I have no war to fight. No battlefield to guild a lasting hearth. In the end. I have married a Goddess, an Angel with hearth and a beginning. My children wander in wonderlust. The shards of the battlefield. It is loves luck that I have that river edge to run the fight, a fish, and a friend. I, the beginning of the war.

The aristocracy in the night lent a whiff. Brutality, booze and candor. Often the river rocks mend the canyon. We are once kids in water. Symptoms of harsh cigarette cherries. Put to the finger touch. A reminder with aches among timber. These pages...

Two Rainbows, 14 inches of vigor. Recluse flame under stream and in coalition with Caddis. Olive with her Blue Wing cry on the San Joaquin. The Rise of the San Joaquin. Sanctuary to my heart in crumpling foam. I die today. Reborn of water. The drainage a heaven's meadow to my thirst. Fly fishing is to walk with God's. We are equal. The river demands it..

I do not listen when I fish. I don't know why? The why hasn't been eager to my senses. At home on Hilton Creek the water sing through dirt, history, time, hurt. I find an arch of song that has yet to reach an alluding verse. The birds repeat the tradition and verse days over. They revive a mayfly's world. Sung across a world on call.

A woman admired among the shade of her bill. I loved her small white world. Her pant legged history. Her gross yesterday. Her time among youth at university. Yell the sang song. The turkey dinner she missed on our October eve. The shants that halt our haunts. Step in the skids, the mudcat holes we drift. I liked that lady more than I(d) permiss to admit..

Shallow dais my love, Los Angeles.
Swans spit and immigrants cry.
The dirt people waltz to a midnight grime.
I am I am, shallow of thought, drunken on want.
The fog squell, the beast bloats, the beach rots, the street swell.
We have a river, we a have memory, we are delivered...
Los Angeles

I have VERY little forgivenesss for those delivered from addiction or reconciled long term grief. So many buried in a bondage of tears. Death to the dead. Breath to the living. LIFE IS TO BE RAPTURED. Our people, deceased, would gift us a 1000 lives over rather than us live in stale skin. Today(s) papers of the past are lost. Why, when family leave is it a CRUTCH we lean on for decades, rather than a celebration our time with them and our journey ahead. A road is arrowed for one. It will center the havens an wander the wonderous...

I drown the fire tonight
Burnt a hole in my starched Pendleton, 
my stalled soul, my warn will.
Watched the Aztec wanderer of my mind dance the flame
Dreamed of a Ghost Song
Sang the shanty newspaper headlines of the mass
Awoke unharmed and beautiful
Dog barked at a muskrat and we ran for the treeline
Flowered in the spasm of a wand I no longer possess

Civil rights. The thread that tied a country. '65. An old man. A broken shoelace. A jalopy from the 20(s). A haze from the cottonfield(s). Take the skin, take the war(s), take our worn and weary. We are August 11, 1965. We are June 26, 2015. Black warrior, long shadowed. Rainbow wonder, long attacked! One nation under God. One nation under Love. It(s) a heartshake. A dam burst! Among the weak. An American longing. A family. Civil rights. We shall see...

Time kills enthusiasm among the mass an shells the nation with spurious hope!

My Mom taught me how to play.
Tiny pinecones, a bat and the sounds of jetliners every 5 minutes. 
Acacia Street 1980. We worked that swing. 
Like the paint brush on her mind.
She hadn't touched it in years. Maybe this was her reconcilation. 
Dad wasn't there.
He bought a Louisville Slugger and mit on a trip North one time.
Put us in a park and went to work. Summer vacations were different.
A father and son having a catch. Fabric of an American.
Truth be told the game was much more a heart fling. Destroyed by hope.
And now I have my own son.
For all intent and purpose he will never see the joy of our game.
God and the universe special need shine a far more gracious light.
But I still love Baseball.

A good night kick to aging pain. Tribute hearths. Love mystics sprinting. Scotch with salted meat. The low tone of north wind. Atlantic sand between fingers and my 80 proof ice. A good day kiss.

The washer, the bad salsa, the diseased mind, the gal.
St. George looks fierce 17 miles out and wet on arrival.
We showed our hand in the A.M.
Discarded to the stale light beer and old smoke.
The valley 4 hours north saved us....
It was the verse, the spell and his father's breath.
We talked about nothing and women.
Animals wrangled the structures in time.
There drug was Utah.
Ate there days.
Shit there dirt dust and moved.
L.A. was 7 hours on...

I am seized in conflict
Admired in sloth
Love the coward, loathe the meek


Today is sound, seasoned in water
Tomorrow is dead, speckled and slaughtered


I am seized in craze
Adorned in sloth
Love the shanty, loathe the weak


Yesteryear is tame, peppered in solder
History is loan, a blue dawn wanderer

Remembrance


When does a beginning eclipse?
And what is real looms to a sight fraught with a blue and an orange
So vivid that only a forgotten dream cries for remembrance
Can the scene be more than a line through this starlit haven
Catching the hopes of a wise, better sky
One who's range is to the end and clustered among us

Wonder dispersed to every heart and home
Fleeting in childish walk
Imagination run the land
Till the soul bleeds a rhythm
Not lost to light but taken from memory
A thousand pieces of gold
Each has a name reflected in age
The spoil of a death by hours

Carve your initial upon the steel freight
And watch a ray of shine meet a ridge of black hope
Share that symbol, for the county has no name
Define it as dust and weed and thundering
Population: Unknown

The star beams a quiet harmony and a shape evolves
"Spirit of Horsemen"
Whispered on treetops and stretched clouds


Simple.


Darkened lives that resemble longing
Spied when young history lurked and mind was pure
Should we forget or illuminate?
The night may tender a forgiving eye

Wichita


Wings a flame of the one shot draw
Fives and Aces!
Righteous movement liquored on a sign; it's the No. 3
Forged to broken conscience
Stark fiqures destined for compromise
Untrue with a motion that fires their Colt, an connects the wronged in life

The American language is a thing of beauty and art. Thoreau, Crane, Whitman. Vessels to truth in peace. I reconcile nothing these days, hungry days. We sit in shade, shame and shadow, judging all but one. The mirror never gleans as bright as sun does on a plain of descent. The woods, the wartime, the innocent love of both. The American language is a thing of art and beauty.

Should the wicked walk with temptation to all things right wise and left to ponder. Wander we among enemies and friends who garner strength in the image of yesterday's hate. I know nothing of tomorrow's want but wish for the morning's dawn, evening's break. I believe in one heart and one land.

The 'bow leaves a lighthearted man alone in sanctity. Walking a distance between sound verse supply. Supply of joy among memories with whom the sound touches all that it encompass...

Dirty steppe of The Hill.
Wind whip an illusion, you are a wanderer.
Steady claims the thirsty road that lead onward. Back to an aimless hand.
Roll our bloom. Our cold skin of hell. Never cede the casual.
It is a taste stagnated and stained in time.

I treat my lore to fly and force of river. Walk one source; body, family looming; whisky hot, trout in treasure. Elk Hair's with the spouting weeds, Stimulators flock. When sun sets the gleem is ever long, recalled on stones warmed by a hearts glow that is the Father song.
Cheers old men

Deport your rhythm among wind waste out East. Starving arm from gutter our god, love wand of shanty music. A broad softened by Los Angeles, gutted by Iowa. Mice and rat dancing in piss streams of hell while the angel bird kiss her day away. My kind of woman. Awkward in personnel. Shallow 10 steps, beautiful filth. Cap her walk. She's a daisy drunk of 6th St.

Flies follow winter like a highway treble along route 12.
Sun weep the melt and bleeding gut bone.
Rode off of my blistered, purple eyes.
Frostbit by nervous hens and wayfaring field men.
Northern blues that thumbed 1100 miles from Toronto.
Double paned lipstick, hotel guised love stains.
bitch

train

Once I rode a patchwork of trains.
Car to car, bar to bar.
The music of Miles at a distance.
Bourbon ripe with the motion.
Gathering pace in steam and thought.
Careful wonders of the town past.
Needless fear of what ahead.
Strength be the sax and cigar smoke with yesterday....
Loneliness be the sound in strings.
'til the whistle blows my friend.
'til the whistle blows!

pale horse

All hallows one to the far reaches in shame.
An chugs the 20's be-bop.
The lukewarm vibe in a perfumed whore, time echoing time.
Cabins resemble chambers, putrid of tasty stench.
An chugs the old honored hymns.
Fever rumble to a faded glass.
The penny less broke who lash blood loving beauty.

To the day I seam my hell with dirt and fall deep
Damn the ignorant blend that shuffle the desert want and devil way
Sullen flowers with spark
Sour from a mesa cacti
Sultry fire
Lend me lean, I fall forward
Suspicious but seeping in tolerant life
Useless cause fretted to music
JAZZ

On the stone and tear, she ride a thunder strike.
Fine to the touch of bloodline.
One that drop to a thoughtless froth.
Crazy in harmony.
Trick tied to rock and wonder, creeks of song.
Time fill bottle spit dream that drunken the senses and ramble.
Eroding nothing but bile love.
An end a verse short.
Seasoned by death the arrow blue.

He sidestepped insanity but the little feller reeked of it.
Drove him to the left side of mad.
Wrenching shadow killers in a half dream at midday.
A stagnant bladder woke him, the fan gave him license.
It was the wonderful waste of Thursday.
Dogs ripped at a smokescreen.
An the feller did circles like always.
Sister cried wanting warm
Rotating theme song kept the room staged.
An Daddy drank until the chair released him.

Side streets of the 99 highway
Remind me of breasts I have seen but not suckled. Dreams loved. The spare room afforded me in Hermosa. A curious episode, spectacular, sterile, broken ball park peanuts seeping like love drips and tears. More than not I licked my roommates sex hymns. I was grainy hard and they pumped. Saturday was special, Sunday she made hash. It was full of greens and old meat that... dried up. I limped along. The Mexicans worked before the sun spout. I often yelled at the wall. Neither was cause for the wander spin. By the surf report I whacked the world's worry away. Metal caused my 10 hour ache to linger. Sleep was sound until the break. Road troupes of wayfarer sandmen? Surfers are like sally motorbikers, full of gusto, made of fluff. I love them.

Functional as the 3 pane window, a 13th beer. It slay the bitter warmth of the yes and no's. Trumpeting through a swirl of words that often lead nowhere. Upon nothing, stashed. Frolicking into a hellion den. A place wrought in heart peddles, stuck in luminary wonder. Happy lung tales of a youth sold on smoke. Alley can troves. Piss and self inflicted hand jobs. We that have walked those jumbled, gutter trails of 7th Street Long Beach. And lived to tell the tale!

I had three cuts on my hand.
Like the cuts on my ring.
One was for luck.
Hadn't seen her in months but recognized the skunk scent of wet polyester.
One was for hate.
Always rescind our valor and jerk her ides across the feathered.
One was illusion.
The cosmos leaving her as we edge the sands in La Fonda.

Nothing lasts but the heart and swell.
A twitch on the shack, a scent of body son.
Sage runs along the spillage.
Meet in sorrow to the frontline.
Deny soiled hymns.
Deject frenzied words.
Whales are jumping the prairie.