Urban Retreat


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Give me poetry!

A retreat into snow on a cloudy
day, sun the shine of yester-
mornings, regret a post-idea fact
of a Kennedy effort at World Peace.

Give me Poetry!

A reading in the sun, times with
you, my mountains—this could be

A Santa Barbara beach, a Pasadena
moon over hills, the Los Angeles trash
of bad budgets a thing of the short-
term past, as suits decide their
next robbery.

Give me Poetry!

Not in the urban sweat and swing—
I want to retreat to God’s glory,
give words to gratitude in the winter
of now. The song of April in December
singing Christmas Carols way too soon,

the death of hate and hope eternal!

Give me Poetry!

I want to live another day, despite
the night’s salty margarita I should
not have imbibed—

I should have looked “alcohol” up
in the dictionary, studied something
I considered a right to enter!

I should have dreamed another dream,
but maybe God will give me a second chance.

A blast to a second wind, a lost dance—
a far off romance!

Chastity is the wise course of failures
like me.  A handsome waste of sperm,
reaching you as you turn—

The way back home revved up
in the worst inventions of all time,
loud motors, the rotors of choppers
the motorcycle berm, another earth
burn, the fuel of fools

to go faster past our five senses’ need
to sense, there’s no sense in it,
could I get my change back?

My apple pie with fries, a bad combo
of meals taking hours for my
stomach to decide—

should we let Bill live or die?

Coughing at night!

Your choices do come back to
haunt if not chosen right!

Will I have nine hundred years to
live like an Old Testament wise man?

Will I die in the breeze of forgotten

Never, if sober.  God is just, and
takes away pain when you ask the
right questions.  Ask for support
or rest… and receive.

Give me poetry!!

Give it to me today,

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Read it to me not here.  Make me travel
and strive to receive it, LORD—
written in capitals from the mighty
Torah, not as the Lord of love brought
by your rebellious rabbi son.

Make me travel to the mountain.

Surprise me with a dream.

Give me poetry!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.


A Question to “Pro-Life” Governors or Bible Belt States


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-by Carl Stilwell


do we kill people who kill people
to show that killing people
is wrong
and why,
if we kill
people who kill people
to show
that killing people is wrong
do we kill
poor people who kill people
but not
rich people who kill people
and why,
if we kill
people who kill people
to show
that killing people is wrong
are we four times more likely
to kill
people who kill white people
to show
that killing white people is wrong
than we are
people who kill black people
to show
that killing black people is wrong
and why,
if we spend six times more
to kill people who kill people
than we do when we
imprison without parole
people who kill people
and why,
does a country which has more
people who believe in God
and who kills
people who kill people
to show
that killing people is wrong
still has a lot more
people who kill people
than countries who have less
people who believe in God
but imprison people who kill people
to show
that killing people is wrong
and why,
if our country has so many
people who believe in God
and so
glories in the cross on which
Jesus was killed
but that cross was how
Roman people killed people who they
believed had done something wrong
and why,
if killing people
who have done nothing wrong
is wrong
and we kill people who we later discover
did not kill the people
we believed they had killed
and/or kill people
who had not been proven
beyond a reasonable doubt
to have killed the people
we believed they had killed
and we are not
but people
do we kill
people who kill people
to show
that killing people
is wrong?

Edging God Out


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Ego is burning earth, flying above
her in a loud metal can reporting
on traffic conditions—cars burning earth,
flying over her at high speeds making
too much noise.

Ego is wanting a human king to rule
over us, to believe there are “good”
people, an expression admonished
by Jesus when called by the young man;
Only God is good.

The noise of planes is our soundtrack.
Locked in the city by financial uncertainty;
we accept abuse, when there’s no better
option. We edged God out, starting with
the apple tasted.

Forbidden fruit—real or a metaphor,
we were almost fully godly is the story,
until the Devil tempted Eve to be God—
to know things.  And she tasted.  And she
tempted Adam.

And he tasted.  And they knew stuff—including
guilt for transgressing God’s command!
Cain killed Abel next, and look at Samuel
asking for a human king?  Edging God out
started innocently…

We keep burning earth, going fast, making
noise—forget the bible a moment let’s talk
Tao Te Ching!  Zing, the yin and yang of hate
and love, noise and peace—we have a choice,
are powerless, actually.

“You cannot change the world.  It cannot be
done!” was not just true, it was fun—taking
pressure off us, but then we move a mountain
through faith, Wyatt Earp standing up to gangs,
stopping hate.

We stand up and do good things, but
not until we thoroughly meditate! Let
the horse out of the gate—naked let
your spirit find the native Great Spirit once
again, friend!

Stop driving.  Walk.  Breathe.  Use senses
gone to the devil in a propeller plane.  Gone
to Satan in a whirling, horrible helicopter
chasing “bad guys” that are actually just
you and me!

Shhh!  It matters what we do and say—this
our life, between the posts of birth and
the eternal—ideas sputtering in the wind
for us to Grab if gumption yearns more than
the ego burn.

Grab something better than your first move
to run!  To escape—the Jonah’s in the whale
heartbreak!  Listen to God and/or the most
high spirit impossible to reach through traffic
noise and speed.

Stop the rotors.  Get out of the chopper before
it crashes and burns into the hillside of Spring—
purple and orange by the sea impossible to
see, the glory of waves crashing impossible to
hear unless…

Unless we trudge back in history to grab some
provisions like God and prayer to help us
conquer the Ego and Fear.

Men Are Abused from Birth; Any Surprise We Abuse Women?


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Tools of Abuse -- Circumcision

-by Bill Watkins 11/16/2017


It’s tempting to throw stones at all the men being called out for inappropriate sexual behavior toward women, and even young girls.

I wanted to illuminate why that may not be a wise course of action; in fact, a blind judgment of male-perpetrated sexual harassment fails to look at and solve some of the root problems that lead to bad behavior by men.

1. Circumcision – Our First Abuse

We men are born with a cover on our penis.

God, if you use that concept, our “Creator,” Evolution if you want:

put a safety hood on our Johnsons to protect the most sensitive part of our body, the reproductive unit, the great human populator.

Some perverted Jew, or some other ancients thought what a good idea it would be to SNIP THIS COVER OFF OUR COCKS WHEN INFANTS!

What the bloody F?

2. Alcoholism and Lack of Talk – The Second Abuse

We are not honest.  We “protect” children from sex talk, avoid the topic—then expect them to get it from school or TV.

What boys often get from school and TV is porn and “sex as competition,” where groping and “scoring” with females is touted over such a wonderful Jewish biblical tradition as:

Rejoicing with the Wife of Our Youth.

Solomon through Proverbs 5:18 and Malachi 2:15 emphasize the glory of monogamy, loyalty and commitment to the first girl God gives a boy to love.

The first love is blessed and special.  And yet in our American society we SCOFF at first crushes, avoid talks with boys that “love is good,” and show them a poor example by divorcing and philandering around from flower to flower.

Little boys confirm the competition aspect of sex bragged about on the playground, think that scoring chicks is preferable to loving one woman forever.

Alcoholism plays into this, as it is a disease that plagues our abilities to be honest and communicate love.  (Freud)

3. So off you go, Little Billy!

“Enjoy your unprotected, hood-stripped, extra-sensitive cock, go out without advice and with our example of divorce and womanizing, alcoholism—



Not happening.  And no wonder.


The first step to end abuse is to do what we are doing:  out the truth, talk about the problem.

But then:  Throw a stone?

No.  Let us recover together, go back, pick up the pieces, apologize to our wives, re-think drinking flammable liquids that divert us from God’s will—

and teach our children, first by example—that love is precious and sacred, that sex is great with the right partner in the right way.

“Your mother and I love you, Billy, and show that first by loving each other.  Second, we want to be available to your every question or concern.

What? You are in love with Anne in third grade?

Billy, that is so wonderful.  Consider telling her in some way.  Write her a card.  Give her a flower.

We are so proud of you.  And thank God for our instincts to love!”

Sexual Mistakes


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Anna's art1

We are where we are, we cannot
be better than our best in the moment
we act.

Looking back, we wish we did better, have
power only to tell the truth about it
and Apologize.

Many people despise looking back, get
offended at my wanting to do it, but they
are not in A.A.

We have twelve steps, all written with
past tense verbs, showing the spiritual
program used

by the first members of the program.  They
went back and made amends for the past to
make a better



Before there was sex, there was sexual feeling
and attraction.  We stripped the Barbie Doll
down and got aroused.

I looked in a mirror, and marveled at parts
of my body that intrigued me; I thought I was

My first favorite person was Dad.  Mom “divorced”
him, a long-term separation of bodies, but Jesus
spoke truth,

Said “Man cannot separate what God has bound
together.”  Divorced people fail lie detector tests
when they

say they are not married.

Marriage is for life.

Who’s the Wife of Your Youth?

I thought mine was my third grade crush,
Anne Devereux, but she has moved on so where
does that leave me?

Life is cool, Jesus changing water to wine, a
metaphor at least for moving mountains with
faith and hope—

a newborn baby making it all new again, anything
possible under the sun!  God bless the child, the daughter
and the son!

There she was in third grade.  So pretty.  So cute.
And I, I had no clue what to do, no one to help me;
I let a huge moment pass;

I died a bit, then kept dying until I sipped my
first wine, stole into parent liquor cabinets to
douse depression.

“Everybody does it!”  We’re so adult here, getting
drunk and escaping.  Now we’re really disobeying some
commandments and law—

God is watching.  Counts every hair on our heads.

You will wish you were dead.  Better to get up, follow
God instead of the devil no matter the short-term pain.

There is a rainbow after the rain!

No joy without the pain, this is life!!


I was going to talk about sexual mistakes; impossible
without sex.

I was a virgin until 33—seven years short of a
crazy movie comedy.

It really wasn’t funny to me.

A lot of my mistakes, looking back, come from
fear and pride—fear of rejection, and being
too proud to gush for another person, a wife.

So you run and run, oh and then you masturbate—
because no one with authority told you “no.”

No one talked to you at all about deep, intimate or
sexual stuff—adults, like children, lost and not
knowing what to do!


I declare, and in the new light of new revelations
of sexual abuse in America—that Masturbation
could very well be a very bad thing—as the Puritans
would say… Maybe they were right!

Give your will and life to God.

Then honor a Sabbath and your parents.  Kill not,
ah! Then:

Marry, honor and rejoice with the Wife of your
Youth!!  Do not stray or treat her treacherously!!

Consult Solomon and Malachi and see!


Well, where did my fear, pride and masturbation go?

It went where it could, was thirsty without a well,
a desire creeping up, temptation un-resisted—it went
online, it found lonely women who liked it too.

Once, I got an eighteen-year old to engage with
me on Facebook, used a friendship to corner her
into a sex act.

Not illegal, not the worst thing ever, but if I could
go back, I’d rather have kept the friendship, let
something bloom, keep in touch with a beautiful
young woman who had dreams and ambitions like me—
was an artist and a writer like me.

In a moment, I reduced her to a sexual object, and
no longer are we in touch…


I quit “sex” two and half months ago, but mostly
that meant I quit abusing myself to get a sexual high
every or every other day.

No more jacking off.

And now I have female friends.  More contacts and
options.  Intimacy without vulgarity.

I still want sex.  Dream of it!!  Need it!!

But it is under the thumb of my prayers and
higher desire to please God and the Wife of my


I am available to her, unless God gives me some other
convertible water—something to change to non-
alcoholic wine,

A woman to honor, a love to shine.

My Crooked Johnson


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I was born premature.  They stuck
tubes into my lungs, helped me to breathe.

I ran naked all over my third birthday party
to my mom’s chagrin.  She could not stop me.

Dad gave me his last sip of bourbon and water
when I was five.  I started drinking fire with

“friends” at the age of twelve, was blacking out
by the age of thirteen.

I never talked about sex or love.  I drank
alcohol and played sports.  I loved the girl,

but never told her.

I jacked off thinking about her.  So much
with the right hand that my johnson

went crooked to the left by college.


They took the time and effort to snip off
my foreskin, but never told me step by step

what to do with the whole member.

We have celebrity sex abuse scandals gone
wild, “powerful men” wagging their cocks

under lock and key, intimidating witnesses and
victims with threats and displays of temper.

Wrath is God’s, honesty a key to the lock,
but when the stones appear to throw at the sick

my prayer is we don’t throw them, unless you
can claim to be without sin, which I doubt

if you be human.


Crooked is the way out of Eden; Adam and Eve,
their forbidden consumption, Cain killing Abel
and lying about it—Samuel asking for a king
to be like other nations—

putting men in charge of other men, reaping
God’s curse.

We put religion before truth and earth, conquered
native people, littered the ground with metal
and ground up stones to make concrete.

We built temples to ourselves, had slaves
build them, then killed our king in 1963,
lied about it like Cain.


My crooked Johnson is a perfect response
to Eve, Adam, Cain, Samuel, and the CIA.

Alcoholism from an inability to express love,
Freud once said, crushing grapes—letting them
spoil. Eating them to get a buzz and forget God.

My crooked Johnson is exposed to help the next
generation straighten his.

Don’t touch it.  Marry and rejoice with the Wife
of Your Youth, and never let her go—choose one!

We choose One God. Choose that first gal the LORD
gives you, for she is a blessing.  And to do her wrong

a grave sin.  Ask Malachi!

God help us.  The ten commandments are fine, the
native ones good, too.  Each religion has a code,
each culture a set of rules, so study them!

Ancient wisdom inspires Truth.  Truth sets us
free, and for the sexual abuse to end, we must
come out.

Forgive us God.  Help us find the straight path
under You, away from the crooked asphalt of lies

Eve, Adam, Cain and Samuel supplies!

The snip of baby boys’ SKIN on his PENIS without
consent; the sip of Ethyl Alcohol given on laps
and loose bar-b-ques; the lack of sex and love talks,
the neglect of Reason stemming from turning our
back on Creation.

Its Creator.  Waiting for us to return every moment.

Great spirit, the Tao of Life, God above referring
to all we don’t know that brought us and our
cocks here:

Thank you.

And we are sorry when we put ourselves and our
perversions before Nature, love, essence and truth.

Essence and You!

Forbidden Fruit, Samuel’s Curse And the Road Back to Eden


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God is in the wind.  The song forms…


Don’t wake and rise until the wind chimes
night away in the mind, the dreams advising
us on what the conscious cannot report,

ESP guiding the Aborigine from tree to tree,
the desert nothing to the faithful, guiding peace
from the forest, oneness with all.

The Native American rises, beats a chest with
truth, slept on the ground that gave him life.
Sometimes too hot is the eye of heaven—

And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
Shakespeare a friend of words—

Leaving Eden, we found talking to God more
and more remote through prophets, judges,
kings and medicine men!

The best leader taps for you a way to lead


Sit still and breathe in the change that Adam
brought, chains of slavery wrought, justice and
other words playing out over hundreds of years

while a historian writes down “1861-1865.”

Go further.

Deny these elections, that prop up biggest money’s
biggest candidates, the process a lie.

Abbreviations like NRA and CIA have been in
control of American Government since 1963.

Human kings peeing on God from Samuel’s
request until today, so don’t buy it!

Keep your money on lockdown, un-register like
I did until your mailbox is no longer full
of candidate waste, fancy paper and graphics

American “Central Intelligence” killing our
own peace-loving president in cold blood,
covering up the crime with lines fools, ignorant

or just people with no time to fact-check
beg to believe.

Chris Matthews on my TV, so smart and
shrewd, my elder and an experienced

Slandering Lee Harvey Oswald, forgetting
our own 6th Amendment to the United States
Constitution guaranteeing our accused


Ah, but Chris and others at the military’s RCA’s
NBC and others just go with the old
“Appeal to Authority” fallacy.

“Bobby Kennedy, the victim’s brother, with
access to all that intelligence… said Lee
Harvey Oswald did it.”

No thanks, Chris and NBC.

That is shoddy journalism, and a slander
on due process, the same thing we do today
blaming Hillary Clinton for “losing” an election

To call “foul” in American politics is a drop in
buckets unheard by the shooter at the range,
the killer propping up the Second Amendment
over the Sixth Commandment:

Thou shall not Kill.

Stuttering is fine, but wisdom never does it.

Confessions of a Teenage Masturbator


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Harvey Weinstein and Roy Moore made
me do it, I had to cum clean!

I used to do it, too—you know what
I mean???

I never broke the law, but I almost broke
my johnson!

At least I thought I did, that first time alone
in my lonely bed,

Underneath the sheets and my lonely
bun huggers.

I was way older than you should be to start;
fourteen years old

Maybe it’s good for your heart?

No one told me what the hell was going
on in the sex arena;

I had to pretend to listen in sex ed to unemotional
monotoned “ejaculation” remarks.

I had no idea it was more like lightning unbottled,
a jizzing spark in the dark!

Wow!  A light seemed to flash, the heat a fire in
the tip—“It’s gonna blow!!!”

The first time, I stopped before completion, sure
the bottle would break.

Nights later, I went at it again, this time with
“success,” the fire lit,

milky white residue, what the hell? Oh yeah, they
called that something in class,

Something to do with the ocean—sea men
overboard, the sticky stuff was weird.

Thing is, it all seemed so abnormally normal,
no one talking to me, scared to ask,

I started drinking alcohol on Dad’s lap, we
never had “the talk,” only a divorce

from he and Mom—but did you know that
when you lie detector the divorced,

they lie when they say they’re divorced?

Back to the “issue” in my hands, over the years
I switched from right to left,

After the right hand in teenage years warped
the product which now leans left!

Yikes, not the end of the world, but still no
one talked to me!!

Isn’t that the problem with the whole of
this big “sexual assault” sea?

We don’t talk to our young, we don’t teach
stuff like, “Honey, you might fall in love,

and love is good, here’s what the body does,
we love you, honey—support you and your
love, your body and what it does.

It’s nothing to be ashamed of—love and this
body.  When you love someone,

Tell them with all your heart, let it out.

You are safe to ask us anything, fire away,
we love you, your body, and what it does!”

Hmm.  Would have been great!  I probably
would have married the Wife of my Youth
like Malachi and Solomon advised.

But I did not, became alcoholic and a thirty-
three year old virgin

with a warped cock.

(It never did right itself when I switched to
the left hand after college…)

I dabbled at quitting, as I did alcohol consumption
near sixteen years ago—

would stay hands-off for up to twenty days, but
in the end it had worked its

way into my reward system in a given day—
felt I “deserved” it…

Until it led me to loose sexual behavior;
we’ve all seen examples lately on TV.

I called a married woman with a cute kid,
was intent on getting down with her

even after I “prayed” about it!!

We sometimes need to pray harder, but that
was the end of the masturbation line,

the loose sexual practice disguised as divine.

I could not hurt a child—be a “home wrecker,”
as I had been hurt by such parental actions!!!

I outed myself on the phone with that wife,
a real Christian, and devoted to her husband.

She chuckled, and said: “I would never do
that…” And I chuckled,

Then she (rudely—lol) accused me of being
a porn man!!

“Porn,” dear??  How dare thee accuse us, the
royal we of such improprietous malconduct?!?!

I was caught and have been off my johnson and
the porn for two and half months.

Anyone can “do” it, Harvey and Roy!

And by the way, reader: Pray for us ignorant
jackers-off to heal,

and find a child to properly teach rather than
throwing stones deep into

the sunny breach.

The Twitter speech, the OMG “he’s a pig” easy way
to displace from all your own sins—


“Preach, Master! Preach!!!”

I am a former master of the bait, the sexual
trap of not knowing what else to do,

so we threaten our prey into the warped penis
of our less than ideal past doodoo.

Pray for us all, mind our hands, and love one
god and one mate for life—

“Enough as good as a feast,” Mary Poppins
good to Michael and Jane.

But who was it who told them all?

All about the Game…?

Tag.  You’re it!!  God help us.  Give…

Forget your shame.

She Had to Get Her Balance


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To delve in details is trite until
love is the answer—the reason for
the dive!

She stood unbalanced on a curb,
when I dove in to hug her.

We had never met, a forward move,
but we shared honesty on the street;

undressed figuratively, the move was to
share a physical thanks.

So many hold back, you never know—
so when she mid-hug backed away,
I merely figured she was one who holds
back, but actually:

She was being safe.  She knew she teetered
on a curb, so paused the hug to re-
position herself.  Braced on firmer ground,
she gave me fuller attention—

She was serious about hugs!

Serious about hugging me!

Braced she stood ready, arms out, muttering
something about the “curb” and “balance”—
then inviting me in warmly.

A great little hugger, memorialized a couple
poems ago.

That someone takes hugging so seriously was
a refreshing swim in a desert sea.

I dream of what else could be braced for,
hoped for, practiced and accomplished.

She almost fell, re-positioned and caught
me right—

A hug to dream on late in the night.

Love and peace dreamed in the crevasse
of night…

A crack of delight;

Hope the rainbow after rain, the wet
to drown away plight.

My Sagging Rocks


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I used to play unafraid.  There was
a Winter under the free step of Spring
but I ignored it as long as I could, was not
aware that life and bodies would change
as early as I had flown with the earth
thirty times around the sun.

Around my thirtieth birthday my balls
began to sag.

I choose truthful words over the poetic
to be blunt with a loving audience like
you, who has little time to dilly dally.

“Anything more than the truth would
have seemed to weak” said Robert Frost
while depicting another day of bad
farming in the northeast of native land
cultivated by the White.

The paint of snow is another thing;

Something there is that loves walls,
the devil a rake in orange hair pretending
at thrones “to be like other nations,”
the prophet Samuel’s request like a snake
in grass, a forbidden fruit to look
at your ass—

I should have married and stayed true
to the Wife of my Youth!!

But no.  They laughed at me when I said
I kissed her.

They laughed at all the children who
wanted to report their first crush, but
had a sibling unchecked by drunk
parents who abused and scoffed at love.

I turned to alcohol and sports over love;

Pretending I did not love Anne, JJ, Melanie
and Amy.  Megan, Barbara, Beatrice and
Kristin—the list is so long, the eighth step
amends of men who were wrong.

And in all that delay, that time of dysfunction—
the body kept growing, aging, never a girlfriend,
intimacy for me not there.

I woke up near my thirtieth birthday with
beautiful pubic hair.

But something had changed.  They dropped.

My balls.  Sagging like an old man.

I was a virgin in the sand.  No kids.  No love.

And I was slowly dying, evidenced in the
extended sack between my legs!

Dying!  Dying before I had lived, I would
journey three more years before landing
a girl willing to have me inside her; I had
to shave my homeless beard before she
did it, but she did it, and we did it, and
I forgot my sagging rocks that night!

But sometimes, when all alone in my
beweeped state, in a lonely forty-five year
old single bed I reach down, then down some
more to feel at near-lifeless tissue—

sagging sinew, a scrotal reminder of time
flown, aging and reasons to write a poem
a young boy might read to help him change
his ways immediately.

Tell her you love her.  Now and forever;
against the hum of haters and potential regret,
laugh at them with four kids on your lap,

instead of a thought of sagging naps.

God is with me, don’t get me wrong, my sagging
rocks a reason to pray the harder, help
the more, get out of self—youth on the other
side of service’s open door…