You were heading for your car after work,
cool and slow, under a hood on a nice,
sunny fall day—
when I caught you.
We had never met, I asked to pass on
the left, and you were startled.
I asked, “Did I scare you?” and you
kind of said “yes,” then I explored
why you’d be afraid in broad daylight
in the middle of the sidewalk.
She was a sharer; not tall, skinny, dark
hair under the hood, saying what she
most feared was a dog attack around here…
So there I was stopped with the stranger
under the hood by her dusty sedan, cued
to share my martial arts tips—especially
against attacking dogs.
She was a sharer; also a willing listener.
“Willing” being one of the sexiest character
traits of any female I know—
She paused to give me her ears, and I told
the dark art of killing attacking dogs;
knowledge to know and hopefully never use,
as most martial artistry strives to be.
“With Dobermans you do X…” and she
nodded, interested and cute.
“And with all other dogs you do Y.”
I caught my breath, as “Y” is pretty gross
on a full stomach, but she was fine and
grateful for the tip.
I told her about Okinawan Karate’s first
principle, gan, or “eyesight”—as in keep
your eyes on everything and everyone, sight
our first defense against trouble.
Martial Arts is the artform of keeping the peace;
what police claim to do as they siren and
chopper around making noise, shooting guns.
I failed to mention that to Mari, the girl, my
new friend, but again she was willing to converse
on and on with me, so sexy and cute I could
hardly stand.
Not in a hurry, willing, listening, passionate with
stories to rival my stories and accepting of
my business card promising poetry, even
an explicit one or two.
She was okay with that, more talk revealing
she had a boyfriend—something I had to know
before proposing marriage or some dumb thing!
I hugged her three times before we parted. Each
time she hugged back. A skinny gal with heart
and love of love—her form filled my body and
time freezes to remind us that on any given day,
you might share a desert island with another soul.
If only for a few moments, they and you are all that
matter. No boyfriends or wives are there.
Some have the religion or constitution to save
all they have for that loved one at home.
Things really are “what they are,” and the less
we judge them the better. One could cast a stone,
but sin, truth and need plagues and blesses
us all into hugging strangers with all our heart
sometimes,
Me with room to think of her all night.
Her, with a “boyfriend,” as expressed—but
did she think of me too?
Can chemistry run only one way?
On that desert island, we could make amazing
love together.
As I pray for rain, the sun shines on a sore toe
forbidding an adventure to try and see her again.
Life is the humble pie we eat on the way
to saving the rain forests of the world in our den.
She sat down, an older lady by far,
maybe Persian, which would fit,
because the only Farsi words I know
mean “I love you.”
I probably told her this. She giggled.
Traveling alone from Orange County
to meet family in Las Vegas.
I was heading back to a lonely motel
room, after a Los Angeles date fell through.
We spoke to each other a little, me never
thinking anything big would happen.
I had near hits on the bus; a young blonde
woman telling me some words seemed
silly to her, like “direction,” an obvious
play on male arousal.
That lady just bundled up, and we giggled
at each other across the aisle.
But the Farsi lady was next to me on
the window seat. Both of us unattached,
but if you went by age, you would think
“Oh, she’s too old to think like that…”
But there we were talking, halfway into
the five-hour trip. It was dark, only car
lights and shadows whizzing by in the loneliness
of our lives.
Travel-high, we shared stories, and talked
and talked. She had a nice smile, dark hair—
short, a free lady from a part of the world
women struggled to express.
She said I was “nice.” This with a big smile,
and frankly said it in a way that said
“I really like you…”
Eyebrows might rise, as a tingle forms in
pants at connecting hearts, a mind together
forming for an interlude of gentle unknowns
and touch—
I said, “If you call me nice again, I might have
to kiss you.”
And she said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”
She smiled, and I leaned in to kiss her.
A first kiss, yielding to open-mouthed second,
for a second both of us one in focus
on the wonders of sex. The precursor to
creative romps electric, tongue on tongue,
sticky and clinging, messy—it’s not a skill,
it’s surrender to life and love that matters!
Hands grabbed at breasts, all was available,
the key in the door.
I asked her some questions, hoping she
thought what I thought, and the rub and
kiss continued to open a new place for her.
We seemed at a breaking point, me aware of
a slightly disabled teenage girl across the aisle to my right,
this exotic older lover, with some scruples
but not many.
She wanted me, so placed a sweater over
her crotch, unzipped her jeans.
God bless her for it, I was fine to help,
so entered her area with my right hand,
smoothing over her curling black hair, finding
a wet reception in the hot pleasure zone
of fire—life inside, I gave it to her, with
a finger used at times to tell a stranger
to get back in his lane on the freeway.
Our mouths and tongues locked as I
pumped her pleasure crevasse. God I love
a good bus ride!!
She grunted light sounds into my lungs,
as I tired. She came and zipped up slowly.
She promised she’d call me, as she rode off
into the night later with family members.
I waved at her good bye, and she pretended
I was no big deal.
She never called, but sometimes I hear her
gasping in my dreams, the pleasure
that makes a painful night interesting,
the memory its own cavern of wonder,
more and more important a place with
every day lived toward greying hair, old
age and stunted libidos.
Whew!
Never judge a book by its cover, go with
the flow, and find a friendly memory as a
companion for life—the next best thing
to a physical place to rest your heart by
the fire at night.
Love in a Greyhound bus. You never know
where it’s going to go right!
When Samuel asked for a king
to be like other nations, nothing
in what the people wore could
stop God’s curse from forming.
We replaced truth with religion,
kicking God further out the picture;
Building and building, not in the
Longfellow sense for the thrill—
But brick on brick to worship our
own “creations,” edging out
further, the Entity we can no longer
name very much in Congress.
***
God, grant us peace as we go back
to 1607. My people landed; three
Welshmen from Wales, with Captain
Smith on British coat tales, we sought
a buck, fame, exploration, certain
feathers in caps to be the first and
all of that—we shot at Indians, first
by calling them “Indians,” then by
sizing them up as smaller, less-clothed
with worse weapons of war, they did not
murder as well as us, we could defeat
them—if it came to that!
***
We did not know that most Native
American people were on the side of
Mother Nature. So when we murdered
them, we hurt ourselves, brick by brick,
Building more and more monuments to
glorify the human race. So fun and pretty,
we could win, but God was on the outside
still, cast aside as we reaped Samuel’s curse.
Brick by brick, we stormed the castle of
future regret. But not all was a loss; concrete
and asphalt was to come, the big American
city. Gutters, trash littered evenly throughout
the lawns of our triumph. This was our day,
“God” more and more taboo on the
Senate floor, but first let’s talk about
Slavery. Yes, we haven’t amended that sin yet.
No, we wear suits in court; wear them to win
elections. We wear them to hide our
bodies, to put out a message of oneness with
fashion and constraint. We tie ties around
our own necks—perhaps a nod to the slaves,
who were shackled, yoked and murdered by
the thousands as they streamed from West
Africa to the Caribbean and New World lands.
600,000 died in a “civil” war to stop the crime
of human subjugation and inequality; then
Martin fought a second action one hundred
years later. Now what?
A “president” can’t decide where evil lurks
at a KKK rally, slurs at black athletes as they
“take a knee” to protest police brutality—the
south looms a tough beast to slay, even today.
I am a former slave owner, says my last name—
an obvious thing, but who can stand up
with me and admit we were wrong?… After
national debt is paid off, why not dish twenty
grand to anyone who can claim African descent
here? Allow at least a financial compensation for
the chains, murder and dismay. Former kings,
queens and princes rounded up by black traitors
to make a buck with white traders, black market
supply and demand run by the devil himself.
I am alcoholic. Believe in looking back at sin—
making amends.
We need to honor the contracts and treaties
made with Native Americans. Even if we
must give land back—and why? For ourselves,
Mother Nature and national karma.
Our suits cannot help the truth—disclosed is
the lie in every FBI tie that Oswald even fired
a rifle on November 22nd, 1963. Failed a paraffin
test for the date, the gun found a German Mauser
not Oswald’s deficient magazine order Italian
carbine. We’ve been a lie. The day Kennedy
died was when CIA started to run the United
States of America, the lone member of the
United Nations to hate peace.
We should be evicted from the New
York meetings, when the day comes they
wisen up, move to Paris or Switzerland—
our suits hide the bum attire of murder,
violence across the seas in the calm of night,
protecting a banker’s rights, dead is the storm
drain of Saul’s crown, clogging the vaccine
that is God—kick the white coats finally out,
And accept that we must reverse the curse
ourselves, accept our nakedness, going
back to the fruit and telling the devil “no.”
As little children we enter heaven, not as
rich bigwigs. Take off your suit, and help
me pick up trash
Louisiana district Attorney Jim Garrison called them out first, but after the weekend’s “reporting” it’s clear that NBC news is “sticking to the official story on JFK no matter what.”
With ties to RCA and the U.S. Military, it is no surprise that NBC News is taking the “easy” way to continue its complicity in CIA murder and collusion.
Defending Lee Harvey Oswald through the only means allowed him, New York defense attorney Mark Lane destroyed the FBI/Dallas Police/CIA prosecution. In fact, Lane exposed the post-death slander of Oswald as unconstitutional with both of his two visits to the sham political dance disguised as an “investigation” called the “Warren Commission.”
Damning to the “official report” that patsy Lee Oswald killed JFK with a deficient Italian rifle from a deficient vantage point above and behind the fateful November 22nd, 1963 presidential parade route in Dallas:
1. The first weapon found on the sixth floor of the supposed firing hole, the Texas Book Depository—was a German Mauser, NOT OSWALD’S MAGAZINE-BOUGHT Italian Carcano, a rifle known in Italy as the “gun that lost World War II.”
The weapon was identified as a Mauser by Dallas Police Officer Seymour Weitzman, a gun shop owner knowledgeable enough to along with Officer Roger Craig notice the clear markings “7.65 Mauser” on the gun itself.
Weitzman signed an FBI affidavit to his findings.
FINDINGS THAT WERE DISCARDED WHEN THE FBI DISCOVERED THAT OSWALD OWNED AN ITALIAN CARCANO, NOT A GERMAN MAUSER.
2. Obvious signs from the Zapruder video and witness testimony that gunshots came from in front of the presidential limousine.
Plumes of smoke seen, noise and activity from behind the infamous “grassy knoll:” in front of the motorcade. Kennedy’s head jerking back to react to frontal shots, grabbing the front of his throat to react to another frontal shot.
3. ALLEN DULLES, CIA spymaster FIRED BY KENNEDY after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, WAS PLACED ON THE WARREN COMMISSION TO INVESTIGATE AND REPORT ON KENNEDY’S MURDER.
Pure bias and inappropriate, an obvious conspiracy FACT that a cover-up was in play. Prospective jurors are thrown off cases for a lot less than being FIRED by the subject of the case at hand…
4. Warren Commission findings are not credible. Lone gunman with a Magic “Single-bullet” theory, totally debunked by logic and people like Mark Lane smart enough to expose the sham.
5. Oswald lacked MOTIVE.
To this day, there is no credible motive ascribed to Oswald in relation to a Kennedy murder. Oswald admired the president, had a hazy past of intelligence involvement, communist leanings suspect in light of his Marine training—which included lessons in the Russian language.
6. Marita Lorenz Testimony:
With no motive to lie (unless she wanted to be placed on a CIA/mafia hitlist for kicks), ex-Castro lover Marita Lorenz moves us finally away from Oswald to…
THE CIA.
Howard Hunt, Frank Fiorini (AKA Sturges) and the Operation 40 Anti-Castro Miami hit team killed John F. Kennedy, not the patsy Oswald.
Lorenz lays out the Hunt payments, the two-car caravan heading out of Miami and into Dallas, Texas on November 21, the day before the disgusting, cowardly hit.
Lorenz saw Hunt at their motel, doling out the dollars. She saw a man she later recognized from a TV shot as Jack Ruby—Oswald’s eventual killer—also stopping by the killers’ motel.
Lorenz asked to leave the party when she realized what they were planning, but not before she saw enough to peg Hunt and CIA on the scene.
Testimony Mark Lane used to convince a Miami jury in 1985 that Liberty Lobby’s Spotlight magazine published the truth when their Victor Marchetti, ex-CIA writer, wrote of Hunt and CIA’s involvement in the assassination of the peace-striving president of the United States in 1963.
A libel case CIA and major news outlets like NBC never wanted folks to worry about too much. CIA has been running this country politically since 1963.
Samuel’s curse, the result of a military coup seen so often in old Europe, that they never believed in garbage spewed out by Hoover’s FBI, the corrupted Dallas Police Department, nor the always diabolical UN/World Peace-thwarting covert CIA.
God said having human kings would bite his people on the butt, and this is the type of thing He or She could have meant.
If NBC and other news outlets would claim to be independent of the ruling U.S. military, they would join this independent poet to denounce CIA as traitors. Murderers. The villains that killed JFK en route to millions in Southeast Asia, Kennedy just casualty number one of fifty some-odd thousand American deaths in the conflict.
Yes… with “motive…” To perpetrate Vietnam, get revenge for Kennedy not providing air support to the Bay of Pigs concoction to overthrow communist Castro—restore a capitalist Cuba for CIA, U.S. interests including Mafia-connected hotel/casino owners.
Get control. Show that n-lover Kennedy who’s boss in the South. To not allow Kennedy to break up the CIA, as he had publicly promised to do.
For firing Allen Dulles as CIA director—a man in foreign service since before the whipper snapper Avant Garde American president—youngest in history, was even born.
Kennedy also fired the mayor of Dallas’ brother, something that could motivate someone to change a parade route at the last second, inspire a police department to become part of a dark, horrible moment in U.S. history—painted a rainbow by CIA spinsters for years.
And regarding “spinsters,” no one was worse than America’s “James Bond,” Howard E. Hunt—who forged a document after Kennedy’s death that blamed the murdered president for the assassination of a Vietnamese leader.
Mark Lane’s Plausible Denial (Thunder Mouth, 1991) is full of such sins, including a breakdown of Hunt’s failure in the Miami court to explain his whereabouts when Kennedy was killed in Dallas.
Our health drops when we ignore
real needs; replace them with fake
ones like “I need my car.” “I need
to go to the doctor.”
You do not.
We need air, breath, food, water,
a place to sleep, basic warmth,
nourishment.
We have ways of seeing things from
dark to light, fear and worry trying to
seep through; it’s a war of attrition
to look for right.
A star in the night, which sometimes
is clouded over by clouds that do not
kill the star…
Obfuscation is the devil’s job, that
and dazzling dark with light.
We cannot yield in the fight—
We must keep looking for right!
“I have a sore back, I need to take
a drug” misses the boat that shoves
off from the shore of truth, the boat
being that Pain is the Gateway to Joy.
If you do not Feel the pain, you miss out
on the joy!
Escape! Escape! Escape!
will make you late, late, late—Jonah
in the whale of refusing God’s will.
Feel the short term pain to garner
long term gains; Father Weston went
to AA and Al-Anon, “whatever feeds you,”
and recall that by bread alone man
does not eat, so bring the words of God
along! This trip to heaven requires the
angel call through music and voice, holler
at the devil to “Get thee behind me” while
we erect a band to fight regret, take on hate,
turn the wheel to justice in your town, take
off your suit and rake!
Yes, the dirty acts yield clean, while money
shuffling around clogs our gutters.
Clean every day! It keeps that doctor away!
Rise up, just for today. Take a photograph.
Pause to laugh. Write a schedule for your
twenty-four, God above, sleep at the bottom,
fill in the rest—live your dreams!
(But go nowhere without truth. Let’s
have it right here!)
Peace is the rainbow after the rain,
the swept-clean sky.
I cannot better the feeling of what Fall
means to the 100 degrees; every song
has his or her season, mine in winter
about to end,
so I truth in you call out, the devil away,
Look for Right instead of wrong, don’t
go to “doctors” if all you do is poke
and prod at problems.
Give God or Higher Power or Something
Big that loves you its due.
Love. Needs are these, working, loving
and playing in the snow of never-never,
always better when we smile, and thank
God just for today.
“Enough is as good as a feast,” said
Mary Poppins—wasn’t she neat.
Beat, beat, beat, strike the band—
today is enough!
Enjoying it through that pain is the
reason this poem or any endeavor
is endeavored under the sun and
moon of no more complaints…
We rent and we drive on occasion,
but lock us into payments?
Never.
The vroom vroom, powering and
speeding and smoking our way to this
and that? The noise, the hustle?
We prefer the slow stroll, the train
ride, the bus up the cliff, the hike
mile after mile, five senses becoming
six as we know there is more…
Rooftop to rooftop we hurl headlong
into vacant doorways of hope, dash to
and from buildings of dreams, scents
and poverty bringing us out of metal
and into the sweat of failure.
We must report something and so
stomach the stench, there must be a ground
if we are to elevate. Support comes from
loving people, we are dedicated to words
but know they are nothing compared to
what we describe,
The ultimate hope of all endeavor to
yield peace of mind, this one mine as I
deny the mechanic’s offer to ditch another
hunk at high speeds—
I take one look back at my old life as
I speed down the freeway of God’s
paradise in my wife’s fast muscle car:
I have an errand to run and I’m tired of
the walk, I’ll play this song, burn this gas
this time, but can’t wait to shed the metal
for a walk again my friend, toward the more
elegant train of rhyme.
Shot and killed, the streets of
L.A. between the trash and spray.
She had gained a friend, I checked on
her every day, whenever I shopped,
and my legs brought me by her place.
I gave her flowers. A card. Brought a
plant for her mother-in-law, the victim’s
mother, who lived above her.
She was in her thirties, me in my
forties, me not looking for love—I had
just given up extra-marital sex of any
kind!
But heat started to play. Her vulnerability,
my eagerness to comfort her, her fake
blonde mane—soft to my hard in L.A.
between the trash and the spray.
I told her she was attractive many times,
kissed her hair.
I hugged and she hugged back. We held
a moment, parted but marks were left
behind like what waves do to shores,
there was a mounting vibe.
Physicality supplied. I’d cover up if I
was modest. I have in an honest, funny
mood brought attention to arousal, but
this time prayed about it, decided to
ignore.
She smiled at me, took off the towel
guarding her wet hair, recently showered.
She faced me, and I her. And there was
no pretense minus need. We were in love
without the words, but to be sure I told
her “I love you”—
as I kissed her hair again in dusty L.A.
between the trash and the spray!
It all left a tear drop she could not ignore
like my enlargement, so to be sure
not to burst and show, she took her shirt,
tucked it down to wipe the tear.
Sexuality and mourning do not fully
belong together, and so we are patient
for the year to help us transition, get jobs
and financial security, an engagement ring
and a place to propose.
But the feelings are there to start, me almost
regretting I didn’t ask her for her shirt, but
smiling ideas days later are the futile fuel
of lacking frowns, I am glad for what we had
and have, am sorry for her loss.
Excited for our potential gain, with who
knows, perhaps another year of honest
rain, rainbows, truth and innocent touches
leading to spiritual growth and pleasure
tears.
Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet 