Posts Tagged With: America

Mock & Awe (Or Instant Gratifuckation For a Facebook Generation)

(Rough cut)


If misery loves company

Suffering deserves a parade

Can you believe your life isn’t butter?

Mine’s fuckin’ marmalade


Got food, got water, got clothes, got ends

Got words, got time, bad jokes, good friends

Holdin’ our hats straight into the winds-

We’re sellin’ fame to the nameless and faith to the faceless


Cus blood is raceless like

New-Agers are baseless

Run my tongue through empty places

In teeth, pockets, ear-holes, & faces


Want true religion? Buy my book, forget thyself!

You’re sick, you’re battered, you need my help!

Trust no words & pursue true wealth

Keep reading more for a ladder into Hell


People won’t like you forever

And Deepak Chopra can’t make you better

Positive thoughts will change with the weather

Hang tough, remember: pain beget pleasure


Follow the threads, unravel the sweater

Religion aims to negate sense pleasure

While ad execs tryin’ to get to know you better

I’ll be knittin’ a shield if the weather gets wetter


A million ways to get paid and slain,

Punished by time, fines, and canes

Whipped in the gallows and tricked on the plains

Illusion makes slaves from both the sick and sane


Loss found himself cheated by Gain

Just as Abel was murdered by Cain

Praise was accosted and accused by Blame

While Infamy slandered Fame’s good name


Follow the muff, and swallow the bluff,

They say, “death is emptiness, life is hollow ‘n stuff

Fuck for a thrill, better live & shoot to kill

Life is a boot made for walkin’, footed by a physical bill!”


Advertisements wherever we go

Coulda traded bitcoin for a house in Oswego

I put all my savings on a Hail Mary free throw

While a little distracted from TV static free flows


How many likes to get to the center of an ego?

One, two, three, leggo my eggo & pass the chorizo

Blame chemtrails, chemfood, chemdrugs & tv shows

Cheap Neanderthal thrills for the man from Encino

Before we go, some questions burning up my loins:

How does a nation under God divorce its coin?

How come the news makes everyone paranoid?

Why does post-industry man seem to destroy?

How many dimes dropped before a banker’s fined?

How much vegan coke gets a burner high?

How much acid turns your problems wise?

How much medicine heals a sick twisted mind?


Tighten up the space and loosen the form

Our peasant hopes and dreams seem to feed worms

Persistently, our ideas spread like seeds on fallow farms

Resilient and firm, our love carries no harm.

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Oregon Hitchhike Trek Loop: Medford to North Umpqua Trail & Back!

With a few days of hang-time in Southern Oregon, I decide it’s high time I head for the hills. I’m ready for a break from all the fuss and bustle of the town & city. Dupree drops me off just north of Medford in Eagle Point.

It’s around 4pm when I get my thumb out there. Heading up small country highways, I stand for an hour with the sun in my face. Most of the drivers are behind big trucks and SUVs, some towing fishing boats, others hauling construction equipment. Most of ‘em ignore me. A few pass with a gentle wave or a disapproving glare.

I get antsy standing there so I start walking. In my experience, the deeper you get into the country the better it is to hitch while walking than hitch while standing. They see ya standing, they think you’re lazy.

Sure enough, a kid stops for me and takes me up to Shady Cove. He tells me it’s illegal to hitch within city limits, so he drops me on the outskirts of town.

With the sun tucked away behind the mountains, I pop a beer and level my thumb. I hail a ride from a guy named Taz. He grows herb up on one of the local hills and offers me a job and a line of coke. The coke looks clean but the job sounds bad: no facilities, no electricity, and his truck is falling apart.

Not that I mind rustic living conditions, but if my boss can afford powdered drugs but can’t afford solar panels, he probably can’t pay me on time. I take his number out of politeness and thank him for the pick-me-up.

Taz drops me at a day camp near Lost Creek Reservoir. Now I’m drinking some wine and watching the daylight fade. A few rides blast past and I’m feeling downright chipper. If there were more daylight, I’d surely catch a ride.

Dark & chilly, I set up my hammock and go to sleep in the day park. It’s peaceful beside the Rogue River.

The morning brings bird songs and rowboat fishermen landing huge salmon.

I have a quick bagel breakfast and wave to the fishermen before getting to the highway. It’s a bit frosty still so I find a patch of sun on the bridge and wait for well over an hour before I catch my first ride.

He tells me to watch out for his fly rod as I load my pack into the back seat of his Subaru hatchback. His name’s Drew. He’s going up to Bend and on into Washington.

Drew is in his fifties with long hair. He has eleven children by eight women. He shows me pictures of his Haitian and Dominican girlfriends down south. He grows cannabis in Washington state and earns a decent living investing in rental properties. He is full of humor and stories. 

He also teaches survival courses and invites me up to Spokane to take a course in exchange for labor. I take his number before he lets me off near Diamond Lake. He asks me if I brought some hooks and line, then tells me I ought to make a few dead falls after noticing all the squirrels running around piles of melting snow. We’re up in the mountains now.

Rides are slim up here so I hoof it to the Diamond Lake camp store and pick up a couple cold beers and some fishing line and hooks. I can stake the lines into the ground with hooks and worms overnight.

Only a fourteen mile roadside walk until I’m by the section of trail I want. I catch a short ride from a tweaker with an obnoxious laugh. Her baby is hollering in the back seat as she rants about her deadbeat baby daddy. She stops to let me off at an intersection and panics for a moment as a white ford pulls up near us. She’s pretty sure it’s a cop but I assure her it is not.

Walking onward with an outstretched thumb, I hail one more ride, this time from a friendly woman who confides that I’m her first hitchhiker. I smile bashfully and load my pack in and thank her for stopping. Her name is Layla and she lives in LA.

She just spent the night camping in the snow on the rim of Crater Lake. She’s headed up to Portland, stopping to see the sights of Umpqua along the way. I find myself as an absent-minded tour guide as we whimsically explore some of the North Umpqua sights. We hike a few waterfalls together, most notably, the locally famous Toketee Falls. 

The parking lot is swarming with visitors and we are among them.

We hike the short trail to the observation deck, also crowded. I notice a steep, narrow trail going down to the falls. Layla asks if I want to climb down to the falls. We descend, grabbing root, rope, and rock to get down gently.

The water is roaring like a frigid lion, spraying mist all over alien mosaic rock-formations and mossy caves. 

We spend awhile down here, talking with other hikers and admiring the view.

Layla and I ramble about our past, present, and future lives. Passions, careers, and reality. We agree that it’s nice to find spontaneous friends like this. After the hike, she drives me up to the hot springs trailhead and sends me off with warm wishes and a big hug.

Now in the middle of the afternoon, I have a choice to make. Which way to go? I can go east on the Dread and Terror segment. Twelve miles. Very difficult. My other option is continue onward west via the Deer Leap Segment. Nine miles. Moderate Difficulty. 

The decision is obvious: continue onward west, go with the flow and follow the river. Deer leap it is.

Out of shape with a heavy pack, I begin walking trail. The weather forecast called for warm days in the seventies and cold nights in the thirties. I think I brought enough layers.
On the trail, the mosquitoes are thick and hungry. I have a few miles of intersecting roads before I begin my segment. The terrain is downhill and gentle, following Toketee lake. A couple of mountain bikers ride past me.
I cross a road and hop onto my segment, finding a nice bubbling creek to fill my bottle. After a nice long drink, I march onward through the evening air. The trail climbs high into the mountains, challenging my body and rewarding my head with views of the rivers, smells of conifers & cedar, and sounds of the whirling valley below.

I hike until dusk, nearly out of water. I have no choice but to keep moving forward ‘til I find a creek but there hasn’t been one in a few hours. I try to move slow and steady, but end up half-jogging, covered in mosquitoes.

Around a bend I hear a steady, heavy breeze. Getting closer, there’s a slapping splash on a rock. My heart sighs in relief. I get a fill up and round the next bend to find an alpine meadow full of golden-green grass and yellow spring flowers. Almost no mosquitoes here.

I scramble over the rocky meadow toward a small hollow flat with four trees: two cedar, one oak, and a madrone. I hang my hammock here and get a fire going. I counted seven miles today.

I eat a feast of eggs, onions, and peppers and fall asleep to the calm and quiet pulse of crickets and soft wind.
I wake feeling rested beneath overcast skies. I start a small fire and get some tea and breakfast in me. I stretch and warm up, hit the creek to brush my teeth and wash my face.
The morning sun burns through the clouds to give a delightful view of Crater Lake and snowy mountains nearby. 

The sun dances on the flowers as I saunter down the trail to find overlooks galore.

I ditch a stick of butter along the way, deeming it as excess weight. Maybe a bear needs it to bake some cookies.

The trail descends toward some beautiful creek, full of pools. I stop off by a particular picturesque creek, swollen clear and blue with the winter melt. I strip my sweaty layers off and climb down to the edge of a pool. Wading over to a small waterfall, I shriek in cold shock and dip my head under to take a brief rinse off. I chicken-walk back to shore and lay out in the sun feeling very refreshed.

I enjoy a light lunch of bagel and sunflower seed butter before continuing onward. The trail descends back into the valley, following the North Umpqua river again. 

I finish the Deer Leap Segment with plenty of daylight left. It’s hot in the valley so I take a siesta in some shade near a dam.
A bit cooler now, I walk onto the Jessie Wright segment. Four miles of easy trail. I hike a few miles and find a nice creek to rest at. I suspect it’s called Boulder Creek but since I have no map, I’m not sure. I explore up the trail and can’t find a better place to camp so I return to the creek. The water tastes amazing.

I put my only beer in the cold creek and start a large fire on a small sandy beach. I cook up a whole can of beans with some sautéed onion and pepper to fill my belly. I sway peacefully in my hammock by the waterside. Another seven mile day.

The next morning, I fry up some eggs and potatoes and get on the trail after stretching a bit. I stop to climb some boulders to catch a view. I explore some old logging trails and find a power line clearing. The poison oak is dense up here so I tread carefully.

The trail twists along the river for a few miles and catches back up with Highway 138. I start walking down the highway and find a light waterfall trickling into a roadside ditch. 

I decide to wash up here and get the poison oak oils off my skin with soap and cold water. I must look funny taking a shower on the side of the road. I try to ignore the cars buzzing past. I can’t help but laugh.

I dry in the sun awhile and continue down the road a few more miles, looking for the next trailhead. I haven’t seen any signs for it. I realize the trail connects in the opposite direction. 

After pondering awhile, I take the hint from the road and conclude my trail time for this trip.

Walking west down the highway, I hold out my thumb ‘til I catch a ride. First one takes me up a couple miles, near the next trailhead. I debate whether I want to hike the next segment but I have no idea how long it goes ‘til it comes back to the highway. I have one more day ‘til I have to be back in Gold Hill.

I hold my thumb out and let the road make the choice. I’ll give it an hour.

Before long, an old hippie driving a beater sedan pulls up laughing,

“Hey kid, you Rainbow Family?”

“Naw, I’m-”

“Well you were touchin’ ‘em up there at the hot springs! Get in!” He cackles.

I hop into the bucket of a car he’s driving. There’s a big daddy long-leg crack across the windshield but it rides all right.

“How far you goin’ man?” I ask him.

“Oh, I’m goin’ all the way to the coast, down through Grant’s Ass… ha ha! I call it Grant’s Ass because ol’ Grant was a real bastard, him and his buddies went through the west drinkin’, raping, pillaging and having a good ol’ time killing and robbing. The town ain’t too bad but Grant’s a real Ass.

“You know, the Rainbows got a free kitchen near the coast if ya need a bite to eat. They got one near Bend and another outside Eugene. There’s food all over, if ya know who to ask and where to look. They’re good kids. A few of ‘em are misguided but we try to keep ‘em in line.

He goes on,

“My name’s Falcon. I’m Bird-of-Prey tribe, sixty-six years old but I’ll live forever. I can take this body with me after I go. Everybody wants you to believe in death but you can take your body with you.”

I interject,

“Yeah, your astral body-”

“No, your physical body, you can take it with you after you go, man. I astral travel in meditation but I take my physical form with me now. It took a lot of practice.”

“But why would you want the body along for the ride? It’ll just fall apart eventually, all physical things come apart with time.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

He pauses awhile and is intercepted with another idea,

“You know man, these mountains here look kinda freaky, right? They’re not mountains, these are ancient pyramids under these mountains here. They built ‘em and they got covered during one of the last floods and now they look like mountains. 

I saw a train last night come right up to the mountain and go under it. I saw the headlight and then it was gone, plain as day. The government is building underground cities here for when the water rises, they wanna kill all of us off so they can have the world to themselves. Yep, some fifty million people survive after their next manufactured war and they inherent the world but we’re not in their club. We don’t have enough money to be in their club.”

“Yeah, but even if we did…”

“Yeah man, we ain’t no reptile-brained fools, God’s children ain’t cut from the same cloth. We live with the land, you know, I’m a trained shaman. I go out and touch a mushroom and I get high, I don’t even have to eat it.”

He offers me a hit from his hash oil vaporizer. I decline in favor of the half-smoked spliff in my shirt pocket. 

Falcon keeps rambling,

“So they’re gonna nuke us and the planet is gonna go to shit. I’m goin’ down to New Mexico to take part in a time-travelin’ ceremony. You know the Hopi and Navajo learned how to split themselves off from this time frame and hop off into another fold. Only problem is once you go off you can’t come back. So if I go, I’ll be gone from this time for good.”

I listen awhile but it keeps coming back to “us & them” and “apocalypse”. I’m getting sick of all the doom & gloom prophecy. Looking out the window into the bright green hills, hearing the birds and bugs dance along to a swollen river song tells a much different story. Amidst decay, life springs forth.

I tell him,

“That sounds pretty far out, but why don’t you navigate this reality like a ship, help us drive now to the place that isn’t getting raped or blown up? We gotta pilot this thing together, man, and if people keep buying into the whole apocalypse ending, that’s where we’re gonna go and that’s how the book’ll end. I sure as shit ain’t buying it.”

“Right on, brother.”

We sit in silence for a few moments, winding down the riverside and on through Roseburg. We jump onto I-5 south and Falcon keeps talkin’ at me. He rambles between coherent and incoherent ideas for a while and I just “um”, “ah”, “yeah”, and “hmm” accordingly.

We make it safe and sound into Grants Pass. I pitch him some gas money and we share a meal together at a Chinese restaurant. The portions are huge and we eat in silence, grateful to have hot food, clean air, fresh water, and good weird company. After dinner, we share a shot of the Vietnamese wine I’ve been carrying around all weekend.

Falcon drops me off by the old Highway 99, on the edge of Grants Pass. He gives me a big hug and tells me,

“You’ll get where you’re goin’ kid, all the way. You’re livin’ right and we’re all takin’ care of each other. You got the good energy on ya and you just see- tonight your third eye will be blazin’! You’re Family. Bless you brother!”

I wish him well and thank him again for the lift.

It’s six miles to Gold Hill. I pick up a cold six pack to carry home, just in case Dupree is thirsty. I pop a can and walk down the road along the Rogue River in the evening heat. Nobody is stopping so I keep walking.

Somewhere I see a sign by the side of the road, “Support our Teachers” obscured by some weeds. I hop over the ditch to stamp the weeds down so I can see the sign better.

On the way back over, I find a twenty dollar bill on the ground. I grab it and look down the road to find another twenty, and then one more. Sixty dollars on the side of the road more than pays the weekend expenses.

Just then, a ride stops and takes me a couple miles up the road. The sun is setting golden on the Rogue Valley and I’m all jolly smiles, cradling the six-pack under my arm like a baby.

The sun gone down, I catch a ride for the last mile to Gold Hill. Nice kid from Oregon, said he’s been on a road trip to Vermont. Rare thing to hear on the west coast. Most folks I meet from here don’t make it out east. He says he wants to hitch across the country someday and I agree. I give him some encouragement and he drops me in front of my road.
I hoof it up the long driveway and on down past the gate to say howdy to Dupree and drop my stuff off. A few cans of beer and some belly laughs are shared between us.

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Who is Society?

Who is society? (A Subjective Coalescence with the Living Object of Society)


While contemplating the concept of society, I often forget to consider myself a member. Society is a living, breathing, and constantly changing aggregate of economies and entities. Forgetting this, I envision myself as an observer, somewhere high above the petri dish of humanity. In doing so, I sterilize all learning with the immature habit of disconnected reflection. I avoid the dust of the world so as not to get my hands dirty.

I don’t want to take responsibility for the ill effects of industrialization & globalization. Dirt is inevitable. I’ll effortlessly purchase throwaway cell phones, receive goods in plastic containers, burn fossil fuels for travel, & spend US Dollars.

In avoiding major sources of societal expansion, my sense of pride tells me I am making a difference. Through this feeling of pride, there arises an idea: I’m not like them. I am not better or worse but I am certainly different from them. This type of thinking brings separation with it. Embracing separation from our environment denies a fundamental law: nothing exists separately.

This very idea of the rugged individual, I believe, is responsible for a dangerous disconnect. The individualist diverges their identity with the organized human form, creating a dualistic separation of organism and environment. This dualism leads to avoidance of the tough issues of life, mainly ethical & philosophical.

“I love man not the less, but nature more.” Lord Byron

Industrialized humanity has abandoned wild nature in favor of human nature. Human nature is a part of nature. I consider it to be inhibited, suppressed, in denial. Extending this to myself, I realize that I too, am those things. In me grows a resistance to accept the ultimate nature of society as it is, here & now. Living in a world of potentials and ideals, I sometimes miss the pragmatic counterweight of realism.

I feel a restless spite toward civilized humanity; at odds with some greater human entity. Denying benefits in favor of losses, focusing on ugliness rather than beauty, giving in to self-loathing before recognizing self-approval. If I am to take responsibility for my membership within “this”, how am I to feel? Rejecting society, living on the fringes is only an avoidance of the real problem: how do we cope with ourselves?

Through quiet acceptance, a door beyond intellect opens. Emotional states become unreliable. Just as thoughts, feelings are mere relative responses, not to be confused with ultimate nature. Soon the thought might arise: I am society.

All these things I am, in an ever-expanding fashion as all forms consistently dissolve into space. I am ultimately inexpressible. I feel myself filled with life, I feel myself decay. I see it everywhere, inside and out.

All mammals arising from the womb of a beautiful female, we share these experiences. I am not separate from life function & the cessation of life function and neither are you. We share this and we are this.

None of these ideas belong to anyone, as much as character doesn’t belong to anyone. They are collective reflections of influences, both inward & outward. They are gifts from society, just as much as our biological makeup is a gift from nature.

As a member of humanity & its greater idea of society, we are inseparable from the discoveries & failings of our members. We are able to share (or deny) these discoveries just as we contribute to the overall catalogue of evolution & decay.

We are these ideas. We are this ignorance. We are these inventions. We are this destruction. We are society.

“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” R. Buckminster Fuller

Categories: Essays | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Legal Hurdles

 Itchy scratches
Moldy straw hats, brown tea

Lemon zest bioavailability
I fell in love with a few alkaloids

courting drugs, now the state wants my urine-

lab analysis came up negative
Like something clever, forgotten

old payday new money

feed attorneys to please prosecutors
debts to settle  

going legal is not a choice 

with all these back taxes due 
Old cycles, new rhythm

Let the watermarked paper hit ’em

let’s make sun while the hay is shining

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Alcoholism for Kids (A song about DIY Booze)

Here’s a children’s song I wrote.It’s about homemade booze:

My bottle is a hole in a bucket, a hole in a bucket

A hole in a bucket
When I plug the holes, my bucket overflows, 

my bucket overflows
If we don’t use the water, we’ll lose the water

we lose’ll the water, we’ll lose the water
California state is hella thirsty, 

hella thirsty, hella thirsty
So let’s make a gutter for all the water

put it in a barrel, put in a barrel
We can to the orchard, pick us some apples, 

pick us some apples, pick us some apples
In that water we’ll pour a little sugar,

Just a little dash, pour a little dash,
When that water starts a-bubbling, we add the apple mash, add the apple mash, add the apple mash
Wait three weeks and have yourself a drink, 

have yourself a drink, before you start to think
Man, with all this juice I could be making fuel,

Making a killing, breaking rules an’ making fuel
We gone to the junkyard to get some copper,

Get some copper, and look out for coppers
Then we cook the wine and sell it to the neighbors,

 sell it to the neighbors, and sell it to the neighbors
Now we got holes in our livers, 

holes in our kidneys, and holes in our heads, 

I fell down the ladder with a hole in my bladder, 

while my belly gettin’ fatter. 
Oh Daddy, my head don’t feel pain

burning high octane, 

no pain And big gains with high octane.

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“I hate shitting on acid.” 

Dale muttered as he waddled into the club bathroom. Some sick guitar burped as Dale reflected on his dinner: one double cheeseburger and three tall cans of malt liquor. Sorta like breakfast, he thought. 
Dropping his trousers, Dale considered his fear of being covered in shit. He always made sure to do a thorough job wiping. 

The acid hit him between the eyes and followed with a punch to the gut. His bowels evacuated in a sickly and forced fashion. The bathroom was covered in a fog of methane and partially digested beef.

 He could no longer correctly register the lighting. All focus went to his ass. Anything shaded seemed to be shit-stained: the toilet bowl cast a shit-shadow on his calf so he began furiously wiping his leg with toilet paper. Now his hands looked dirty. He sniffed his greasy fingers; it was hard to discern where the awful smell was coming from. He peeled a wedge of tp from the roll and tried to get himself clean. 

His phone started ringing but he let it go to voicemail. Dale paused to consider his behavior. The little squares reminded him of mail. Mail reminded him of junk.

Organization if futile, he thought. Dale’s inbox has 11,891 unopened emails. It didn’t start out this way. His thoughts began to unravel in a direction of introspection.

Dale considers all the thoughts he has neglected; the horribly honest observations he couldn’t bear to hear in his own head: my heartburn is killing me, the chemicals I work with are killing me, the black mold in my apartment is inside my nervous system, my dick is dying, my girlfriend is trying to kill me. He observes the sheer volume of neglected wordstuff until his butthole quivers; then he shrugs it off and continues wiping himself. 

Dale muses into the toilet. Messy is chaotic. Chaos means fun. The universe is chaotic and organization is futile. Everything goes to shit. 

Dale works as a subcontractor. He hasn’t filed taxes going on three years and only showers twice a week. Instead of using soap, he cut the middle man and uses Palmolive because it’s easy on the skin. He remembers seeing ads for Dawn being used to wash petroleum off of seagulls. Dale likes seagulls.

His phone rang a second time, and fearing the wrath of his girlfriend, he fished around in the pocket near his ankles. By pure reflex, he unlocked the cell phone and answered to his girlfriend.

“Hey babe.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m takin a shit at Cat’s.”

“Why do you sound high? You’re always high when you go to Cat’s. You better not come home disgusting again. You’re gonna get the baby sick.”

“Yeh. I won’t. I’m just seein’ Dave about my pay. We’re gonna shoot a couple games an’ I’ll be home.”

“Alright, jus’ don’t cause any shit while you’re down there. I got enough on my hands with this baby here.”

“Mmm, you know jus’ what to say. I’m gonna come home and put some baby powder in that dirty mouth.”


“I’m gonna strip you down and wash you with baby powder, make ya all smooth.”

“You sure you’re not high?”


“Just come home soon, alright?”

“Yeh; I luh yew.”

He put the phone on the top of the tp dispenser. It was covered in shit. Everything was covered in shit. He took his clothes off and threw them over the next stall.

“What the fuck?!” Some young man yelled.

“Keep ‘em. They’re covered in shit.”

“The fuck you mean?!”

Dale stepped out of his stall and looked at his shit-covered hands,

“This whole place smells like shit.”

The man in the next stall stepped out, tp on the bottom of his shoe. He was drunken and had a faint ring of white under one nostril. He looked angry.

“You fuckin’ pervert!” he hollered at Dale and popped him in the jaw.

Dale stumbled back into the sink.

“I’m covered in shit.” He mumbled.

“You need fuckin’ help, man.” The young man spit on Dale and walked out of the bathroom.

Dale didn’t even feel like crying. He walked out of the bathroom, naked. Everything was dark. Dale took a pile of napkins from the bar and began wiping himself off. A bouncer took him by one arm and escorted him outside.

“You’re all shit.” He hollered as he was ejected into the cool night air. 

Out in the streets, everyone looked at him and then past him; alternately amused and embarrassed. Dale held his hands high and prayed for the skies to rain whiskey and clean up this shitty town.

The club security had notified the police. They came fast and grabbed Dale’s arm. They asked him if he was drunk, if he had taken any drugs, why his face was bloody, who he had fought. 

Dale kept muttering,

“This is all shit. This is all shit…”

They wheeled him off, naked. At the station they handed him a smock and a cell where he could detox alone. He wouldn’t give them a name, so they called him “John Shit”.

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dope dreams

this morning I had a dream
of fixing a shot
from 4mg of hydromorphone
with an old friend
I mashed the tiny white pill
into fine powder
anticipating the rush
as I began to top the spoon off
the skies dark,
the window open
some deep breath blew powder from the table;
covering me in dust
trying to contain it,
I laughed nervously
hoping my friend would not be offended
that I didn’t care what had happened
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Trap Poem #1

Jingle… jingle… jingle
I hear the jailhouse keys swinging from her hips,
sassy black lady officer saunters slowly past the door of our pod.
It sounds like she’s about to stop and open the door.
We all get ready to greet her like a bunch of dogs left at home too long…
but she doesn’t stop
so we resume doing the same nothing we’ve been doing all weekend.

Prisoner of the War on Drugs
you get a number & some paperwork,
they get a badge & a gun.
Which side you on man?
Run the jail from the inside
run the block from the outside
run the trap til the springs snap back
you either a roach, meat, some time, or a rat.

blah blah blah blah play spades & watch tv
gimme pen & ink.
whatchu got to write anyway,
tryin’ to impress someone?
Allow me to…
express maself now…

trap nation!!!
This whole fucking country is a freedom trap,
everything I wanna do is illegal,
I see the good within the bad within the good within the raw
within the meat that’s still alive, bleeding and horny,
tap the veins with a “fuck me” face
let me get up in Lady Liberty’s guts
so I can see what she’s been hiding beneath those robes all these years,
is it Baby Jesus or is just a pile of tax returns and indictments?
Let me touch your torch, girl,
we’ll burn this jail down

Man, the IRS & the FDA have been 69ing in the closet,
working on some fiscal tantric union
smelling like dirty underwear, bad chemistry, broken finances.
There’s weird shit in these grits,
bologna & cheese sandwiches,
salt peter in the pudding?
too many commercials on daytime television
now I can’t hold an attention span
so I read 3 books: a western, a drama, and a fairy tale
the American Dream unfolds & overlaps
while I’m flipping through jailhouse programming,
watching my soap dramas disappear in hot water
flies buzz after this moldy bread,
I’ve been walking in circles around the pod
chanting mantras to protect the mind I never had.
“Fuck it, you a free man”,
sez the tv and radio but I just don’t know how to believe that.

Lonely in my bunk
I telepathically text the lovely ladies I see
behind closed eyes & doors,
I caress them like wind on leaves
in the open,
I tell them how beautiful they are
while I wish
I could eviscerate myself
with love;
I try to do it constantly.
Call it selfish-will
but I want to give myself away
‘cus I think it’s the only way
to commit suicide
in a healthy & constructive manor.
Die in love; all I’ve been wanting to do
with this lifetime
learning to die well

where’s the love here?

I see these guards watching me.
Oh pirates yes they rob I.
Oh pirates, yes I rob them.
Oh pirates, yes I’m a peaceful one
but I know what blood tastes like
and I’ll have yours
if you try me.

Call this a misguided musing of another lost stargazer,
can’t seem to find the orbit right now
so I just amble through all this space
debris and all
navigating with my best intentions
paving the highway to samsara
with invisible asphault
maybe I just want attention;
why do I write and share?
I needed no intentions,
my life is the prayer!
Who likes & who cares?
No mind, no matter
I’m having a discourse
with myself

Man, I hear that guard again,
sooner or later
they’re gonna open the heavy metal sliding door
and tell me I made bail.
Or maybe not, maybe I’ll sit here and rot; HA!
they’ll have to try a little harder to keep me down,
‘cus if you really wanna know the truth
I can see through this whole pile of shit
while I sit right down on the floor
chant ‘til I escape the real prison door:
this man-made body,
this culturally-engineered mind,
these fucking clothes made of plastic and pesticide cotton,
they’re just a front.
Look in my eyes and see right through
no threats here
but you can bust me upside the head
if you don’t like what you see,
I don’t have any use for courage or fear

I’m waiting here
and I’ll be here waiting
‘til the locks rust off the doors
and I can kick my way out to see sunshine before I exhale
all this pent-up energy I’ve been holding between my eyes and shoulders
for too many lifetimes, god damn!

The chaplain can wipe his ass with my rap sheet for all I care.
God lives in this house, too
and if you don’t like it
you can shack up with some other devil.
I’m a dancing corpse with a rope around my neck
I avert my gaze, I see nothing
while I hear the shakedown man
pooping out lines of suboxone, weed, and tobacco
making money gets shitty sometimes

Somebody get me to the psych ward.
I hear they have better drugs there.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

2/13-2/19 VT-FL Brothers Road Trip [Draft Summary]

Matt & I made it safely from Peru, VT to Port Richie, FL

Here is a brief summary of our trip (draft 1):

After a lovely lunch and visit with Nana & Gaga in Shrewsbury, MA, Matt took the wheel and carried us through New England and onward into the night, southward bound.
We spent our first night at a Motel 6 in Virginia, arriving around midnight. In the morning, we drove a short distance to the Shenandoah Caverns for a tour.

Deep underground, we saw the wonders of what lies beneath. Calcite and sodium bicarbonate forming into columns and stalactite towers.

It was worth the $20 admission.
Back on the road again,

we received a warning from both of our parents about an impending ice storm in Tennessee and North Carolina.

Matt had changed his winter tires for summer tires before we left; we anticipated clear roadways. We were wrong.

Tennessee does not have state infrastructure in place to handle the blizzard we faced. 5-8 inches were expected.
The exit ramps were clogged with cars and SUVs spinning their wheels, going nowhere.
Matt narrowly avoided bumping an SUV as he fish-tail slid right through a narrow gap.
Going downhill, we nearly lost control again but regained in the nick of time. The trick: mash on the gas until the tires rip into pavement.
The snow & ice were only an inch deep at this point.
Luckily, Matt’s driving experience was sufficient to get us safely to the other side of the storm.
It was a narrow avoidance of disaster, and a little cavalier I might add, but he delivered us safely.
There is nothing like a burst of adrenaline to remind us that we are indeed alive.

We spent the night in Asheville, NC, celebrating our arrival with a couple of beers and some tacos.
We spent the next two nights with our old high school biology teacher, Patty. She lives in the city and teaches at a nearby high school.
The night we arrived was Valentines Day, so there was a party going on at Patty’s apartment building.
We had some drinks with her neighbors, a lively group of lady baby boomers. All the gentlemen must have left before we arrived.
We danced to the Grateful Dead and thumbed through old vinyl, talking about jazz and classical. Patty’s cougar neighbors really took a liking to Matt and I.
Go figure.

The next day, Matt and I drove around Asheville while he dropped off resumes at various auto body shops.
He came up with a few solid leads. Potential work for late spring.
In town, I ran into an old friend from the road at the local grocery store, serendipitous as ever. We caught up for a while.
He had been hitch hiking west from San Francisco last time I saw him.
He is now living in Asheville with a few friends of mine from Kaua’i. It was nice to see a friendly face. We parted ways saying,
“See ya next time!” with a knowing look in the eye and a certain synchronized smile.
The next morning, Matt & I had coffee and tea with Patty before getting on our way to New Orleans.
The drive was nice and mellow, warm air and clear skies. We chased that big daytime star westward and had a nice long sunset to gaze upon.
I got us into New Orleans around 7pm, arriving at my friend Rudy’s house in the city in time for a delivious dinner of mushroom, onion, & bacon quiche.
We had a few beers and swapped stories.

The next morning, Matt and I went down to the French Quarter to mingle with the wandering pedestrian traffic & hear the merging sounds of eclectic music.
We had some po’ boys and a bit of bourbon for lunch, both enjoyed on a stoop. We watched people as they watched us, walking by while we sat contented.
After lunch, Matt got hustled for a few dollars & a shoe shine.
It seemed like everyone is trying to get a few dollars in that city.
I watched and laughed while a dark-skinned southern man made a bet,
“Hey boy, nice shoes! I bet I know where you got ‘dem shoes right there!”
Matt shook his hand and took the bet as the man said,

“My daddy tol’ me to never shake the hand of the man who’s makin’ the game.”

He never made clear what the stakes were, but the man told Matt,

“Yew got ‘dem shoes under yo’ feet, right here in N’awlins!” he laughed as he quickly produced a spray bottle and squeezed soap all over Matt’s shoes.

He proceeded to kneel down and prop Matts foot on his knee as he shined the soapy Nikes with a washcloth.
“Yew been had! Aw, it’s awright, yew get ‘dis blessing on yo’ feet and fo’ $20 yew learn the trick. Fo’ $50 dollas yew git…” My ears listen as fast as his mouth was running.

Matt handed him $3 and we all had a good laugh. I was glad I wore flip-flops.
We spent some time by the waterfront and watched the muddy giant, that ol’ Mississippi roll on as a steam organ played polka & jazz, and a jazz flutist played gospel. Lots of music, all co-conspiring caucophony depending on how close you are to who’s playing what.
I had lots of fun mingling with the street artists and performers. I met a gal selling poems from a typewriter; a long legged beauty with tangled brown hair and an easy smile. She pitched her sale,

“You pick a topic and I’ll write you a poem!” She smiled slyly. I pitched her one back:

“How about I write you a poem for free!”  We agreed upon a poetry trade and got to it.

The topic: the friction between feet and ground.
She sure is a stunner; we found each others words to be warming & wonderful.

In those moments I fell absolutely in love with her; I found out that she spends time in the same parts of Oregon I do, and we agreed to find each other at the Umpqua hot springs sometime in the spring or summer if we were in those parts. We had a brief embrace before I went on my way.

Matt & I continued our wandering, exploring parks and marveling at old architecture.
After two solid days of New Orleans adventures, fried catfish and blackened crawtails, etouffe and whatever that fried dough with powdered sugar is called…
New Orleans is a beautiful city with a wild history.
We both thoroughly enjoyed ourselves there agreeing that we will surely be back.

We hit the road again, taking the coast to Grandmas house.
Another beautiful day on the road, sun shining on our pale winter skin shutter-style as we weave through the highway alongside patches of wise old pines with Spanish moss beards. Northern Florida is a humid breath of fresh air. We caught some gulf coast streaks of pink & amber hues between the red-orange clouds for sunset.

A barrel full of cheer with lots to talk about, Grandma was eager to welcome us inside. Sloppy Joes and tea for dinner.

It’s nice to be in transit and it’s fine to arrive.
Today, we rest.
Tomorrow, perhaps a new adventure may unfold.
Life is for the living, and nobody can live my life but me!

Cheers & love,

Jon and Matt
Categories: Short Stories | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Madness 2016

This morning, I dropped my cell phone into a toilet full of my 8th day detox shit.
First I tried to fish it out with a random toothbrush & failed.
I tossed the toothbrush into the trash and rolled my sleeve up to the elbow.
I went all in and came out dirty.
Time magazine has declared a prophecy: Donald Trump has won presidency. He bought it.
On the counter-prophecy, Huffington Post (an equally reliable news source) declared Bernie the Victor. He earned it.

It has been a rough start to the year for the real underdogs.
As my phone soaks in a Tupperware of hot water & bleach, I debate whether I’ll throw it out or get a new one. Either way, I need to turn it on once more to copy the contacts over to the sim card.

I really don’t like the idea of remembering last year’s colon buildup every time I catch up with an old friend or relative.

I drank a tall glass of salt water at 6:30 to cleanse my colon. That’s what started this shit.
I got off of solid food for a week. It felt needed. I was full of my own shit: social shit, physical shit, philosophical shit, psychological shit, religious shit, family shit, friend shit, drug shit, booze shit, love shit, hate shit, healing shit, destruction shit.

So I do what I used to do from dope withdrawal: curl up in a ball, shit a lot and cry a little. It seems to help. Call it seasonal affective disorder, or sad bitch syndrome. I can’t call it; I just ride the waves. Surf’s up on the shit pipeline, brah.

Don’t worry mom, I’m not shooting up. I’m using herbal medicine to get this depression thing over with. It’s deeply embedded within me. I am facing it and getting it all out. Give thanks; your son is a survivor despite even himself.

As per usual, I went too far: my cheek bones are jutting from my face, my ribs protruding from my chest, my body is slowly consuming its muscles; some may say I was too skinny to start.

All the hidden aches in my body are highlighted: hips, knees, sciatica, gallbladder, shoulders. The parts that hurt the worst are my filthy mind, and my beautifully abused heart. Me, me, me, it’s all about me. Fuck me. I love I. Me sucks. I broke the fast and am slowing out.

I drove into town yesterday, had some errands to run. Fully hydrated, I went to the DMV. I waited for my number to come up while sipping on a lemon juice & cayenne pepper brew. Yeah, my detox game is so hip. So hip. *pukes all over self*

Since my license was about to expire, I needed to apply for a new one. In the state of Oregon, all new drivers are required to take a computer administered multiple-choice test. I was already feeling lightheaded and dizzy, but the cayenne-lemon juice seemed to give me enough of a pep to stay upright.

After trying this DMV process (to no avail) on several other occasions, I finally had all the proper documents ready (so I thought). I had no choice but to be patient throughout all of this. I can be angry at nobody but myself.

First off, the guy behind the desk tells me the copy of my lease needs to be back-signed, but he can get me started on my test. Great. I sit down in front of the computer and start pressing buttons. The words seem to be floating a few millimeters off of the screen and are rearranging themselves in nonsensical patterns. I try my best to comprehend the questions & answers.

If I get 8 wrong, I’ll fail. There are 35 questions to answer. The first one is about right turns in one-way intersections; I get it right. The next one asks the speed limit in unmarked business sections. I get it wrong. Too fast.

Over the course of the next questions I manage to get more wrong than right. I can’t seem to discern the terminology. The screen is bothering my eyes and I am in a trance gateway headed to the heavens. I pray to the Lord Almighty, asking for the proper intuition to help me pass this test. Even that doesn’t help at the DMV. The Lord is clever, staying away from that place. I don’t disagree with the choice.

I finish my test rather quickly and go to the counter.

“How’d ya do?” the lady behind the counter asks me.

“Not good.” I reply.

I am pale and sickly, so she takes pity on me. I don’t want pity. I just want my fucking driver’s license, but clearly I am not road-worthy at the present moment. I need to go curl up in a cave next to a fire somewhere far away from all of this bullshit. Rejection has such a nice touch; it breeds the acceptance of my inevitable caveman solitude. She tells me I can come back the following day to try again. I grab a book to actually study this time.

Outside the DMV, a lady with a clipboard asks me if I want to sign a petition to stop voter information from being sold. I tell her I’m not registered in the state (yet), but she lets me sign on anyway. We talk for awhile about how corrupt this world is, and she spins her yarn,

“It’s a bunch of crooks & con-men, you know, the guys they tell you to look out for on the internet and in the cities, they’re all running the state and federal government,” I nod my head as she goes on, “I shouldn’t be running my mouth like this but I’m old and I have a mouth so I’m gonna use it!”

I give her thumbs-up and a smile, silently thinking “breath is precious”.

I hop into the car and make my way down the street to the Federal Credit Union to set up a new bank account. I step into the bank and am greeted by three tellers at once. This is a different style of bank. There is no line. It’s chaos. I am immediately confused and after fumbling with my feet for an indistinct amount of time, I instinctively walk toward to the teller whom I find the most attractive. I scramble for my ID and she gets me set up with a sit-down banker.

We go over my needs.

“Do you need direct deposit? Do you need financial planning? Have you thought about retirement?”


“How about credit, do you want to build that?”

“I try not to spend money that I don’t already have.” I say, thinking I’d rather have street credit than banking credit.

Call me foolish but I think the whole game is fucked & I don’t wanna play, even if it means sacrificing my own comfort. Even if it means facing piles of hospital bills I can’t possibly pay. If that happens I’ll file for bankruptcy or I’ll file for SSI (yes I can get it, I’m a homeless addict. In America I am rewarded for bad decisions. Does that upset you? It should.)

We do a credit check and I’m at a solid 0. Last year I was -1, perfect.
She then goes on to ask me,

“What happened with so-and-so bank and so-and-so bank in 2011?”
The needle skips off the record.

“How much do I owe?” I ask

“You owe $100 to these guys and $500 to these guys. They shut you down for account abuse and sent it to collections.” She gives me a wary look.

“Ah shoot, I totally forgot about that. Hadn’t heard from them and thought it went away. I made some foolish mistakes a few years ago.” I shyly disclose.

“Well the collections agencies give up after 7 years and it was 5 years ago.” She informs me of an option to wait it out.

I truly want to resolve it. This year has been a year of me squashing debts. Resolving bad credit I created years ago, I’ve paid out a few grand. I have a few grand left. At the time of the offense, I remember putting it onto my future self. I acknowledged that if I survived my dope habit at the time, I would inevitably have to redeem myself in the future.

Here it is. Here is my chance to pay the banks back. Will I do it? I’m not sure. Is it the right thing to do? I don’t know. I’d rather give it to charity. Are the banks worthy of redemption? Probably not. I don’t have the cash on hand but I can go work for it.

I thank the teller and walk out the door. My head is cold. I realize I lost my hat. I go back into the bank and walk around aimlessly searching the floor. I pay mind to no one while the room is silent. I can feel them all observing my strange behavior. I inevitably stand out; I am not able to fully gauge the gaps in conversation. I space out randomly, as if my body is processing remnants of leftover psychedelic experiences.

In one moment, I am in the room, in the next moment I am flying through the stratosphere perceiving the nature of existence through omniscient observation.
I see it all go down.

I see the piss, the shit, the junkies & the derelicts, nodding out in alleys, shooting up in groups, taking care of each other while simultaneously robbing each other of property, the small reflects the large,

I see the faces of tortured victims, beheaded journalists, religious radicals, political refugees, war torn nations, no water and no food, no shelter from the storm,

I see fat fucks stuffing their faces with McDonalds rallying for Donald Trump,
the so-called silent majority working themselves to the bone in a battery factory, high on meth made by their hillbilly Uncle who’s now doing ten years of fed-time,

I see the corporate prison owners driving the nails into the coffins of rehabilitation,

I see the priests spewing ignorance & intolerance while teaching a sermon of tolerance & acceptance,

I see gun enthusiasts acting like they’re the biggest gang around, ha ha what a laugh,

I see independent militias with plans of revolution, like replacing the government is as easy as putting on a new suit & tie?! If you replace shit with more shit, you’ll have a bigger pile of shit you fucking clowns,

I see movements that go nowhere, devoid of leadership & direction, lost in the sea of misdirection, scared to take a stand for fear of some hail of bullets, drones, nanobots, realizing their own ineptness through misacting and miscommunication,

I see a tired old generation still stuck in the habit of destroying everything around them and condemning their sons & daughters for being lazy, because our rejection of their industrial continuum means it is invalid, it means their whole lives have been a waste and they are far too selfish to ever release us of their own expectations,

I see pain in the eyes of our fathers as they’ve inherited a barrel of pain & misunderstanding, as their wives leave them, their family falls apart in anger and destruction, the bank claims homes and businesses, a glass of scotch and the barrel of the handgun tastes like freedom from this,

I see the tears in our mothers eyes because they’ve always been so much more than stay-at-home moms, been more than chefs, more than day-care, more than secretaries and substitute teachers, they’ve been the backbone of all this misfortune and they never got to find out who they really are, so xanax and sleeping pills tastes like freedom from this,

I see suffering in the eyes of our grandparents as they give up, this world is out of their realm of understanding, they give up their bodies, they give up their minds as they softly fade into chemical comas in nursing home beds,

I see pain in the eyes of our sons & daughters, we never wanted this, no, we didn’t want the mansion, the gifts, the false prosperity, the sense of well-being devoid of fulfillment, all we ever wanted was your love & acceptance while you were too busy working to buy us things & then tell us we’re all spoiled,

I see a bunch of millennials praying to the gods in their phones, oblivious to the world outside, concerned only with the next distraction, never fully able to appreciate the one in hand,

I see recent college graduates, too scared to be themselves so they mimic their parents, working jobs that fulfill the same misery their parents raised them with, drinking every day to numb their confusion & lack of internal fulfillment,

I see jaded city-folk born & raised to worship the man-made, disconnected from nature, warped on pharmaceuticals,

I see lost country-folk, raised on nature & warped on mushrooms & molly, playing into consumerist demands which create the exploitation of organic food & organic cannabis which is largely becoming sold to further selfish ends, marketing products under the guise of enlightened consumerism with sacred geometry logos and mercaba patterns, starting to look a lot like Pepsi and Coco-Cola,

I see counter-culture turned culture, a generation of robotic dancers flowing to electronically contrived beats, shelling out their parents’ trust fund to rebel against conventional living through supporting conventional partying, following festivals and shows with a false idea of revolution as they mimic the same shameless capitalism as Wall Street in their drug-made cottage-industry,

I see fake yogis and phony sadhus with pasty complexion, covered in phony ashes & fake dust as they wander aimlessly digging through trash cans and dumpsters in search of the next piece of new-age tail to chase down,

I see new-age philosophers, selling ideas piled upon ideas; nothing makes sense because the words are sold for cents,

I see the hip-hop and the hip-not, the real recognizes the real, and there’s only a few keeping it real,

I see hackers sticking it where it hurts, reminding the powers that be of the raw force of evolution & nature in technological form,

I see sustainable majors, gaining a grasp on what is needed to be done, and finding the good word in the air, water, & sun,

I see old farmers educating new farmers; I see nature supporting itself through the fruits of old growth feeding new growth,

I see bright lights among dark shadows, I see mothers raising new babies with old values, water-born babies-in-arms, no drugs and no hospitals,

I see children with illuminated & untainted minds, I see teachers with jaded inspiration, and I see substitutes with optimism & hope & love,

I see our fathers and mothers recovering from their maladies; after everything has been lost they can begin anew. I see realization in their eyes & minds, we share the burdens together and overcome them through strength and love and community, building ourselves alongside a better day,

I see wise old grandparents who have met the Almighty, have no fear and realize the cycle of life, hold no grudge and no regret and remain an endless source of inspiration and wisdom,

I see the habits breaking after we survive them, after we survive ourselves, we decide we cannot kill ourselves because we don’t have it in us, we lack the strength to do so, so we turn to constructive & selfless means because it’s the only thing that releases us from the prisons of our twisted bodies & warped minds,

I see senators & congressmen growing old & dying, I see the new replacing the old,
I see the new getting sick and tired of the world our grandparents & parents left us, I breathe the chemicals, the pollutants, the harmful technologies of HAARP, the radiation from the pacific ocean: it’s in the clams, the crabs, the tuna, the squid, the seaweed, the pacific ocean is dying, the world is slowly dying again,

And it’s all a cycle, it comes and goes, ebbs and flows, nature takes care of itself but is that any reason to continue neglecting it? Decay feeds growth only while the environment is supportive of healthy growth.

I see a lonely writer, broken heart healing, hating himself and loving himself, stuck outside & forced to live inside, outdated & outnumbered, raging in darkness with a candle burning his fingertips and eyelids, ranting silently to himself with aches all over and a headache: no sugar no smoke no smack no dope no hope, he realizes immanence, no use for hope anymore. The show always goes on. There is no need for pessimism or optimism; they are a waste of energy. Just be and die.

And then I leave the bank, hopefully for the last time. I make it home alive, find the hat in my pocket, and resolve not to go out again like that. It was a careless move on my part, but I trust in the good will of the Universe to guide me home without injury to others.
Myself can wait. I sit and contemplate the material of existence silently.

“If we don’t discipline ourselves, the world will do it for us.” -William Feather

Consider this a peace offering.


I love you all,

Simon Cape
Central Oregon
January 13, 2016

Categories: Ailments & Cures, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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