The Truth


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Things are whether we call them
such or not; words inappropriate
vessels for the Truth.

And yet, when we try, and at the
right time these symbols hit the
spot, music in time.

We cannot tell our own true story
and feelings until the room is safe—
we’ve been hurt before,

so sometimes back off at the moment
to secure ourselves from further harm.
Seek ye, and ye shall find

was spoken by a teacher who preached
“gospel” from the old English “God-spell,”
stories about God,

“good” and true requisite, the evidence
of truth being the oneness you feel
or don’t feel, the thing

wins or loses, you know truth when you
read or hear it, most of the time!  We
lie when afraid, when running

and hoping everything will be all right
if I can just get by this tricky moment.
Plenty of time for truth…

Just not today?

Hmm, tragedy bleeds a different ray,
golden sunshine at the rain yields
color.  The pain un-

medicated improves, and beyond that,
the thrill of overcoming becomes its
own high-level joy, so…

Go for it.  Tell your journal first,
if you’d like, but find that safe room
and tell the truth.

Be a safe pair of ears for someone else;
advocate for truth, but you must seek it
first!  It may mean you enter

a place you have fears about entering,
a 12-step meeting, a spiritual retreat,
where the schmucks there

don’t appear to be “doing” anything!!
What a bore!!  You look for a basket, a way
to achieve and score.

The rug will be under your deception as
long as God wants it there, but when it
is pulled, go with it,

and come down to where I kneel, it’s
fun to not only feel, but to report the
feeling, band together

with your brothers and sisters in truth,

and sing.


Slippery When Wet


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The left hand is holding something
very valuable.

You need what is in the left hand…

Keep looking at it, the left hand
sure to contain that which will—

Thanks, I’ll see you later, and the
interaction ends.

Weeks later, you check your piggy
bank and notice all the money is gone.

I stole your money with my right
hand, as you looked at my left hand.

But the left hand was important—we
needed it to survive!

“We killed them in the interest of
National Security.”

“We stole the documents in the interest
of National Security.”

“For the furtherance of Democracy and
Freedom, we invaded the country
and deposed their horrible leader.”

The pious fraud, better than God—it
makes okay every single sin so
sin away!

Because in the end, friend—the end
justifies every mean thing we do
or say!

We are the CIA!!  The FBI, we’ve got
your back!  We keep you safe, so
you can just live out your day, it’s
on us!!

“We go where others cannot go,
accomplish what others cannot
accomplish,” says CIA on Twitter
to us schmucks—us, the lowly
American with normal people rights.

Those agents with super-people rights!

Wow, can I be one of them?

Sure, here are the steps:

1. Have a shitty childhood where truth
is on edge or upside down, Dad drinks
and love is scarce.
2. Go to an Ivy League school, get good
at computers—join a Fraternity, get good
at telling and keeping secrets.
3. Secret Society membership is a plus.
4. We like Patriots, who can put “country
before anything else.”  Even God.
5. Don’t believe in God—he or she cannot
keep America safe.  Only we can.


Stop to take a breath.

6. Get used to lying.
7. Lie to yourself, God and others
every day.


We lie in the interest of National Security.

(National Security is often code for
“not embarrassing the Agency.”)

You might fall into a crack, if it’s
wet enough.

Pregnancy is another thing, altogether.

The Wife of Your Youth is most likely
behind you, but we make due with the
me and you we have in front of us.

You, too?

“Ready, shoot, aim” is the plan of
the orange, golf-playing orangutan “president” —
unless a Russian is calling the shots from
across the sea, look at me,

The MS-13 gang members are “animals?”

Yes, so are we.

You mean it as a curse?

So was it a curse for CIA to support the
killers of El Salvador’s archbishop, Oscar
Romero in 1980.

MS-13 came from his ashes.  And there,
an American “president” bags on the guys
our own murder created.

Bags on immigrants in an immigrant
country like the dis-United States.

Great Spirit, native spirit, the mother
Earth reaching out to touch us, but
your motorcycle gets in the way,
helicopter blades and sirens ruining
the day.


God wants to talk with us, we could
make him or her king!

Ignore Samuel and his walk to
the top of the mountain to
represent us.

“Jews will not replace us” the rally
call of hate, which comes from fear,
which produces anger—

all leading to suffering over time,
Yoda from Star Wars stopping on a dime.

Eternal life!

To secure and clean L.A. outside our
means because the rich council can’t
see it yet.  The mayor choked by his
tie, all a cliché of what Mom wants,
when she doesn’t really know what
she wants, going from high to high,

and when not high…


Ready, shoot, aim… Trump is drunk
with the buck so duck, it’s MS-13
that are the “animals!!”

So lock your door, another prejudice
is coming.

Ends and means line up, the pious fraud
catching up; we’re trying to evolve,
God help us to with your will align.


The only day, sublime, it’s wet when
slippery—slippery when wet.

The curse we all feel when we let…

her get away.  The wife of our youths,
we let her go.

Our forefathers stealing native land, we
let our own mother go!

“We’ll see what happens,” there’s
always another side to a story!

The real Gold was Native American wisdom,
not the yellow rock in Georgia, made them
march away and cry,

a trail of tears brought on by Trump’s
idol, Mr. Jackson, stick a needle in
their eye.

My mother said to pick the very best
one and Trump is not it.

Easy targets.

Ready, shoot, aim!

We’ll see what happens.  Kill Kennedy,
Martin, the other Kennedy, Romero
and Lennon,

and we’ll do it again…



Unless, says the Dr. Seuss Lorax when
hoping against hope.

Lao Tzu smiling the smile of
the longevity god, oval-headed and
jovial in the night before an unknown
dawn, the magic of change
in the birth of babies and a new day!

It’s slippery when wet!!

It had better be, if you want to
see us multiply and a future supply,

mountains moving from there to here
because fasting and praying was not
just for the religious but for the wise.

The atheist must sigh.

“The power greater than me has a name,
just stop calling it God.”

Without saying a word, the baby
just is.  The uncarved block, the truth—

sex for the celibate.

The Dragon’s Back


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Sexuality swirls around the planets,
a kind of erratic, organized chaos of
life we cannot see unless by great
effort and powerful lens.

Beneath the surface of things,
the duck’s feet fight and pound and
move, often unconsciously—beating
eggs like water polo players perpetually.

Walking is a thing; we are wise to find places
for feet on ground, to get out
of civilization’s attempt to comfort
and protect against elements—

The dragon’s back, scaly and strong,
unstable and challenging, the smoke
rising off the water at sunset, the
Lady of the Lake guarding underneath,

offering help for the helpless, but
only when you are humble and ask.

Songs true and off the horizon of
the green, valleys fog over and wet,
the rain and clouds lifting the flower
from the hill, wars fought to appease

the up and down movement of the Chinese
Tao, the Russian doll, the Native American
Great Spirit expressed in Mothers and Fathers
honored in the beast.

We are talking animals, bucked by time
and nature when acting right or wrong—
it’s just that the Righteous get bucked
amidst peace of mind’s post-rain bow.

I dream of a return to land to my east,
a Celtic field in a Welsh storm, the
dragon’s back never more evident
than on the cliffs of England.

400 years in a foreign land is nothing
to the man who plants.  Sunshine and
rain feed the soul here as others,
a song to sooth here as much as there—

The dragon can buck all he wants,
but when the mind is rooted in the Quest
he cannot move the soul bound for heaven,
where heaven is Peace,

Something only achieved through
warring against temptation and winning,
not because we are great, but because
the tools at our feet are there, and we

humble ourselves enough to pick them
up and use them.  Or not.

Our mind’s eye sees all truths, before
words, so we utter a growl, breathe
and stop.

I am the dragon.

Wide is the Path


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The narrow to “heaven” is a hefty
mount, a lofty walk and a harrowing

the leap it requires of faith, fasting
and prayer?

Atheism, wordlessness, meditation
and just being there?

Hard turns, listening, being, breathing?

A rose by any other name as sweet,
brevity the soul of it, god or Shmod
you decide what to call that which
yields its famous bliss—

words ascribed to it in English
being “Peace of mind.”

It’s hard to have a firm view, open
up, and listen wholeheartedly to another;
but to do so allows a soul to advance
toward childhood,

life a journey of return to learned
senses without words, then a
departure of body leaving spirit
and words, ideas which never die
no matter how many killed in the
name of “National Security.”

Wide is the Path to Destruction,
and Many are On It.

Some call “Jesus” religion; I do not;
I call the Son a Sun, the art of war
being to never wage it.

The true artist restores peace when
out of alignment, moving on without
celebration, without declaration of victory,
for a combat yielding injury is never
cause célèbre.

Tend to those injured, and start to
glimpse the road less traveled, build
your rock, ascending and secure, on
the bed of weedless sunshine providing
no rain to the cowards, no judgment to
the fallen, no gifts to the barren;

It is dry, the valley of history, with
all its un-amended sins and mistakes.

If you stop reading and talking long
enough you see the rainbow in the rain;
the end of pain,

The coming of solace for the argument
that Higher Power must exist.

Why not call it God?

Because that word offends those abused
by those who would use a Name to harm.

So fall.

Let the words go, and let Mom embrace
you after we demolish the concrete,
find the stones, the path back

to Nature.

Looking for Native America


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It’s a long journey from Wales
to here;

400-plus years of wandering
makes one wonder what they feared.

We left our fathers’ graves behind,
Welshmen and women ground into
the winter soil, Celtic calls for
adventure, armored up and ready
to go, sir!

Captain John Smith is noble enough,
we can handle this sea, this new
land, the savage race—look at us!!!

We’ll make the Crown proud, become
stars, make names for ourselves,
but only if this colony comes off okay.

We’re British and militaristic; we see
these brown-skinned people, compare
and contrast, seek advantages, a way
to squat and succeed.

“Success is a peace of mind, knowing
you did the best you could to be the
best you were capable of becoming.”

Best Christians, John?

Best warriors?

Best Explorers?  Businessmen?  Reps
of the Crown?

People.  The best People we could be
requires more looking back than forward
if the looking causes you to cringe with
regret and shame.

Go back, see the poverty of the native
tribe, the reservations in shackles
of bison’s spoiled hide.

Hunted and sold, looking for gold—

Not realizing the real value was in
the wisdom of the land, expressed through
its proud care-takers.

There are many differences from nation
to nation today, and as much or more
between the native nations then and
now as the Great Spirit

hides under Western medicine, civilization
and money.

Stop taking it.  Fight for your land, still,
Native America, seek out the documents,
the treaties, the promises made, take
them to court, and win.

Hire attorneys and win.  Reclaim and rise,
never give up the spirit to try, we are
a part of the land, it is God’s

and is our pride.

They break the rocks for concrete, burn
the blood for rocket fuel, we pray for
the lost Europeans, that they find
their way back home.



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You feel good, yesterday a gem of service
instead of a face-down rumble into rum
and the glass,

All is possible looking down at a schedule
for one day, with God at the top, sleep
at the bottom,

Recovery the dream of getting back what
you never really had, so hallelujah!!  It’s
back to youth,

the dream of all that could be and the action
to “move the chains” toward it, as footballers
might try to say,

In love with life, just for today.


You feel good, no more running away,
acceptance the key before changing
what we do and what we say.

But before all that, truth must shine,
we must admit our faults to God,
ourselves and another human being

this is a basic AA thing, 12 steps
to freedom and growth, to
God only knows—sunshine and rain

producing a golden rainbow to block
out and record the pain.  Write a book,
or just plan this day, God laughing with you

as we climb the trail toward the
Great Mother’s sinewy sinew, a waterfall
worth a thousand pictures, a stream

trying to win back Los Angeles and
become her river once more.
Concrete from rock, we break down

our modern thoughts.  We seek
a Native voice, but must study and go
back to see the facts for proper choice.

God be with us, to turn our good
into better, to rise in our sobriety
to remember the native and slave

in chains.  To make amends for the
pain that stains, the rain that reigns,
the peace that shames because it

was not justice for all but for only
the white, privileged kings. God
grant us more than shiny new things,

but the wisdom to see what the
Chiefs saw and were: the Gold of the
land in its true love.  Gratitude.

The lost art of standing.  Sitting.  Laying
down in the midst of greatness when
the buffalo spirit returns, dirt to the shirt,

Take off our ties, go back to England
and tell the Crown at Last!!!!

“We found the gold, Ma’am. Yes,
it was the native people.  Their wisdom.
Their love of land and connection to it.”

Sound the pipes, rattle the skins,
scrape the strings, the Celtic song
revives to the native revival, a sign

from all the gods that to call yourself
a child of God, be grateful for what you
have, forgive the wrongs done you,

help another find shelter, if you are
blessed to have it, and join the alcoholic
as he or she marches backwards to

right the wrongs never more wrong
than now…

It feels good.

Yes, Animals


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What is man without the beasts?
If all the beasts were gone, men would
die from great loneliness of spirit, for
whatever happens to the beasts also
happens to man.  All things are connected.
Whatever befalls the earth befalls the
children of the earth.
—Chief Seattle

I need to dumb down to reach
God and the masses, animals all of us.

Donald Trump uses the word “Animal”
as a curse or put down, which to me
puts himself down, as of course we are
all animals.

Donald Trump has no idea what this
poem is about, would bluster “he
doesn’t care,” but the truth is that
he deeply cares, and is ashamed at
how low his education is.

He cares, and is ashamed at how much
debt he is in, his sexual habits caught
on tape, money paid out to quiet

I love Donald, and so did his mom
and dad.

ALL OF OUR FAULT!!!!—for letting someone
like Donald Trump be “president,”
for letting someone with NO
for president of the United States of

(By “United” I refer to what rich
representatives in a Continental
Congress claimed this country was
in 1776, ignoring Slavery and native
people, who were not considered,
nor counted.  Women left out,
children discriminated against a few
years later in a Constitution that
sets “age” limits four times: to
run for Congress, Senate, President,
and to vote.  To judge a big group
of people on an arbitrary quality
like gender, race or AGE—and to
restrict that group
based on that quality from having
rights or access to something is called

So, Donald’s campaign sought outside
help from foreign nations, Russian
money, and others who own FIFA
and where it plays its soccer games.

Bribe and play, pay to play, go
to work one day, and there you
are in the White House because you
sold enough racist followers that
“brown people will not replace us,
Nor will Hillary, or Obama and his
blacktivists!”—and they voted for
you to…

Lead or tweet?

Campaign for 2020 or lead?

Troll people online, watch Fox News
and play golf on the government’s dime?

Geez, you wanna change things,
Donald and Devin—you wanna root
out the deep state?

Stand up to CIA and its covert
mission of violence and secrets!!  Put
the spotlight on JFK.  The real
president of this Country IS

Since November of 1963, we are under
their covert thumb, the leash long
enough to feel free—

and although God is truly in charge
of all, we pretend down here that
we have power.

We do not, no matter how many Samuels
go up the mountain and ask God
for a king.



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“Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

Why fight the wide path on our
way to wherever, most go with the
flow of the other ants—who wants
to make waves?

Western Medicine is not health, but
you wouldn’t know that in the States,
watching the news or the commercials
in between pitching drugs at patients,

Alcohol at kids.

Alcohol at alcoholics, but where else
but here?  We have a second amendment
protecting everyone’s right to break the
sixth commandment.

We have a National Security Act to grant
CIA a blank check and immunity from being
regular Americans, but this is typical of the
wide path,

the one Samuel asked for when he asked
for a king to be like other nations.


A new child is born and with the birth hope.
All can change, the rock and valley stay the
same, good and bad oppose—Lao Tzu
reminding “We cannot change the world.”

It cannot be done!

Then a white coat enters a room with a

Eve came to Adam with a piece of fruit,
how big a deal can all of this be?

Can we go back up to the mountain of
Samuel’s mistake, make God king again?

Can we put the apple back on the tree?

Would we want to be innocent and free?

We are the moment we accept the child
within, that the baby born is us, that zero
place of nothing being everything, total
potential, a smile, perfection.

The child is health, is a blessed state, and
is within us in nature, then again it’s all nature,
isn’t it?

The child knows by sense, we cry when wet,
cold or sick, all of it spinning less like a path,
more like our planets, around and around the
sun of peace.

Feel sick?  Wait.  It passes.

Feel bad, it’s temporary, good the same way,
so beware the intervention—choose it
wisely after prayer.

Never deny God him or herself the time
and space needed to heal and care.

Blacks for Trump


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Laughing out loud, one
begins to look around, consider
who “they” are.

The “Trump supporter” is a human
being, I respect that.

Donald Trump is a person, not
just an animal—I respect that.

Racist people are people, have
developed over time a prejudice
based on what Dad told them, Mom,
their community of friends or whatever
it was to seek good feelings.

Racism is the core of Trumpism, and
that is more evident with every Trump
supporter or TV channel talk I take
in to try to learn…


I was just on a tree-trimming job,
knew the guy I worked for was a Fox
News/Trump loyalist, liked to talk
politics and Hannity conspiracy theory.

That’s okay, as long as we can find
some humor and branches to cut,
a level of mutual respect that allows
people to agree to disagree.

My dad voted for Trump before he passed
away last year, and did so more out
of Hillary hate than Donald love.

Both my dad and this guy with the tree
have something in common, as they
have in common with all other Trump
supporters and apologizers:


Racial prejudice.

It may be deep down, or right there
on the surface, but Donald trump
came into politics race baiting and
birth-denying, Obama-hating, and

and his so-called “presidency” fails to
back off from hate, never taking a knee,
never apologizing.

The man with the tree pointed at me
when arguing, yelled and spit, touched
me on occasion as a way to intimidate
and bully sway.

When I did not budge, I thought it was
time to cut branches…

Then he dropped
the N word twice, flying his true
colors at last.

“Obama was a worthless, no good
N…” started a ramble I turned off, warned
him to stop so I could cut branches, adding
that I was raised by a black nanny, was in
fact “black.”

He started inside his house, knowing the
job was in jeopardy, then added something
to stir the pot about Obama and black people,

I walked out of the job, walked off the property
with my gear, the man yelling,

“Are you sure?”

Me yelling back,

“Dead sure.”

I pray for that man, for my dad’s spirit as
he would have turned 93 this Monday.

Prejudice is a weed that takes work
to remove.

I needed to do the 12 steps of AA before
I could let go of my racism, bigotry
and prejudice—along with my deep-seeded
misogyny and chauvinism.

I had every ism from loose behaviors,
sipping a false god called “alcohol.”


“Blacks for Trump” is a disgusting
backdrop to disgusting campaign rally
speeches in the middle of a stolen

“Niggers Don’t Kneel” would be more
honest, Trump.




And Giuliani?

Haha, he looks like a man caught
on tape with a Ukrainian prostitute
peeing on him.

Chirp, chirp—just how I want or I will
release the tape!!!

Yes, Vlad, no problem.

I concur, Vlad, saying the orange man
most-likely poor and in debt than rich.

Anything you say, Vlad, I just
want our countries to be friends.

I just want to make America White
Again—scratch that, GREAT!!!

Truthful hyperbole, we call it, and yes,
Cambridge, yes Bannon, it’s a good
way to keep the blacks from voting!!!

Clean Coal!!!

No Mexicans!!!

Blacks for TRUMP!!!!!

It’s Kinda Fun


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Walking in Peace, the drug and alcohol,
gang affiliation in the rear-view, you
stop destroying so bring on the peace.

It’s kinda’ fun, the hope of a day, it
can go this or that way, on we
walk or run, it doesn’t really matter

as long as we walk from the fire
that was your old life of disillusionment
and fear, that wide path to funeral pyre,

caught in the mosh, smoking and drinking
flammable liquids and plants in confused
trances non-transcendental tangential mire.

It’s kinda’ fun!

This life without the harm. You harmed
because you didn’t know the option not to
do so, you had your defenses that it takes

sometimes long hours, days, weeks, months
and years to discard—it can be hard!

You let go the bull, accept the cow, or heck,
you can even go vegetarian, it doesn’t much
matter, as long as saved we walk the narrow

for heaven.


Which may just be a peace of mind, knowing
we did our best to be the best people
we were capable of becoming, John Wooden’s

success through the front door blowing,
the wind of change through the front door
coming—you cannot slip out the back

anymore, unless the move could and would
help mankind, women too—you mom or
wife waiting at the door to see what you can do.

Waiting and waiting, but it was God, not them
that shined in the cracks, shined to give you
facts, that I’m not an animal a la White House
prejudice, throwback racist forays into bathroom
locker room talk, excuses to behave like jerks
not the way or the Tao but a sure path wide and
secure for the hell of your own making.

We walk away!!

Isn’t this fun?

You bet yer tail, this is a blast!!

Long songs absent the whine nor wine
this could be your time, one day at
a rhyme, the pen it moves and dances of
its own, you wake up to dreams of lines
to time thou growing, because you prayed
not to yourself or loved ones but to God

It’s kinda fun!!

I could turn and/or twist this way or that,
walk up, walk down, make decisions,
which is to declare victory for one side
of an argument—

No one in war winning, we look over the
fallen with tears in our eyes, be they from
ours or their side of the fight—

God has the might!  We should not
wield a sword or force just because we think
we have it, turn around!!!!!

It is not tough to stand in the way of love,
the soft and weak blessed by God through
Jesus Christ, a rebellious rabbi not
enough listened to in Jerusalem or
Gaza strip, who will walk there and
preach the message of peace, willing to
die for it like the Indian Chief, stepping
into the caldron of war to prove a point
that nobody wins when the heart stops
its beat?

Killing is killing, and never defense, the army
and Navy getting it wrong when we train,
shoot for the torso on the range!

Turn around, follow me, put your weapons
down, learn true defense, martial arts,
only for defense and restoring peace when
peace is thwarted, then return,
all of us—grow flowers with our tears,
it’s never wise nor tough to roll on
the ground with other men, “friends” in
quotes egging us on, walk away,

Walk away, Walk away—

walk with me and the rebellious rabbi
toward a new day, follow me!!

Isn’t sobriety fun?

Giving flammable drink the “hasta la vista”
dance of “no more, no more,” no thank
you sirs and ma’ams, yes to say “No”
can be a complete sentence as we head back
to the old community full of new ideas,
hope and changed attitudes—

Our latitude often the same, you cannot
geographically escape from yourself,

us facing the greatest enemy alone, we must
choose blessed or cursed, we can
find our land someday, get off Native land
I never bought to find my own land someday.

To stop the curse.

To stop cursing.

To see the native family never using
curse words, pushed to the side and what
we thought was the worst land, until forever
the archetype is repeated, that the wise and
soft win heaven in the end.

Peace of mind.