The Crack


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The beginning is the end, the
behind in front until all we have
in our mind is a poke in the butt.

It doesn’t matter, the skin and
prose before God, life and heaven
knows the fantasy can be better

than the real thing, g-strings,
blocking out all but a perfectly
composed rear, we all pause to

take in the glory of that which
got us here.  We can rise above
the instinct to love, but would we

ever want to submerge in anything
not on the verge, the creative urge,
the song called death that life needs

to truly purge, the end the beginning
as covered, take it off, show me the
thing I know but forget, the thing that

ties me in knots, dictates movement
and makes you wet, slippery to get,
sunshine in the crack like a jungle

for cat on cat, wild that, this on
and off punch through the page victory
of clouds over rain, smiling again

like a batman punch, “Wow” and
“Zam” in quotes, seventies colors and
sixties ‘do’s, eighties synthesizers and

fu manchu’s, underage drinking
bar-b-ques, nothing new, drinking
a flammable liquid, calling it “what

others do?”  We come back, though,
we come back to the darkest place,
the beginning, the inspiration for songs,

dreams and late night phone calls,
as God the creator created, we come back
to that which keeps us creating, curling

and whirling in a never-ending story of
humans populating a moon of the sun
called earth, we come back to the crack.

I love it.




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It hits you all at once, don’t be late.
Study, give what you can, never forget
to smell the flower, love the first
girl God gives you to love.  Tell her
how you feel today, if rejected or
hurt—take it to the grave, or, better


Powerless.  Wordless.  Heaven an open
gate to the ones who try hard, Peace
of mind for the astute.

We are nothing until the moment calls
our name; step up.

Love her forever: the first girl, remember
her?  Don’t look on, look for more, she’s
enough and enough is as Mary Poppins
proposed, “as good as a feast.”

Higher Powers are good; supplicate to one
now, call it, him, her what you will, just
know humbly that you are not It.

Love the first girl, did I say?

Am I talking to the boy or his beloved,
is this reaching you today?

Love the first one, and never mind the
doubters and Puritanical wind that lies,
says you gotta have X, Y, Z before love.

You gotta be such and such Age before
you love?  Before you vote?  Before you

How Puritan American of you to fall
for the lie that children are second to
adults.  True the Native American life
touted the elder, but Jesus rightly came
along, pointed to the younger.

Solomon and Malachi talking of “Wives
of your youth,” while the priest
masturbates alone or with the altar boy,
bringing us full circle to our needs and

Follow your heart.

Love the first girl; the first one.  For me
her name was Anne, and I did not properly

My favorite time and person, to see her
meaning so much, but was I bedeviled
having already had alcohol on Dad’s lap?


Liquid courage?

C2H5OH, ethyl not Lucy I’m home the
day I decide Not to drink a flammable
liquid, never mind what Jesus said.

The Commandments talk of One God, not

like College, what a joke!

American Politics, take another toke!  Or
think on Samuel’s curse, the thought when
Jews rolled with God as their direct king!

Aborigine the same thing!  Natives with their
life’s circle, the elders, wise as children
defending their culture under, over and around
the pollution of Columbus’ own masturbation,
the lies mounting with God climbing, calling
himself “Naked Horse” because he or she
will not be shackled.

African people hurting themselves, feeding the
insanity by handing over their brother to
the white master.

Forty acres and a mule similar to “Blacks
for Trump,” there are plenty of things
to say to fulfill the curse.  Samuel looking
down with me, rooting for you all to do
what this poet did:

Declare God king again, ignore politics at
a point, beat my chest and consider the
brave warrior inside me because I, too,
am native American.

God help us to remember our walk
barefooted on the ground, stars above,
the European obsession with buildings,
noise, weapons and mankind.

We share this land with little things, big,
and in between, totally lonely unless
we see we were all painted with the same
brush, don’t make a fuss, Heart yours, LORD,

the Hebrew walk in and out of the Egyptian
jungle of chains and pain, God the good
orderly direction like the rainbow after
rain, the song of the hour sung and won
because someone stepped up to the computer
at the right time, allowed God to speak through
a poem and set Life down for the next
generation, this one lost to the police
helicopter and shooting for the torso, calling
it defense.

The second amendment a perversion while
the sixth commandment still says “Yes.”

No.  Don’t kill.  Not anyone.  Not ever.

Life the dream we can be as the road
less travelled perhaps in yellow gold covered
with devil’s asphalt send the chosen (you
can also choose) slowly but surely to

Those killing, hurting or acting out that which
is acted out without parents or guides:

Forgive them, hold them, and get them on
the path before you forget your role to
love the first woman God gives you forever.

All Blood is Red


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We hurt, we sing, we fight,
we pray, a human race here,
another there they said…

But all blood is red.

You have poked a snake, called
the same different, played the
game of hide and tweak—

with the Devil you sought peace
instead of the forgiveness
taught in Bible’s peak,

You have to love and listen
before your speak, the song
sung on podium’s dead…

All human blood is red.

Donald Trump, the hooting
and hollering of hatred from fear
of losing or anger of never having,

we blame a neighbor, our wives
instead of the calm look at our
own tweaked lives, this and

more, settling on your door,
like the stench of rain on your
dog’s coat, the sound of silence

broken by the caged parrot
breaking free in the empty blue
of pet store revelry, the God of

love is the only found so seek,
A long rest awaiting peace of
mind near heaven, blessed are

the meek.  The poor.  The
downtrodden will rise, the songs
words supplied, I’m talking of

the post-barfly path of the
abstinent walker of trails, could
be you, could be mine, the drift

of our lives toward peace and
childhood all the time.  The angry
and vengeful fall into their own

sulky trap of not seeing and
being the little boys and girls
grown up they can be, a deep

breath awaiting change, but until
then, take up your bed, walk with me,
and sing the song of what could be.

I’m hopeful not expecting the racist
to be well, to look up when called
away from their privately made hell.

Look around, see you in me, in them,
May God bless you to use your head.

See at last the truth before too late:
you are not that great…

We are all the same deep down,

All our blood is red.

Women for Trump


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Who needs minorities and
under-represented communities
to form groups to alert people
that they are with those minorities
and under-represented groups?

“Blacks for Trump,” “Whites for

“Men for Hillary?”

Irrelevant, your honor?

Men and women can never lead
men and women to the promised
land without Higher Power?

Is there a man or woman without


The person talking most is he
or she that needs the most,
needs others to listen, needs a
certain amount of attention to
feel loved and worthy.

A great leader does exist among
men and women, but is a person
that yields to the wisdom of others—
better yet, God or Great Spirit, the
collective unconscious, or how
they do in 12-step life, the “group
conscience” or large votes.

We are powerless over so much,
it is a laugh even that we believe
in democracy as much as we do…


Sort of vain and untrue, for I never
saw a person nor group of people
ruling during a forest fire, earthquake
or hurricane.

Our politics is a large fraction show until
it reflects the truth that God is
still in charge.

My President and King


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The blind leading the blind
down blind alleys and suffering;
what can a human king do for
a human being?

Samuel was a fool to ask for one,
you were fooled to vote for one;

Real power in the sky, stream and
stars that are beyond our arms,
the dance of wind and change on
your face, the leaves and branches
shadows all over the place yielding

what a man cannot:



Samuel trudge back!

Go back up that hill or hut,
sound the alarm or bugle or
whatever trumpet says “Hey!”
We’ve gone amuck!

Give back the reins, let God take
it over from here.

God is my king and my president,

And never fear!!!!!!!

I’m a Pussy? Thanks!


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We grow up cursing, when
we don’t know another way,
many of us so far from the land
God gave our people, disenfranchised,

lost, discombobulated by years
of concrete, asphalt, sirens and
the worst invention by man to



The native, the first people, the
“pagan” was one with the land
and sea, never cursed—for why
curse, when all of life is a part
of you and what you do, no
separation, gratitude so natural
because the cycle is endless hope,
story and adventure, a tie between
you and all the generations?

But I walk L.A. today, walk over
and by the trash, the litter, under
the thunder of metal fueled by
the earth we try to master, not

But I walk L.A. today, the big city,
civilization with indeed some decent
plumbing, I guess; harnessed power
giving us light when we want,
electronics on which I write tonight.

But as I walk, they curse at me—
little boys becoming men by the
train station, calling me a “pussy”
because I called the police.

Me saying “thanks,” because pussy
is good.  Our moms, sisters, and
women good and essential, our
body parts essential—especially glorious
and wonderful the reproductive


There are no curse words in Native
American language.

Real Medicine


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Say you are well, or all is well with you,
And God shall hear your words and make
them true.  –E.W.Wilcox

See how much better you
do today, if you refrain from
complaining about physical
ailments real or imagined.

See how much more you enjoy
this life, if you appeal to One
Doctor, Mother Nature, the
healing wind inside or out—

available to us all!  See what
life can be the moment we
stop fearing its cessation, your
health closely linked to what

you think and say about it.

You cannot serve two masters,
so if you believe in God, speak
in godly ways, not “my doctor
said I have…”

No you do not have…

You are alive for one more
day so I advise saying thanks,
live it, and smile.

The day the smile fades forever,
is the same one we give our
physical shell up, our spirit
if vigorous shines and flies

this way and that, here forever
with the things here that last

God, truth, and the way of
the American waterfall, shaping
our views to combine them in One.

Streamline your thoughts,
simplify your life, and find
at the end of days peace won,

Victories achieved by
abandoning the speed of drugs for
the calm stroll of pleasing God,

your path to heaven finally
and fully begun.

One Goal and Basket


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What a confusing mess, waking
up alive in a basket of confusing,
stench-filled piss, not the physical

more like the lie told and believed
that alcohol is good to drink.

Another that it’s okay to have many
focuses and gods, play sports and
compete in pretend fights, slotting
passes and balls into a hoop.

Meantime the march for some to
Heaven continues, for those who
had that goal all along.

While we sought ways to deceive
another team or player, they sought
ways to love and give to the poor—

true gifts coming from our own
poverty, of course.

The slugger or forward on the team,
a confused pursuit of “victory,” leaving
the ultimate prize behind—

God.  Heaven.  A Peace of Mind!!!


Wake up in piss, but wake up!

When down the wrong road, turn
around now!

The goal… the basket… the only there
is is a contented sleep in the poem
spun by One, obstructed by
scoreboards and bars, the path
to hell wide and well-traveled.

Leave it and find the narrow a
better, albeit harder walk!

Die with me into this humble
song not on your TV;

die from the lies, and turn
toward the cross on your back;

Eternal Life.

Standards, 911 Los Angeles!


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I have seen a few things, the
light bright from a Palm Desert
recovery facility.

Allow me to help you see!

Gangs are unnecessary.  To
have them in our city a choice.

They can be budgeted out, if
city leaders would reduce their
own inflated salaries, cut out
the fat of things we do not need.

Illegal fireworks, the booms, could
be budgeted out!

Litter picked up, law enforced,
pedestrian workers employed,
tents removed from sidewalks,
an encampment established
outside city limits with county help.

Sober up, L.A.!!

Really think, use the brain that
will say it’s dumb to drink
flammable liquids!!

Sober up, L.A.!!

Take off your ridiculous monkey
suits, city leaders, and join the
lowly, me and others to clean
this mess up for good!!

Sober up, L.A.!!

Be the first major U.S. city to
raise its standards to eliminate
even a single cigarette butt from
our sidewalk cracks.

Build better sidewalks, have non-
lethally armed security to secure
them, Engage the community!

Let’s be there, at our schools
with law instruction!

Let’s be at our recreation centers
and get to know our children!

Allow them to vote!!!

Anyone should be allowed, who
wants to help our country!

Perfectionism is a curse!

The old way needs changing, unless
you love the trash and bombs
on the fourth so much.

I do not.

I like peace, and obeying the law.

Take off your ties and suits, put
on some work clothes and join
me in a vision of something better.

Garner a day when police answer
the call, because
they are budgeted to win.

Stop the flow begun with self-
seeking campaigns, appeal to
God or Higher Power, take less,

and allow the city to thrive
the more.

The Summer of Blackout and Throw-Up


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The Summer of 1984 started in 1983, of course,
all paths that led to my insanity laid out and
carved by then.

I was twelve, going on thirteen when everything
was not as it seemed, blackouts and throw-up
becoming routine.

Nothing worked, when it came to reporting
my feelings!  I loved her!  That girl in third
grade, my dream!

But I lacked the words in a house about
to “divorce,” no one listening to the wise,
rebellious Nazarene rabbi,

who said “man cannot separate what God
had bound together,” and so we went our
separate ways—

Love, peace and happiness on one side,
trading “up” we thought for more, so
wouldn’t it be fun to

Have two Christmases?  Two homes?
Two codes by which to live, two lives
in one, distinct and yet same?

We were split down the middle, alcohol
a great religious or scientific riddle, “God”
if you will or won’t

standing at least for unknown creating
and moving… God needed by Need itself,
the atheist using other words

to mean the same exact thing!


Anne in third grade was good enough,
and Mary said that was a sure “feast,”
but lack of truth

festering in the pit of Bourbon and water,
psychotic sips taken because a commercial
or mother or father

thought it was okay, and pitched the flames
into our very best days…

Anne was good enough, but I lacked the words.

Sorry, indeed, I was bound for a hell of
my own sad making! From Anne I went
to plan B, then C, then D, then all the others
doing the same thing!

Lying and loving, lying about loving, not
telling them of my feelings but getting
darn good at alcohol drinking.

Barf. That and blackouts, like the one during
the Mexican world cup of 1986.

Peeing on my friend’s couch, being awakened
in the middle of the sleep by sister’s
friends, laughed at because I was small,
immature and two years from puberty.

Proverbs and Malachi warned against certain
things, among them not treating the wife of
your youth well.

To deal treacherously with her was to curse
your life, and make all clear wins a steady
blur; pastimes like baseball only hiding the
love for an hour or three.

God a word sung but nothing good without

Bill Maher and the atheists—I love you—
a rose by any other name as sweet, so bitter
leaning, the journey back to youth,

all our adult plays and words so futile,
as we look at Grandma, give her a hug
and say good bye.

Grandpa surrounded by loved ones with a
tear in his eye!

This, if not a place in the clouds could
certainly be eternal life!

Never have to die…


Movies and tennis, trips to a beach
with friends.  I didn’t know I was a serious
talk with one person away from a
spiritual awakening!

I had to almost die, before the choice
is made to live—not because you have to,
but because you want the love you find
when you discard the lies.

Every dance in ’84 was one away from Anne
and the wife of my youth.

Cursed I write this song; cursed I seek a
better home; cursed I walk along, penitent
and aware of my horrible sins of putting
myself and my fears ahead of God and his or
her will for me.

Alcohol is a False god.  Kills more people
spiritually than physically, but then again they’re
the same thing, the worlds collide in the mix
of pain and joy, the rainbow after the rain
our path to the sober and sane!

Feel that!  Yeah, feel the pain!!!

We have a path to Heaven not by our
actions but efforts; imperfect we reach for the
thing babies reach for, Creation smiling,
ourselves powerless over the next caress,
hurricane or frilly red dress.

We purge our old life in the memory of
sickness on the ground, picking up the
pieces of the mess of messing around.

Rich kids, poor kids, the only thing that
matters our commitment to being as
little kids!

Heaven is the gate in front of us, open
when we halt our advanced studies of
love and hate. Look up…

Give and love today…

Before it is too late.