Archive for November, 2013

And Still It Is

Ye gods. Belatedly, I notice, wordpress, informing me, that I have inscribed 1019 posts, to this blog.

That’s since August 2008.  A little over five years. Roughly, then, 200 posts a year.

Ye gods. What’s become of me? What might I otherwise have accomplished, if not pounding my pud here?

Probably, maybe, might: have built a pyramid.

Not that I didn’t: here: try.

But, no matter. What’s done/not-done is done/not-done. Blood flowed in great creeping weeping clots, under the bridge.

Probably—and particularly as humans are so enamored of round numbers—there should have been, here, here on red, a 1000th-post celebration. With party hats, and streamers, and maybe a drunk, pissing in the corner.

But it’s too late, for any of that now.

Instead, I shall inscribe, late, again, the very first post ever entered onto this blog. August 1, 2008. Standing, still, to me, as a perfect expression of the yearning futile yearning futile yearning experience of human beings, on this here planet.

When Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned in the Tower of London, he occupied himself with writing a history of the world. He had finished the first volume and was at work on the second when there was a scuffle between some workmen beneath the window of his cell, and one of the men was killed. In spite of diligent enquiries, and in spite of the fact that he had actually seen the thing happen, Sir Walter was never able to discover what the quarrel was about: whereupon, so it is said—and if the story is not true it certainly ought to be—he burned what he had written and abandoned his project.

—George Orwell

And, in very belated response, to the sole comment posted, to that very first post of mine—”is the world so unrelievedly bleak from your tower?”—the answer is: no.

No. Not at all.

Because, sometimes, I am at that place. By the river. I can hear the boats go by. I can spend the night forever. And the sun pours down like honey. On our lady of the harbor. And she shows me where to look. Amid the garbage and the flowers.

And then: it matters not. That I was broken. Long before the sky would open. That I am forsaken. Almost human. That I sink beneath your wisdom. Like a stone.

For there are heroes in the seaweed. There are children in the mourning. And we’re leaning out for love. And we will lean that way. Forever.

While Suzanne: holds: the mirror.

If We Cared

Itzcoatl Ocampo wanted to kill. So he joined the semper fis.

That’s certainly the place for it. For according to their own death-cult chant, the Marines are serial killers “in the air, on land, and sea.” Monsters who have slaughtered “in every clime and place/where we could take a gun.” Theirserial killers on patrol anthem of utter poisonous filth even ends with the anathema that those who “ever look on Heaven’s scenes/they will find the streets are guarded/by United States Marines.”

But Ocampo was bummed. Because when he got to Iraq, the semper fis made him drive a water truck. He never got an opportunity to go out and bomb and shoot and strafe and slit, like all the other good ol’ boys.

So, when he returned stateside, Ocampo decided to go freelance. As a serial killer. He determined that southern California homeless people would make good targets. For, as he would later explain, such people are a “blight.” And, in killing them, he would be performing a kind of service. Sort of like, back at the semper fi ranch, shooting to shit Iraqis who ventured out after curfew.

As a form of practice, it is said, Ocampo first took a knife to a childhood friend, and the friend’s mother, there in Yorba Linda. Birthplace of Richard Nixon. One of the premier transnational serial killers of our time. Once those two were dead, Ocampo set about stalking homeless men. Ocampo was suspected of serially killing four, before he was caught.

And, once caught, in his various happy yammerings to law-enforcement officials, it became evident that Ocampo was batshit insane. And had been for many years.

Not that the criminal-justice system, in its supreme unwisdom, would be likely to conclude that.

Ocampo’s batshit insanity was certainly stressing his attorneys. One of them, Randall Longwith, began reporting last year that Ocampo “had been behaving erratically and complained that he heard voices. He said Ocampo suffered from tics and headaches.”

“Behaving erratically” is a nice euphemism for killing people.

Then again, if Ocampo had succeeded in serially killing people for the semper fis, he would have been hailed as a hero, showered with medals, and people would have been expected to bow down, genuflect, and kiss his cock and balls, everywhere he went.

Strange world.

On Thanksgiving Day, Ocampo, 25, was found violently ill in his Santa Ana jail cell. He was transported to a local hospital, where he died soon after. It was determined that he had swallowed Ajax. Not a real pleasant way to go.

A spokesmouth for the district attorney’s office, Susan Schroeder, death chambersubsequently revealed her own serious mental impairment, expressing anger that Ocampo had done away with himself, as “it really deprives the victims and the people of California of the ability to put Mr. Ocampo to death on our terms and get justice for the victims of these crimes.”

Look: the guy is dead. It can’t get any worse than that, for him.

But no. This woman is pissed because the state wasn’t allowed “to put Mr. Ocampo to death on our terms.”

Lady: you are one. sick. mother. fucker.

When the state of California put to death Robert Alton Harris, I journeyed out to San Quentin, for a newspaper, to “cover” the people gathered outside the gates. One red-faced, foam-flecked gentleman kept shouting, “kiiiiiiiiill him! Then dig him up, and kiiiiiiill him again!

Maybe Ms. Schroeder could do that. She could take Ocampo’s corpse, haul it into the death chamber, strap it to a gurney, and shoot death-drugs into its veins. Then, for old time’s sake, she could slap the corpse into an electric chair, and give it a nice fry. Next, prop it up against a wall, and let people fire bullets into it. Finally, the Ocampo corpse could be transported outside, and hung by the neck until it is even more dead. It could be left there, hanging from a tree, for people to throw stones at it, until the birds had devoured it. Then, whatever was left, could be set on fire.

Then maybe Ms. Schroeder might conclude there had occurred sufficient “justice” and “closure.”

Meanwhile, another of Ocampo’s attorneys would like to know how the hey his client was able to accumulate enough Ajax to poison himself to death.

“I’m completely baffled as to how this can happen to a guy who is, if not the most high-profile inmate in jail, one of them,” Michael Molfetta said.

“The temptation by people is to say, ‘Who cares?'” he added. “That is a slippery slope right there because he is presumed innocent.”

“There’s no excuse; this should not have happened,” Molfetta said. “How hard is it to keep poison away from him? The answer is, it isn’t at all, if you cared.”

But nobody cared. For of all the people in all the nation that nobody cares for, prisoners are cared for the least. That’s one of the reasons there are so many of them. Prisoners. Because Americans, as a whole, presume that if you disappear into a jail cell, you belong there, and whatever might happen to you there, you deserve. Doesn’t even matter whether, as with Mr. Ocampo, you had not yet been found guilty. Or, as with Mr. Ocampo, you are batshit insane. Because once you go into the cell, you’re gone. You cease to exist. Your presence is no longer discernible on this planet. And so Americans are free to turn and walk away. Because there’s a Black Friday sale. And if you get in line early enough, you can get a 50-inch flat-screen TV. For but $299.

Semper fi.

Black Friday

Pilgrims Progress

F. Scott Fitzgerald saw it. To the bottom of every bottle. Which, early—44—killed him.

No matter. He got it right. Wrote the Great American Novel. The Great Gatsby. Which ends with this:

Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until yesgradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.

And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

The green light, it will never be attained, as Fitzgerald knew, on this continent, by white people. Because they do not belong here. It was a mistake, for them to ever to have come. To this place. Because it is not their place.

The green light, they can bask in it—the white people—when, “boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” they return to from where they came. Where they should, forever, have remained.




the little bird; all that there is

Let Us Prey

what it is

Nothing Is Everything Everything Is Nothing Is

Do Ya





What It Is

seven sistersThere are two kinds of writers: those who speak, and those who talk about something. It may be an exaggeration to say that there are five writers in the world at this hour.

—Kenneth Patchen, The Journal of Albion Moonlight

Stand In The Fire

The wood of the madrone burns with a flame at once
lavender and mossy green, a color you sometimes see in a sari.

Oak burns with a peppery smell.

For a really hot fire, use bark.
You can crack your stove with

All winter long I make wood stews:

Poem to stove to woodpile to stove to
typewriter.     woodpile.     stove.

and can’t stop peeking at it!
can’t stop opening up the door!
can’t stop giggling at it

“Shack Simple”

crazy as Han Shan as
Wittgenstein in his German hut, as
all the others ever were and are

              Ancient Order of the Fire Gigglers

who walked away from it, finally
kicked the habit, finally, of Self, of
man-hooked Man

             (which is not, at last, estrangement)

—Lew Welch, “He Thanks His Woodpile”

City Of Angels

From the beginning, as a Spanish colonial town, Los Angeles was a tough place, whose first building was the jail. After the Mexicans were dispossessed by the Yankees in the 1850s, with a chicanery that is typical of the place, it remained for the next twenty years the worst frontier outpost in the West, with whorehouses, weekend murders, and frequent lynchings of Chinese and Mexicans. The Protestant churches even closed down and abandoned the city to the devil—and the Roman Catholic Church.

—Frank MacShane, The Life of Raymond Chandler

Time for another episode of “Overheard in LA,” in which little conversational gems culled—okay, stolen—from the laist featurette are rendered here for red readers. I so enjoyed the last one I posted, back he is risingthere in September, that I thought I’d put up another.

To refresh: these are Real words, uttered by Real lost angels, which touchingly reveal who they are, and what they are about.

—”Oh my god, I just realized they didn’t play ‘Gangam Style’ at our wedding!”

—”Oh my god, that dog is so cute. You should have it stuffed when it dies.”

—”Oh my god, I just got the best parking spot. I am going to change all my plans for the day.”

—”Why would anyone squeeze juice out of a giant mammal and drink it?”

—”If they can make watermelons seedless, I’m pretty sure they can make dogs that don’t shit.”

—”I don’t need to be drunk to be a stripper.”

—”After a wax, all my follicles are sore.”

—”It looks like the collagen is only in half of my lip!”

—”I spend a lot of time alone, so I change my look a lot so the people I talk to in the mirror always look different.”

—”People in L.A. are terrible drivers. Trust me, I almost hit a bicyclist, like, every day.”

—”Don’t you just hate it when your WiFi doesn’t reach your hot tub?”

—”Yeah, I guess I could just go home and write some songs.”

—”She never worked again after she got a nose job.”

Whole Foods cashier: “Would you like to kill a tree and get a bag or would he is still risingyou like to carry your items out?”

Young woman: “If I pay for coffee on a date, I devalue myself.”

—”You are the first guy I have dated in years that doesn’t have an iPhone. I still feel weird that your messages aren’t blue.”

—”I’m going to outsource my next breakup.”

—”He wasn’t a vegan. He was a Vulcan. It’s a different dietary situation.”

—”They’ve gotten more sexy now: Brussels sprouts.”

—”Spit that gum ball out. It’s not good for you. IT’S NOT SUGAR FREE.”

—”It’s a paleo, gluten-free, probiotic wrap. And it’s farm-to-table!”

—”Maybe I’m, like, just not meant to eat kale.”

—”I wouldn’t say I’m manorexic, but I’m giving up sugars and dinners.”

—”Whatever you do, Aaron, don’t get blackballed from Bay Cities the way our last intern did.”

—”My brother was re-birthed in a men’s group today. He literally simulated a vaginal water birth in a pool surrounded by men. He really had some breakthroughs. Apparently our mom was stressed during labor.”

—”I swear on my hamster’s life.”

—”I hate Waze. Buncha assholes telling me how to drive. I don’t need to crowd source my self-loathing.”

—”Halloween stresses me out. I can’t tell if people are celebrating early, or just back from their estheticians.”

—”I’m really shocked by the lack of Jesus in California.”

—”Will there be Xanax in heaven?”

March Of The Wooden Soldiers

We now know the genesis of addled actor Clint Eastwood’s “talk to the chair” routine at the 2012 Republican National Convention.

Seems the man was arest in his hotel room, preparing his speech, when some puckish alien-being forcibly piped in over the radio Neil Diamond’s 1971 his faultemu-pop hit “I Am . . . I Said.”

This is the Diamond number that contains the notorious foursome:

i am, i said
to no one there
and no one heard at all
not even the chair

This last line is one of the great clunkers in all of songwriting. People active and practiced in the craft,  to this day they cannot understand why persons and/or sound machines emitting such a travesty are not pelted with tomatoes, squash, eggplant, and other rotting substances.

I mean, yeah, the guy needed a rhyme for “there.” And, in this tune, Diamond is deeply afunk in Bummertude. Because he ain’t being listened to. About the crushing burden of having to live in Los Angeles, rather than New York. In order to earn eleventy-billion dollars in the music business.

So sure, okay, we get it, nobody’s listening to him bleat.

And, among the nobodies, can be counted a chair.

But, like, had the chair ever heard him? When he was moaning about having to earn more money than Midas, out in LA, rather than in New York? Was it normal for the chair to give ear, when he was on about such things? Was this like . . . a magic chair?

Or, since we are talking 1971 here, a drug chair? A chair that, when Mr. Diamond delved into the many fine psychoactive substances of the time, heard and talked and danced and sang and otherwise engaged in all manner of merry wonderful weirdness?

We receive no information about any of this. All we know is that the chair doesn’t hear him.

And this is not surprising. Because a chair—unless it is a drug chair, and/or a quantum physics chair—is not equipped with drug chairaural apparati. Hearing is not what a chair is supposed to be about. The thing is there but to plant your butt on.

No. Sorry to say, what we must here reluctantly conclude, is that Diamond was a lazy-ass mofo. Who just settled on some “chair,” not hearing him, because he was too slothful and/or thickheaded to come up with any other rhyme for “there.”

And it is said that the man spent four months writing that song.

And in all that time the best he could up with was “not even the chair”? The mind: it reels.

Today, while driving, it took me about four minutes to come up with about fourteen alternatives.

For instance, if Diamond had not been suffering from a city-disability, and were singing instead from or about some country place Normal, then various and sundry animals could have been mustered not to hear him. We could have had “not even the bear” or “not even the hare” or “not even the mare.” Who were not hearing the guy.

Or he could have complained “not even Aunt Clare,” which would also have allowed him to go wild with banjos in the break. Or “in all County Klare,” which would have permitted him to pour a thundering wall of bagpipes into the song.

Since Diamond at the time was riding a wave of songs in which he praised unrestrained bibulation—”Cracklin’ Rosie,” “Red, Red Wine,” etc.—he could have referenced his ongoing rednoseness by admitting “and no one heard at all/when I tripped on the stair.”

He could have been all stoic, and defiantly proclaimed: “and I did not care.” He could have gone dada, and pronounced: “so I ate a pear.” Or strayed into Isaac Hayes territory, with “so I porked the au pair.” He could have envisioned the onrushing cult of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and come out as a crossdresser, boasting “so I shaved with Nair.”

And so on.

Anywho. Clint—fast-forward to 2012—is there in his hotel room, when suddenly the extraterrestrials—who, as has previously been documented here on red, owned and controlled the GOoPer portion of the 2012 presidential campaign—bring to him over clint chairthe radio Diamond declaiming about the obdurate chair that will not hear.

And  Clint, he experiences a truly massive brainshower. He will go on stage, with a chair, and pretend it is President Obama. And, like the Diamond chair, the Obama chair, when Clint pours out upon it his complaints, it will just sit there; it will neither hear, nor respond.

This brainshower, it will be remembered, when it was spewed out across the land, was considered a laff riot by that 23% of the American population that occupies what is today the equivalent of Dogpatch.

“Way to put it to the black man, Clint!” the Dogpatchians, they squealed like a pig. “Yeehaw!”

However, those of us who have not married or otherwise had sexual congress with our sisters, and/or other blood relatives, we had quite a different reaction.

Not even the Captain Underpants people, it developed, not even they, could easily stomach the chair scene. Literally, they could not stomach it. Senior Underpants advisor Stuart Stevens, it is said, vomited. While the Neil-inspired Eastwood, he was dying there, on stage, with the chair. Stevens, he wished that, like in the Diamond song, no one would hear Clint. At all. Not even the chair.

It was the astute AvoWoman who first pointed out to me that this speech was not the first time that Eastwood had publicly addressed wood products.

Oh no. For way back in 1969, Eastwood wandered around on screen, “singing,” in the film Paint Your Wagon, “I Talk To The Trees.”

And even back then, the wood gave ol’ Clint the deaf ear.

And it was not only the trees. But every other blessed natural element, as well.

I talk to the trees
But they don’t listen to me
I talk to the stars
But they never hear me
The breeze hasn’t time
To stop and hear what I say
I talk to them all in vain

Be warned. Beyond the furthur, I shall embed Mr. Eastwood. “Singing.” Not only that, I shall also embed, from the same film, Lee Marvin, also “singing.” And this last, some say, is the aural equivalent of the Holocaust.


All Shall Be Well And All Shall Be Well And All Manner Of Thing Shall Be Well

I am a mutant.

I can see, now, where my people, may, quite probably, have been working, unknowingly, over the centuries, to bring me sandyto this place. To make me into a mutant.

But then, my immediate forebears: raising me, their child, they tried their best, but they could not; squash my mutancy.

They could not.

And so, then, I went out into the world.

And so, forty years on, mutant par excellance, I am, tonight, so happy.

Because, there is a woman, who knows what I know.

I don’t care she’s been dead 600 years.

Her name is Julian of Norwich. And she is a witch. And a mystic. And a saint. And a seer. And she saw this:

All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.

This is where, all my life, I have been wanting to be going. This is where, in the past couple years, in all my flailing writing, I have been. With all my “all and all,” and “all and every.” Trying to express. That it’s all okay. That Gaia has given us a pass.

There she is. Julian. All and every, all and everywhere. Six hundred years before. Into the great wide open.

She is sacred; she is secure.

She is The One.

People: settle down. It’s all going to be all okay. Till, so soft and satisfied and secluded and sweet, we all, go, together, into, the great wide open. And—if this happens to help you—we meanwhile never look, once, ever, back.

Code Blue

Already In We

Took We There

Walk Away

Sure. That might seem right.


All I Need Is Everything

Love Story

homeSWM, 58, 5’9″, 250lbs, smoker, drinker, need lady companion, live w/me in my trailer, looks not important, *30-844-**98.

—personals ad, espied in the FreeBeeAuto shopper, just before it was fed into the Fisher

The New Know-Nothings

I had some remarkable students at Yale . . . But as for the students of the colorful dumbnessearly 21st century, one of the surprising things about them was what they didn’t know. They simply didn’t know much about what had happened in the world before their own existence. History, a lot of literature, was just not open to them.

Q: How do they understand America?

I think they took it absolutely for granted in some ways, and let’s say that their attitudes were extremely simplistic. They saw it as behaving dreadfully or behaving with transcendent virtue. And they didn’t seem to be able to figure out that there were these many problems, that there were these fine gradations. I was surprised by their inability to reason closely as to motive.

Robert Stone

Season’s Bleatings

They’ve started in with the Christmas music. Three stores I’m in yesterday, and in every one, some plodding, soul-marauding version of “The Little Drummer Boy.”

Why? Why is that song everywhere? What does it even mean? I can never remember. It is a trauma, and so I’ve blocked it all out. I know there’sthe horror. the horror. a kid. And he has a drum. And he bangs on it. Other than that, it’s all a blur.

It can’t be a Real song of the season. For if it were, there would be some well-known, artful, true-life documentary film about it. Like Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, or Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer. But no. It is just a sound. A plodding, noxious sound. An aural incubus, that attaches itself to the rear of the year, to drive us all mad.

Even as a youth, the drum beast, he soiled my soul. The thing has these hideous refrains: “do you hear what I hear?” “do you know what I know?” Etc. My brother and I, while still wee tykes, in order to Survive, whenever we were set upon by this demon, with his sticks and his skin, would recite “do you smell what I smell?” And then hold our noses, or make some disgusting farting noises with our lips. It was like a charm. To ward off the Horror.

This is still my automatic response, when assaulted by the drumming one. And so, yesterday, while shuffling through the feed store, bearing a bag of crickets, to reenact with the bearded dragon The Wild Bunch, and the kid starts in with his drumming, over the store sound system, I hear myself, audibly mumbling: “do you smell what I smell?”

People looked askance. Some of them moved away. A couple clutched their children.

Fuck ’em. They don’t know what it’s like. Living in this brain.

Subsume The Troops

(wrote this up, originally, in a very short time. after it came to me in a narcoticized meteor and fever. and, i, somehow, got brave. though, at the time, it didn’t seem anything like brave. just Right. and so i rode it. because that’s the way the real ones come. let there be lightflash from the sky. boil your brain. and then you are reborn. riding. the black. next, slim slow slider. until to, finally, tir na nog. and try. then. just to hang on. to continue to ride. so i rode. and i wrote. and i published to stormkos. which: oops: got my ass from that site banned. so banned they even erased the thing from their site. pretty much unprecedented. poor pitiful knuckledraggers. as in the shivering quavering quaking incompetent smoothbrained nudnik no-brain cementslit. “so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” to when, as ever, she did nothing. this time, with the nothing of nasa. then there’s the pale indian. sitting on his lips. behind her. banning me. and all the rest of the all and every blind melon chitlins. bad: boy: me. did not, sufficiently, in this piece, slobberingly, kiss, the cock and balls, of the us military. as apparently commanded—since he personally pronounced this piece “vile,” and eminently ban-worthy—by marky-markos himself. nice little cul-de-sac, he has built over there. in his sterile cerebral onanistic ouroubouros. hoo-rah. pedal, hey, your marky-markos bicycle, to the metal. heigh. ho. nobody home. meat. nor drink. nor money. have i none. though, have i, a little bit, of a little bit, of a merry something. some. for, while it arrived, the piece, in meteor, and fever, and ride; though it was then quickly erased; still, though orginally published in february, it remains the best november veterans day piece i’ve yet inscribed. “right on target,” as mr. zimmerman once put it, “so direct.” uh uh uh uh uh uh uh. caledonia soul music. what it is.)


in this place or in any other place
may there come abundant peace
race, lovingkindness, and compassion
ng life
mple sustenance, and salvation

may there be abundant peace from heaven
and good life
satisfaction, help, comfort, refuge
healing, redemption, forgiveness, atonement
relief, and salvation

—Kaddish, prayer for & from the dead

Chris Kyle killed human beings for money.

On the American taxpayers’ dime, he, for too many years, wandered to and fro in Iraq, killing, from concealment, from ambush, from firehiding, a craven coward, citizens of a country where he had no business being.

Kyle was there because, in Iraq, George II was determined to pursue, and end, an atavistic dynastic family feud, like something out of the 8th Century, roll right over that country, because Saddam Hussein, decreed he, was “the guy who tried to kill my dad.”

Though George II was not, alas, able to mount in the Oval Office Saddam’s head—after he had successfully cut off from life, in the great dynastic family-feud tradition, both Saddam, and his sons—he did take prideful personal strutting possession of Saddam’s metallic phallus, in the form of his revolver. Which, one should suppose, must serve as the next best thing.

And because George II’s Secretary of Defense, Colonel Walter E. Rumsfeld, advised, when the planes flew into the towers on September 11, that Afghanistan should mostly be eschewed, as a retaliatory site, because Iraq presented “better targets.” For all his little war toys. And all his little war boys.

That Kyle “fought” like a craven coward should not be something laid wholly at his own feet. For, as I first expressed here, cowardice today defines the way Americans wage war. A nation of cowardly back-shooters. From their snipers, to their drones.

And, as I said back then, every time an American, wielding sniper to drone, cowardly back-shoots a human being, in that human being’s home region, said American births, in full flower, another dark Jesse James.

“Blood,” knew Aeschylus, some 2500 years ago, “begets blood.”

And so, Saturday, Chris Kyle, the cowardly back-shooter of the US Navy, of a career of cowardly back-shooting in a country land-locked but for a tiny tip, where no Navy-man should ever logically or even sanely go, was himself cowardly back-shot. By a veteran of the United States Marine Corps.

Semper fi.


Aye Sae Dear Tae Me

(More Veterans Day. Because there can never be enough. Until it is over.)

Here, if, from 3:27 on, you hear, and you are all and every spirit in human: then, Veterans Day, it is over; because war, is over; because over, too, is any and all killing; because, finally, Thanatos himself, the heap-big mewling coward, is over.

But a ghost.

Long gone away.

Spring comes to Kirrie, all the world’s in bloom
Winter is forgiven now, fooled by April’s broom
Kirrie, oh Kirrie, you were aye my hame
‘Til Napoleon’s bloody cannon hit their aim

Jeanie, oh Jeanie, I am surely done
Stricken down in battle, at the mooth o’ Boney’s guns
Jeanie, oh Jeanie, aye sae dear tae me
Let me hold you in my mind, afore I dee

For the cold returns in autumn
When the wind rakes the trees
And the summer lies forgotten
In the cold bed of leaves
As winter begins, aye mind Boney
It wasn’t only you
Who was broken on the fields of Waterloo

When I Worked

November 2013