me like nocturnal rodents. Dodging traffic. Risking it.
It was raining last night so I had the fog lights on and next thing I know I've come to a complete stop, staring at two human beings (presumably not rodentia), wearing garbage bags over their clothing. Staring back at me. Like poor kid Halloween ghosts in plastic sheets.
It seems like time stops, I hear a screech of tires, look left and watch an Escalade get smacked by the train. It bursts into flames. I look back at the road in front of me and the garbage-bag people have become owls. They fly away. Sometimes I can't sleep for days in Owl City.

emerson on friendship

1. We have a great deal more kindness than is ever spoken. Barring all the selfishness that chills like east winds the world, the whole human family is bathed with an element of love like a fine ether. How many persons we meet in houses, whom we scarcely speak to, whom yet we honor, and who honor us! How many we see in the street, or sit with in church, whom, though silently, we warmly rejoice to be with! Read the language of these wandering eyebeams. The heart knoweth.
2. The effect of the indulgence of this human affection is a certain cordial exhilaration. In poetry, and in common speech, the emotions of benevolence and complacency which are felt toward others, are likened to the material effects of fire; so swift, or much more swift, more active, more cheering are these fine inward irradiations. From the highest degree of passionate love, to the lowest degree of good will, they make the sweetness of life.

the lightkeeper

A night without ships. Foghorns called into walled cloud, and you still alive, drawn to the light as if it were a fire kept by monks, darkness once crusted with stars, but now death-dark as you sail inward.Through wild gorse and sea wrack, through heather and torn wool
you ran, pulling me by the hand, so I might see this for once in my life:
the spin and spin of light, the whirring of it, light in search of the lost,
there since the era of fire, era of candles and hollow-wick lamps,
whale oil and solid wick, colza and lard, kerosene and carbide,
the signal fires lighted on this perilous coast in the Tower of Hook.
You say to me stay awake, be like the lensmaker who died with his
lungs full of glass, be the yew in blossom when bees swarm, be
their amber cathedral and even the ghosts of Cistercians will be kind to you.
In a certain light as after rain, in pearled clouds or the water beyond,
seen or sensed water, sea or lake, you would stop still and gaze out
for a long time. Also when fireflies opened and closed in the pines,
and a star appeared, our only heaven. You taught me to live like this.
That after death it would be as it was before we were born. Nothing
to be afraid. Nothing but happiness as unbearable as the dread
from which it comes. Go toward the light always, be without ships.

by Carolyn Forché, a fantastic writer of poetry, to be published May 3, 2010.

split myself

the man laid his hat on the table
hung his coat up on the wall
sat down to dinner
said as soon as I am able
I'll say something nice to you all
then he took a deck from his pocket
spread em so I saw em all
then he turned his back to me
shuffled em and drew me
the card that said I never would fall
oh mary lou won't you tell me what to do
I got a dollar on the corner
and a lazer in my shoe
if I don't get an answer
gonna split myself in two
he spun till a ton was glistening
turned to me and gave me a smile
he said I'm leaving now
but I want what you owe me
I'll be back in a little while
that was the last time I saw him
hope I never see him again
I know it sounds funny
but I owe him some money
and I really don't want him for a friend
oh mary lou won't you tell me what to do
I got a dollar on the corner
and a lazer in my shoe
if I don't get an answer
gonna split myself in two

thanks to kirk kirkwood, tempe AZ's finest

air hockey tournament

tomorrow! at the sons of norway norwegian center for norgies. three pool-table sized air hockey tables. no beer, but cabbage and ham shanks are available for a nominal donation to the norway norwegion sisters of the norwegians. the dreaded triple N society or NNsN in popular norwegion lingo.
anyway: starts at 7, round robin single elimination, personal paddles only after inspection (you dirty finnish bastards!). cabbage at 6:30, games at 7. do not even try to bring beer. it's a norwegion event, bring vodka dumbass. and your english pop mixtape.

resident dave

MSP3.
Resident Dave is moving out at the end of the month with his dog Scoobie. Scoobie is the cooler of the two. Scoobie doesn't corner you and talk utter nonsense like Dave does. And while Scoobie can be an offensive sniffer, he responds to commands. Dave not so much.
But I have found that Dave responds to direction. Like "Hey Dave, sweep the patio and pick up those twigs, we'll build a fire." He'll go right at it. He'll say, "Yeah, yeah, right, I need to do that." I just sit and watch, smiling. Wondering what makes a dude like that tick. If someone said that to me, I'd chuckle and say "for real, dude?" And if dude said "yeah, clean the patio", I'd say "[expletive deleted], and if it isn't too much to ask, bring me a beer, your wife clearly doesn't understand how to." But, that's just me. I can be abrasive but I've always figured folks appreciate a straight-shooter.
For example: I spotted the cross-eyed baby with the birthmark of Florida on it's forehead (they fixed the eye, but last I heard the map covered the entire SE US); I warned my roommate that his new mustache was a little too "Freddie Mercury" (he shaved it off same day); and my favorite, when I told Curt Warner, "yep, you can jump and ride a porcupine but you might regret it." He jumped it anyway. (He regretted it.)

chicken

Someone actually stole chicken off our grill on our front porch in ghetto city. We'd escaped the roaches, and found bigger, scarier, porch-chicken-thieving cockroaches.
Who steals partially-cooked chicken from a grill left unattended because you're in the house focusing on your bong? It was like 10 minutes! Must have been a porch-chicken syndicate. Like a gang. Maybe they worked for KFC. I'd heard about KFC consignment pre-cooked chicken, but it had never been my problem.
Nevertheless, I don't understand this level of insanity. I might enjoy it's sheer bad-craziness, but I don't understand it or condone it. I won't condone it. My time is short. The pig is in the tunnel and I'd like to win my football pool two years in a row. I cannot tolerate partially cooked chicken theft. It is not righteous.
This weekend, I'm thinking of grilling some chicken and sitting unseen in a location where I can unleash the fury of my compound bow, 45 lbs. pull, graphite shafts, expanding broad-head tips. That would sting.

roaches

MPLS.1
Gotta get these stories down before pre-senile dementia hits and I won't be able to tell whether they're  true or not. So this is number one (MPLS.1).

July 1990. There are cockroaches here. A lot of them. You have to keep the Rice Krispie's in the fridge. Some get in there even. They skitter across the floor with an intuitive sense of obvious impunity. They are too fast to kill. You stop trying. You decide to work with them. Sharing space with respect.

So you turn on the kitchen light by reaching around the corner. It gives them time to run for cover. In return, they stay off the furniture and don't crawl on your face in the early morning hours. It's cockroach detente. A cold-war cockroach standoff.

And then you get a good job and move out. I'm sure the cockroaches throw a party and toast their victory. "Yeah, we win again ... puny humans ... yeah, pour me a bit of that rancid milk. Aaaahhh! The cockroach life."

I really think they do that, but I don't know, I moved out of their neighborhood and into a house in the ghetto. The cockroaches there were all meth-heads. They mostly stole from the ants. Solving two problems at once. I think I must have carried some cockroach cred - word on the street sort of stuff. "Dude is cool." In cockroach street terms.

So, I guess the moral of the story is that if you have to move to the city and stay one step above cardboard-hobo-camping down by the river. Befriend the cockroaches first. They will pave your way into big city survival.

can't fight

I was downtown last night and I think I met a ghost. Seether. She wouldn't walk with me in a straight way, she wouldn't offer me her smoke. I got all dressed up for this only to get shot down. Seether.
I remember her from Glastonbury. 1995.  Flat chested hardcore. 
I try but I can't fight the seether.
Seether.

new shoes

get some. your feet are weird.

harold and margo

harold and margo. margo and harold.
met at the soda fountain in buffalo, south dakota. 1983.
she'd heard about harold's pawnshop and what went down there.
harold and margo don't feel no pain.
cocaine, methamphetamine and loaded in the
middle of nowhere and never coming back.

box of spiders

Gran Gran keeps a box of spiders.
She says they're on me when I sleep.
Waiting in the out-house for me.
underneath the seat.
My great-grandmothers bout ninety-seven
and she is sure when she gets to heaven,
old St. Peter's gonna throw his arms around her and say
'I've waited so long for us to meet'.
She put the General in a box
and buried him behind the Stoney Point Church of Christ,
when I was three.
(and she says) "When the lord comes to take me,
I'll die with a smile on, cause He's taking all my pains and fears."
She said The Generals last words were
"It's hotter than hell in here".
Gran Gran keeps a box of spiders,
or so she told me as a child,
and I would hold it in for hours.
Too mean to die. Too mean to die. Too mean.

thinkin'

i been thinkin'.
thinkin' about faulkner and alabama.
bottle trees. ghosts in the cotton fields.
i been thinkin"
thinkin' about boiled choctaw cornmeal
blood sausage and yellow rice
cobbler
a place I want to be
in alabama at uncle leon's just east across the bay from Mobile
i can help him move that tree, eat some bay shrimp, okra. johnnycake.
fight the bloody British and whatnot
yell at it

for tammy

Tammy,
I am so sorry for your loss. Perry was a good man and a good friend. I lost him too. I'll miss giving him shit over the phone. I'll miss his Blantons on ice with a lemon twist. I'll miss his deadpan, ornery-ass humor most of all. He was a character and he had a big impact on me.
When we spoke you asked if I had pictures taken of the hunting trip he, his dad and brother and I grouped up for in South Dakota. I do. He sent all of them to me. Someday soon we'll have to go through them and I can tell you what was happening. The guide was good, birds plentiful and the banter between father and sons was extremely entertaining. Pete couldn't believe they didn't have a Starbucks in Gregory, SD. The coffee sucked, etc. HA!
Tammy, I still remember the trip well and as Perry once said to me, it was one of the best times of our lives. Brother Steve notwithstanding!
Take care and I'll call again soon.
Me

word

 A definition of discretion. Take heed Pinhead Filson, I know what you've been up to.

• S: (n) discretion (freedom to act or judge on one's own)
• S: (n) discretion, discreetness, circumspection, prudence (knowing how to avoid embarrassment or distress) "the servants showed great tact and discretion"
• S: (n) delicacy, discretion (refined taste; tact)
• S: (n) free will, discretion (the power of making free choices unconstrained by external agencies)
• S: (n) discretion, discernment (the trait of judging wisely and objectively) "a man of discernment"

drums and dinner

Drum concert and spaghetti dinner from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. Sunday, March 28, at the National Guard Armory on Range Raod. There will also be an auction. Free will donation with proceeds going to Relay for Life Bring a canned food item. Food donations will go to the Hochoka Healing Center serving the Pine Ridge Reservation.

 

Sunday, 28 March, 2010

05:00 PM - 07:00 PM

Cost: Free will offering

Location: 

National Guard Armory

Rapid City, SD

 

fond farewell

Elliot Smith, RIP

The Litebrite's now black and white
'Cos you took apart a picture that wasn't right
Pitch burning on a shining sheet
The only maker that you want to meet
A dying man in a living room
Whose shadow paces the floor
Who'll take you out in the open door
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
A fond farewell to a friend
He said really I just want to dance
Good and evil match perfect, it's a great romance
And I can deal with some psychic pain
If it'll slow down my higher brain
Veins full of disappearing ink
Vomiting in your kitchen sink
Disconnecting from the missing link
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
I'ts just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
A fond farewell to a friend
I see you're leaving me
And taking up with the enemy
The cold comfort of the in-between
A little less than a human being
A little less than a happy high
A little less than a suicide
The only things that you really tried
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
A fond farewell to a friend
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend

proud willie

I am proud of my cat, Wilford Peter (Willie) Nelson. He has always been a successful cat with a serious competitive spirit, once beating me at HORSE out behind the garage with a spinning, back-flip dunk. Next time we'll youtube!
Still, I never thought he would achieve on this level. Willie is going into outer-space. He has been nominated to lead the first mission to the planet Mars. While Mars is still just a planet in our meager solar system, Willie plans on much bigger, extra-universal work later. He's that good! He has been training in California and, more recently, Florida. I can't say much more for national security reasons or something, but Willie lets on a bit. He talks in trapezoids and trajectories. Logistical aim. Looping algorithms. Terabyte processing in real time via over the horizon satellite technology. All conveyed intelligibly via a staccato system of meows. Like telegraph music on a blues foot-board in Duluth in December.
I am proud of Wilford Nelson, a mere, domestic indoor/outdoor cat. He can't produce offspring after the "surgery" but still, he is serving our nation honorably, as many cats likewise do. And when he's at home, he licks himself clean, enjoys policing the premises for bugs and errant twist ties and, most importantly, he only poops in his box. Bravo Wilford! Well done!

translation program

I can't speak Spanish much. And George can't speak English any more than that. But George works for me. We need to be able to communicate. So I asked him to write a post-it note saying what he needed to say to me in Spanish. I took his yellow post-it and typed the words into an online web translation gig/app. Result positive. George was impressed. Then I typed in English what I needed to say to him. It worked. We realized we weren't a million miles apart. I can't complete my daily paperwork without George's input. I sign his paycheck. Obvious. Classic co-dependence.
In the meantime, we talk a bit and learn a little of each others language. Mostly though, that's a matter of George working with me on correct pronunciation. I have a hard time doing well at it, but I'm trying.

alex chilton died

Singer and guitarist Alex Chilton, known for his influential work with bands the Box Tops and Big Star, died Wednesday. He was 59. He died at a hospital in New Orleans after experiencing what appeared to be heart problems. As the teenage singer for the pop-soul outfit the Box Tops, Chilton topped the charts with the band's song "The Letter" in 1967.

His work with Big Star had less mainstream success but made him a cult hero to other musicians, as evidenced by the title of the 1987 Replacements song, "Alex Chilton." Big Star's three 1970s LPs all earned spots on Rolling Stone magazine's list of 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.
Chilton said in a 1987 interview with The Associated Press that he didn't mind flying under the radar. "What would be ideal would be to make a ton of money and have nobody know about you," he said. "Fame has a lot of baggage to carry around. I wouldn't want to be like Bruce Springsteen. I don't need that much money and wouldn't want to have 20 bodyguards following me. If I did become really popular, the critics probably wouldn't like me all that much," he said. "They like to root for the underdog."
Chilton had been scheduled to perform with Big Star on Saturday at the South by Southwest music festival in Austin, Texas. "Alex Chilton always messed with your head, charming and amazing you while doing so. His gift for melody was second to none, yet he frequently seemed in disdain of that gift," the festival's creative director, Brent Gulke, said in an e-mail.

Elliot Smith performs a cover of Big Star's "Thirteen"

Stringbean Svenson and his Fiddlestring Band

There will be a Public Dance on Saturday March 13 with Stringbean Svenson and his Fiddlestring Band playing dance music from 7:30 until 10:30 p.m. The dance will be at the Viking Hall at 2900 Canyon Lake Drive Admission price will be $5.00 per person and everyone is welcome to attend.

ode to boudin

You are the chewing gum
of God. You are the reason
I know that skin
is only that, holds
more than it meets.
The heart of you is something
I don’t quite get
but don’t want to. Even
a fool like me can see
your broken
beauty, the way
out in this world where most
things disappear, driven
into ground, you are ground
already, & like rice
you rise. Drunken deacon,
sausage’s half-brother,
jambalaya’s baby mama,
you bring me back
to the beginning, to where things live
again. Homemade saviour,
you fed me the day
my father sat under flowers
white as the gloves of pallbearers
tossed on his bier.
Soon, hands will lower him
into ground richer
than even you.
For now, root of all
remembrance, your thick chain
sets me spinning, thinking
of how, like the small,
perfect, possible, silent soul
you spill out
like music, my daddy
dead, or grief,
or both—afterward his sisters
my aunts dancing
in the yard to a car radio
tuned to zydeco
beneath the pecan trees.

willard delka

Willard Delka stood on his chair in Third Grade and slugged Mrs. Horton in the stomach. I saw it happen. Willard was a missile base kid. Brought to western South Dakota by his Pa who was employed in the construction of nuclear missile silos. Itinerant. Unattached. Blamelessly evil. Scorned.
Willard died in the back of a fruit truck on a cold South Dakota hi-way. Knife wound. Stomach. Ironic.

moved in

As of today, I am ensconced in my new Minneapolis digs. It is very cool after a period of wandering aimlessly with only a few anchors; my girl, my sidekick and my truck. These are the three things very dear to me - oh, that and a job (and the truck not so much)! And Ethiopian coffee, Vietnamese food (Pho and Banh Mi Thit Bale). And music (Meat Puppets at the 400, Spoon at First Ave). A broadband connection. Friends. It's all good.
Last year, I fell off the mountain but I'm determined to get back up top. So I'm climbing again. I'm happiest facing challenges. I'm never bored. But I like the view. It's keen!

pinhead filson

Pinhead Filson reads his Meatpaper in the morning while seated on his tiny porcelain throne in his miniature recreation of his own mind's eye while restlessly squeezing every ounce out of the day before. It's come to this then he not so silently reasons, as the discarded carp toss in the turmoil below. "I'll be lost to my own degraded wit, a plumb bob to the wallpaper festering with decay in my tiny wool-bedecked pinhead."
It wasn't always this way for Pinhead Filson. At one time he sailed the roiling, cold waters of San Francisco Bay in a tiny skiff, hunting sharks with a sharpened lance and abalone deep below while holding his breath for minutes at a time. He'd scowl at the oyster pirates and later set-up his fellows for rounds at China Bill's on the wharf chewing seal blubber with pickled egg, all the while tickling the giggling Chinese with horsefeathers and broomsticks. But Pinhead took a turn for the worse and egged on by John Barleycorn,  took up residence in an opium den.
He lost his money, then he lost his mind. He's never been the same. He fled into the mountains pursued on all sides by his imaginary demons while his once swollen brain-case shrunk to the size of a pinhead. He took to wearing tight fitting skull-caps which only exacerbated the problem until his head resembled his name. He looked around for his fellows but none had met the same fate. He was all alone.
Today even, as Pinhead Filson mounts his throne in his tiny water-closet clutching his Meatpaper,  one can hear the wind gusting melodically, calling Pinhead home. He won't get there because it no longer exists.

deer tick

The deer tick lives in a cave in the mountains and can barely sustain himself. He's an ungrateful parasite that enjoys himself only when he's feeding off another. When the tables are turned he's nasty and mean. A stomper and a slammer of doors. An ineffectual thwarter of his perceived tormentor. Sure, he talks a good game. Burps up his food and suggests it is best to be a giver than a receiver. Conveniently forgetting what's been done for him. Debts forgiven. Gifts. Everything.
Thank God they make a pesticide for his type. It's also a good idea to avoid his habitat. It smells there anyway. Of the deceased and soon to be deceased. Just like any dream he ever had. Just like piss down a rope.

three toes

By the light of the full moon, old Cheyenne would saddle his horse and ride out into the Badlands. He'd been riding full moons for years hunting old Three Toes, the crippled wolf that haunted Sage Creek. As the moon rose into the night, old Three Toes would howl and cry. Old Cheyenne would follow the lament into the canyon-like creek bottom among the scattered Cedars and sagebrush. He'd ride over the sand bars and wade the alkali waters that pooled here and there, creating eddies of white clay. His buckskin mare picked its path with care and jerked her head sharply at Three Toes crying.
Last night, the full moon rose and old Cheyenne saddled the mare. He rode out on a dusty buffalo trail and down to the creek. Old Three Toes howled on cue and Cheyenne turned the mare in the direction of the call. The steep embankment was littered with snow and ice and the mare stumbled as she descended. Old Cheyenne, not as spry as he once was, slipped from his saddle and tumbled down the steep bank to the creek below. A broken collarbone jutted from his left shoulder.
Old Three Toes approached silently, surveying the scene. With care, he drug Old Cheyenne from the frigid water and onto the sandy, rocky flat. He chased the mare home and set to howling in Old Cheyenne's yard. There was nobody there to hear. Old Cheyenne died that night, but Three Toes is still out there, howling and crying for his best and oldest friend.