Saturday, September 14, 2019

Doggone Own It or Photon On It


               We are so proud that we, human beings, took wolves; took them in, fed them, trained them, and now we live with them.  Dogs.  They guard our lives, they guard our lands and our homes, they herd our cattle, they guide our blind, and they are our toys.

               But look at it from that Wolf’s point of view.  The wolves saw man.  They carefully watched man, what he was, what he is, what he is capable of.  They tested man.

               Man could not run as fast as wolves.  Man could not see as good as wolves.  Their sense of smell, sensing and distinguishing and interpreting sounds.  Wolves could hide from man.  Man, at that time, had no weapons that could defeat wolves.  Their claws and teeth and strength.

               And wolves liked the food that man made.  The deer meat that man caught and cooked.  The grains that man baked.  The milk, cow milk, goat milk, sheep milk that man drank. Those wolves started with eating what man wasted, what man threw out, what he left behind.  Then the wolves got to know man.  Wolves got man to feed the wolves.

               Wolf realized that man could make physical things.  Man had hands that he could be taught to use.  Wolves had paws; wolves had claws, wolves had brains.  They could protect themselves.  The Wolf squeezed through the Man’s arms so the Man could learn to touch him, to stroke him, to hug him.  The Wolf taught the Man to use his fingers, his wrists, his thumbs.  Man had hands that could build things.

               Wolf befriended Man.  The wolves rounded up, commanded, taught man how to have families, how to have homes, and how to care for their families, their things, and wolves.

               Those wolves became dogs.  “Let man think that he is ordering us.  Let man think that he owns us.  Man will build us our homes.  Man will feed us.  Man will take us to the veterinarian to take care of our health.  Man will play with us.  And all that we dogs will have to do is to bark at that mailman.”

               Just like how Caesar had ordered the Romans to build the colosseum and to enslave the Greeks and to build the Aqueduct.  So Romans could have water.  So Romans could have work done for them.  So Romans could have entertainment, something to watch.  So Romans could watch man kill each other.  Caesar don’t know nothing but how to order Romans to have a life and play and die in the colosseum, for him.

               Just like Edison, Edison who rounded up, shepherded scientists and engineers to think up how and then to build for Edison his light bulbs and direct current generators and other such things.  Just like Edison barking orders at Tesla only to have that Tesla dig through the fence and run free only to be chained and collared and barked commands at from that dog Westinghouse.

               Now, Elon Musk barks commands at his puppies.  His guard dogs.  His boarder collies.  He snaps their leashes and commands them to build intercontinental subways and interplanetary space ships.  “Program those cars.  Sell my microchips.  Make me more money.”  Like Tesla, those Musk Engineers and Scientists would have to fight to live.  Sure, they produced more than they were recognized for.  Just like, when you eat your mutton chops for Easter brunch, you do not appreciate those dogs who day after day after day rounded up those sheep, saved them from coyotes, and kept them from falling off the cliffs.  Sure, they were barked at, but Dog, Edison, That King of England, That Pope,  they all gave these men, these thinkers and growers and scientists places to live, regular food and water, a place to get rid of the consumed regular food and water, and those constant commands.

               So their commanding dogs, their leaders of their packs, their Musks and Business Owners, and Politicians can bark and tell them to jump around as they think they know it all as they are really the ones that are chasing those rubber balls or even just chasing their own tails.

               Pardon me Dylan, but it ain’t the difference between Man and God and Law.  It is the partnership between Man and Photon and Dog.  Man, those scientists that created Ben Franklin for us, those very scientists who put the twists on that key and kite string’s collected electron, that twist giving us the Photon, the very Photon from Edison’s light bulb.  Edison, who now claims he gave us Electricity and Technology and Science. 

               That Photon, our friend the Photon, came about because Dog saw and nurtured and rounded up man into a community.  A herd, a community so that we could give our Caesars, our Elons, our Barking Dogs their KenLRation and raw hide bones so that we can watch them and smile under the enlightenment of Photon.  Man and God and the Laws of Physics.

               That Electron, as I said before, is our Photon.  At lower waves it looks like salt.  Increase its wave length and you see a calcite crystal.  Attract it to a magnesium electron (if you have five electrons in a six electron outer shell you easily attract that calcite’s ionizing electron) and from their combined self agreeing wave and then you will see the dolomite. When I say “see” I am using the generalizing term for sense.  As in see or hear or feel.

               Take an iron bar, attract, spread out, and lower that always moving, always rotating cyclic photon and because you are lowering its wavelength and you can then hear.  You hear its growl.  You hear its howl.  You hear its bark.  There must be a mailman!

               Raise its wavelength and you will feel that electricity spark from those bared wires.  More length, more wave, and you really see.  You raised that photon’s wavelength so that you awake.  You see the light, my friend.  The light from the infra-red, and it goes through the rainbow of this world, our combination of gases and soot and fog atmosphere prismatically taking us to the ultra-violet.  And when it gets too violent, those peaking waves then go through the radio frequencies into their radioactive washes.   

               That Photon, like That Dog, holds our community together.  Without its growls and yips, our whole flock of sheep would just walk off the side of that cliff.  Like lemmings to the sea.  You and me, neighbor, stepping forward because Lassie ain’t there to stop us, while we keep together.

               The same thing, without its pulls and repulses and spins, without its outer shell, us, those atoms, those elements of silicon and oxygen or those angular attractions of hydrogen and oxygen, or us individual atoms of calcite; would not me, a big, fat, old oxygen, and you and your mother, you hydrogens.  Would you not first let off some steam, and then fog up?  Wouldn’t you?  I think you would.    Then swirl.  And, I do say, Dew Drop Inn.  We become not lucid, not yet lucent, but we become liquid.  We stream, we flow, or at least your mother’s name is Flo.

               And then we calm down.  We bond, we cool it, everyone has an angle.  And that angle between you and me, our friendship, our community is a very precious, very individualistic snowflake.  A snowstorm, a blizzard.  And without that community of our dog and our photon this ice sheet of ours never would have been.  Thanks to the Photon, you and I are strong enough to be Glacial.  And it is us that coldly, boldly carved out those Great Smokey Mountains.   

               People, think about all those things that The Dog has taught us!  He would forcedly plant his butt on the ground and teach us the word “sit.”  He focused his eyes on the children running across the street in front of cars and away from busses, and he used that to teach us the word “point.”  Remember when he lifted his leg to our face and taught us the word “shake?”  No, it was the front leg he lifted that time.  He would bark and bark and run around and kept looking out the window.  That was how he taught us the word “mailman.”

               Like The Dog, The Photon is an enlightenment too.  When that Photon makes those flashes come out of our telephones, he teaches us to say “hello.”  When he shoves his red light in you eyes you sure are taught the word “stop” or at least the word “cop.”  Over many cycles man was taught words, man was taught spelling, man could not read without That Photon lighting up That Telephone and teaching us the word “TWITTER!”

 

When a Mutt
Oh sees some mutton
Running through the yard
“Chase those mutton”
Yells that boy
He is that flock’s shepherd
Every Lassie
Has his Timmy
My boy’s named Bernard
When all those Photons
Shine on me
That is my own
Reward.
 

Saturday, September 7, 2019

Hurry Cane, If You Are Able


Vote Vote in the deranged
So our fears and the money hungry will play
Now seldom I heard
A truth carrying word
And Putin is obeyed everyday

 
               I’ve been told every time this happens.  I am finally learning.  It needed to get tweeted into my head.  Come on!  Realize, it does not take a hurricane to kill hundreds of people.  It takes people of a different skin color living in Puerto Rico, working class, tax paying, American people who do not deserve the respect of the decent lives of “Continental” sometimes tax paying American people,  to make the winds and rains and collapsing buildings and power lines to kill hundreds of people.

               My eye finally opened from my concussion.  I feel a breath pulled in through my nose.  It scrapes down my throat.  It pushes and force fills my lungs.

               My blurred vision, the fog slowly cleared.  My eyes, they got focused on what is in front of me.

               And what is in front of me?  There are people.  There are people to my left and people to my right.

               Those on my left, they are the large group.  They have guns and blades.  They have tattoos.  They have gangs of slaves.  Their slaves look like them.  They sound like them.  They are them.  Threatening muscles.  Clamped jaws with straining eyes out of red, squinted sockets.  Hateful looks.

               Those on my right, maybe there are one or two.  Each standing alone.  Looking.  Hands down their sides.  Sparse they are.  Weak of stature.  Weak of life.  Each alone.  Some old.  Some young.  Old, wrinkled, missing grey to white hair.  Young shivering.  Trying to peer as though through fog.  Nothing threatening at their hands or feet.

               That group at my left.  They step steadily forward.  They state, “We are who we say we are.”

               Those few on my right.  I hear them, the words come out not forced, not hard, but it is stressed, maybe, “We are not who we say we are.”

               My blurred vision focuses on what is in front of me.  I see them both.  I realize that I have sides.  I have an outside.  A side that you see.  A side that I show.  A side that I think I prepare and that side I present.  Everything that has an outside, has an inside.  That is the side that I know.  The side that I feel.  The side that is me and that reacts to my pains and wants and reachings.

               And now, with throbbing head.  With eyes unsteady.  With mouth chapped and cold, pain windblown, desert dry.  I step up to the Bar.  I step into the Mars Bar and step up to the Bar!  My foot strengtheningly raised and firmly rooted on that bar rail.  From that mouth, from my inner self, aided by that air that was forced into my lungs, I, pained, slowly but firmly, request “A Moon Shot.”

               That is what my inner being wanted.  I did not want to be barred from this.  I took the shot.  People that I have admired had taken shots.  I am joining them.  I got shot.  It flushed.  It irrigated my sandstone rock dried river bottom throat.  It eroded my chest, my ribs, my heart.  And I was not done.  My next, lung bellows, forced worded request, “Barkeep!  I need an Asteroid Belt!  Don’t tell me that I am too drunk to fly!   Driven under the intercedent intermittent interruptions of interstellar space.  This is the Mars Bar!  It is not a Candy Bar!” 

               What was around me.  What was outside of me.  What I demanded.  Became me.

               The World Polluters Backed By America, the WBBA, told us that we do not need any Government enacted industrial waste management regulations.  Industry, their Industry, bought or brought us to where we are today.  So, we are better off with the paper mill run offs, the coal processing slag, and the hydrocarbons filling the atmosphere, just to name a few.  But, don’t do any of that anywhere near the owner’s golf courses.

               And look at that Poor Brother Kook.  He had to suffer with all that money because he made workers, lower class human beings, process logs into paper, dig coal, and bury coal waste.  Because of all that suffering we made that Kook do he was forced to suffer into old age.  He did not do that for himself.  He did that to us.  Thanks to his hole family we don’t have to, we won’t, we can’t live to old age. 

               God gave us plants.  God gave us rivers.  God gave us the mud and silt that buried those plants at the bottom of those rivers.  God also gave us a lot of pressure.  God gave us air pressure and the pressure of stone upon stone.  And people like the Kooks helped God by giving us a lot more pressure in our daily lives.  How to live on less money.  How to work without health care or even breaks so that he can get richer.  And more people, like those Kooks, added Carbon Dioxide, Sulfuric Acid, Iron Sulfide and such to what is now all over our atmosphere.  Their selfless gifts are doing God’s work by weighing down our atmosphere even more.  Not only do they give us a heavy breath.  That atmosphere of our world weighs down, presses, crushes the rivers and streams and those plants at their bottoms, those plants covered with sludge along with sands and soils.  Those plants, those dead plants that no longer can give us this oxygen to our breathable world.  And that pressure on those dead blackens not only their hearts, as in the hearts of palms, but it blackens their whole beings.

               Once living things that are now dead at the bottom of those brooks layered by river bottoms and tooled by this heavy atmospheric pressure, those once living things turn to coal.  Coal is our goal.  And what better can we do to honor coal?

               Some anti people idiots want us to do stupid, disgusting things like use that hard working coal to enrich growing soils.  You do know what else people use to enrich growing soils?  Fertilizer!  They just love their corn rows and bean fields covered with cow plops.

               We should not dishonor coal, wonderful coal, by treating it as if it were a cow plop. 

               What should we do?  A light in your head.  Light a candle.  Light up the sky.  Light your dreams.  Or maybe you are just light in head.  Think people.  Why do they say happiness is “Delight”?  Because it is “Lit”.

               Take those efforts, those remembrances.  Take those past lives.  Light them!  I get, you get, we all get a warm glow from that.  And when I look up into that sky, when I look to the heavens, I see that constant, ever there reminder of the efforts of our industry.  Man sure is industrious.

               And we put that in our pipes and smoked it!

               Global Warming

               Pride cometh before the fall.  And fall cometh before our winter.  That is a pride that tracked us.  Attacked us.  A pride of lions or a bunch of proud liars.  And that caused our downfall.  Our fall caused a winner of a winter.  Some called it our Ice Age.  It ain’t no Ice Age!  Because when You Age, You Mature.  And it was so so obvious that what we were doing to our environment, there was no way we could ever be considered mature.

               The workers now dig the coal.  The workers now mine the talc.  No, we don’t mind talc anymore.  We do not mind what those nutty scientists have been telling us all those years about talc.  Who cares if the workers get more cancer?  Those workers dig, excavate, make readily available all the sulfurs and irons and aluminums and leads we could ever need.  More than our lifetime could need.  Or is it our lifetime is getting shorter so we definitely do not need what we are getting?

               The workers work those ores.  They refine and at the same times we feel our lives are refined, very fine.

               Thanks to all our great work there is no Arable lands anymore.  Thank God, my family always hated those Arabs.  There also is no man strong enough to dig the soil and plant the seeds.  There is no water to irrigate those long gone farmlands. The workers now get whipped into memorizing how to perform chemical reactions, and then they go into their rooms and produce them.  Those rooms are the factories where our food is chemical reactantly produced.  And those workers, or at least what is left alive of them, since there is no water anymore, they burn the coal in order to capture what little free oxygen is left and then take the sulfur and hydrochloric acids to manufacture that oxygen and adding another in that long list of their labors, they take that oxygen and the other elements produced by our workers’ daily, day long jobs of constructing the chemicals, that combine their freed oxygens with their sweatingly produced hydrogens to build those H2Os for the deserving rulers of our superior society to drink.  And since those bosses are drinking, working man must also be beaten to memorize and factory produce the chemical reactions to create what we now call beer and wine and vodka. Man sure is creative when he is told to be.

               Who needs conservation?  Just elect all the Cons.  That will Serve our Nation.  That’s good enough for us.  And why should we care about Global Warming?  Global Warring is what we want!  We are just doing what comes naturally. 

 

You dug in to that surface mine
Like you were digging for anthracite
You set down with your Brunt Compass
So you could measure its dip and strike
You took a breath full of that coal dust
And got Pneumoconiosis
Yes that’s
Black Lung Disease
Black Lung Disease
Dig that vein
I thought you knew that coal was about you
Dig that vein
You probably need a pick and a shovel
Shove it

 
You fought hard against Solar Power
And your side certainly won
Your Coal burns in the middle of the night
Who cares that their electrons spun?
You’ve dug one foot in the ground my friend
And now you’ll certainly go
Another Five Foot Under
A grave is six Feet Under
Its Methane
You’re proud this song is about coal
Acid Rain
We’ve become an Asphyxiation
Nation

 
The news says that there’s another cave in
And Maybe a hurricane
Surely those Kooks had won
Against that MSHA
The
Mining Safety and Health Administration
Who Cares About This Nation
There’s lead in your veins
And there’s no more to this world than just coal
You Bled in your brain
And now They’re all on a roll
A roll

 
Those Kooks sure are partying
On Fox the Truth was Spun
It may have been your last breath
It’s a double eclipse of the sun
We’ve got cancer from those Windmills now
Not bituminously
And that Coal Miner’s Daughter
Coal Miner’s Daughter
They’re in a Strip Mine
And they’re watching that Coal Miner’s Daughter
A Strip Mine
On the Upper Strata
On the Upper Strata

Saturday, August 31, 2019

Spare Change or The Upper Crust


               I put in an eight hour day today.  Actually, it was eight and a half hours.  A half hour unpaid lunch.  Ain’t they kind?  I was at my drill press, drilling those three holes into these inch and a half metal brackets.  They eventually are going to be lid clasps on storage bins.  Fill one.  Put it down.  Lift another.  Fill it again.

               That was the last eight hours of this two week pay period.  And now, the high light.  Payday!  And as usual.  Splat!  A pie in the face.

               Since that last depression things changed.  Oh, the owners of these companies are still the same and living the same.  They didn’t have to give up anything.  But we all lost our jobs.

               Well, those owners kept all that gold and silver and those radioactive ores, but the rest of us have nothing.  We were told that the paper money we had was worthless.  “The Federal System that printed that money is no more.  Fort Knox is barren.”  The bosses told us that, as they collected our money to “Properly dispose of.”  Paper money, coins, credit cards, you name it.

               No jobs.  No pay.  No life.

               Well, a guy has to work to eat.  I’ve got a wife and twins.  The twins are eight years old.  What could I do?

               I went to that factory and I’m working the drill press. 

               Our government and the business owners restructured the banks and taxes and everything.  I hate this pay scale but what can I do?  In working my job, for four hours I get paid two pies in the face and three squirts of the seltzer water bottle.  I get paid every two weeks.  I’m stuck.  I have to feed my kids. 

               So then, this Friday, after my eight and a half hours are put in, I am standing in line.  I am inching up.  I am making my way to this barred pay station window in the factory.  That clerk there looks at me with her dozing eyes and her bored memorized sounding voice.  She asks me my name.  She asks me for some identification.  I show her my work ID card which she scans with the computer.  The screen says I am okay.  Next, I spread my waterproof canvas on the floor and stand on it.  Then she opens those bars.  Throws Forty Pies into my face.  I wipe them off with a towel I brought from home and put the scrapings in my manbag.  My manbag is waterproof and zip locks shut.  Then she sprays me with seltzer water sixty times.  I take off my shirt and pants and wring them over my canvas on the floor.  I pull up the corners of my canvas and squeeze, directing the water into the jars I bring from home each payday.  I got dressed again.  I packed up my financial tools and left for the week end.
 
               When I leave that building on payday there are beggars asking for spare crust.  After my first two weeks back in the working world I thought they were asking for spare rust.

               Those owners restructured the banks and taxes and everything.

               If the company I am working for needs to buy some raw material or tools, then if the company we are going to purchase those working goods from is as large as ours, and their owners have crypto currency, then they pay each other off with crypto currency.  Whatever that means!  Crypto currency is not in the banking or tax system.  It is traded between business owners like the barter system used to be back in the Headless Horseman’s time.  Except if you ain’t got no crypto currency then YOU get that pie in the face, and YOU get taxed.  Just like, if the company you are working for needs to quickly purchase some paper goods and the nearest source is a small business owner in town then your company’s president sends one of his clerks over with sixty two pies and four quarts of seltzer water to target and then spray Frank the franchisee of your town’s “Paper Goods or Good Paper.”  Now, if Frank was a franchisor instead of a franchisee then he probably would have Crypto Currency and not need to wash his face.  Your business’ owner would pay for the deal electronically and he would not have to pay one of your lower class stupid clerks to go over and throw pies at Frank.

               When I go to MallWarts for groceries and I am using the automated checkout, the cash register shows a picture of the family head, Mr. Warthog.  I have to hit the picture with my pies and spray it with my seltzer water.  If you don’t hit him enough a security alarm goes off.  At MallWarts they only have automated registers.  It really registered to Mr. Warthog that if he did not have to hire people to man the cash registers then he would make even more money selling those same people the items in his stores.

               After you pay, if you have change coming, you’ll get some squirts.  If you over paid, like with a big Currant Pie, then you will probably get a few pot pies thrown back at you.  That’s better than being hosed down.

               The way this working world went has Made America’s Great Depression Again.  I proudly wear my MAGDA hat.  What those business owners had to go through.  I sure felt sorry for them, they were depressed because they couldn’t make more money off of their workers.  To stop the long check out lines or to stock the shelves or to clean the snow from the parking lots they had to hire more people and they weren’t allowed to lower those employees’ pay anymore.  The only good answer for everyone was to get rid of that Minimum Wage law.  Most of their workers were complaining that, “We do all of this work and only get paid ‘The Minimum’.” Those poor business owners were sick of hearing that.  They had to keep flying out on their private jets and stay at the President’s golf courses just to get away from them.  Well, the business owners changed the law and there was no more Minimum Wage.  The owner of the company I worked for said, “You should all be happy now.  There is no minimum.”  Then as the owners took in all the Gold and Diamonds and Radioactive Substances, more and more working people started going to the banks and demanding that they hand over what is in their accounts.

               The business owners now said “Account of this we are taking bank shots.  And we are closing the Federal Reserve.  Who needs it?  You can now bank on us.

               “Also, government regulations just encourage Fake News.  For Instance, Fake News says that I am lying.  What they are saying is bad for your ears.  I sure know that my ears don’t want to hear that stuff.  I am going to save us all and replace ‘Regulations’ with ‘Ear Regulations.’  Irregulations, constipations, deforestations.  We are doing so many things to you; I mean for you.

               “MAGDA truly is the Era of Irregulation!

               “Oh MAGDA
               “He tells ME he’s so valuable
               “Oh MAGDA
               “He tells Me he’s so good.”

               But then we, the workers countered with:

               “That MAGDA
               “To us he’s such a stumblebum
               “That MAGDA
               “He’s just a racial slur.”

               And our lives have changed.  Now we don’t have Savings Accounts.  We have a lot more Saving Counts though.  Like Count Dracula he sucks the blood you need to live on and doesn’t give a darn for your souls.  Savings Counts and Savings Barons and Savings Rooks.  Or was that Savings Crooks.  I think so because with these Business/Government appointed Savings Crooks all of our personal Savings sure went Barren.   I am glad they are acknowledged as the Royalty they are.  And you do know that if they are our Royalty then we, the citizens, the workers, must pay them Royalties.  It was something royal that we have a lot more of now.  And we really should thank our Savings King.  He saved us when our savings were aching.  Since you now don’t have savings, how could it ache? 

               And look at your lives now.  Now, when you get your tax refunds, to give you your tax refunds the businesses that took over the government just take some old pies that were sitting in that cupboard for about a year and toss them right into the middle of your face.  That sure makes you feel good.  Actually, they hire some low class crony to do it but they do it to you.  And then if the tax refund owes you some change, they check to see if you are a man or a woman.  And then that guy goes to the federal building with the crescent moon on the door and ladles out a couple of cups to splash in your face.  And if you are a farmer you get Cow Pies.

               Speaking of Cow Pies, it has also been great these last few years that we now have to keep one and a half acres of beans and ferns and silkweeds and aloe.  I always wear that mask to save my exhales that I make each day.  I have a little hand peddle that I need to spin every now and then to compress my exhaled breath.  When I get home from work, I get to release that breath into my glass enclosed garden so that those plants can free my oxygen from my carbon dioxide.  I also need to get on my bicycle to pump that oxygen back into the tanks that I need to carry with me so I can breathe.  We are so much better since the people that changed our money system also burned off the Amazon Rain Forest.  Remember those good old days when we smoked cigarettes?

               So, I have to wear these tanks all the time.  Tanks to breath from and tanks to breath into.  I got to pedal the air in and pedal that air out.  I have to clean my own air with weeds because I can’t buy any good plants.  What can a person buy with a rag full of swipes of a rotting custard pie?  I work hard, harder than ever, in order that I can be treated like Curly from the Three Stooges movies.  And our Moes.  They get paid with real money instead of squirts of seltzer.  I am lucky if it is seltzer.  And these Moes live like Seinfeld’s Bubble Boy with electrical machines providing them breathable air.  We hardly ever see them.  If they lower themselves to appear with us common people, they are in their space suits.  I really feel like saying “E T Go Home!” 

               These rich people, I’ve heard of some that hire poor people to breathe for them.  Then those rich guys pay the poor by squirting them in the face with Seltzer Water.  You might ask why they don’t pay the poor by shoving a pie in their faces?  Those rich people feel that Fresh Air ain’t worth much.  They are so smart.  I’m happy for them that they don’t breathe no more.

               Speaking of not breathing anymore, I’m stopping off at the church to light a candle.  I’ll just unzip and donate some spare change.  By the way, is that your wallet or a calzone?

 
When a pie hits my face
And I’m left in disgrace
That’s my payday
The coconut in my eye
And my cheek smeared with lime
A paystub
 
There is that Pay Clerk
He is such a Jerk
All the week he lurks
He just says ‘go to Hell A’
 

And the owner’s spies
In their weird disguise
‘I’m just one of the guys’
Do you think I’m a nut?
 
Your boss bought a new jewel
But you have to eat gruel
You can’t Afford A
 

His life is sublime
But you work overtime
That’s enough

 
You’re in a cruel duel
and he’s a big fool
Such a clump of stool
That’s Adored A
With the Bums on the street
Who got nothing to eat
That’s our glory

Saturday, August 24, 2019

Step Into The Path Of Superheroes


               I wear a poncho.  It is canvas.  One side is rubber coated.  When I walk the skirt is folded up three times.  In my backpack I carry three retractable tent poles.  I also have three rolled up blankets.  Hanging off the bottom of my back pack is an envelope of water.  It holds up to four gallons.

               I eat along the way, my way.  I excrement along my way too, out of the way.

               I see rocks and trees. I see ponds and springs.  When I need to refill my water, I look for a mountain stream flowing, bouncing off rocks, and sand or slate.  I cup it.  I hold my cupped hand up to my face.  If it smells fairly well, I taste it.  If there is no algae, if it is clear and not tan nor brown, I drink my fill and fill my canteen envelope.

               I see roosts of birds, stomped feeding grounds of buffalo calves or dogs.  There are villages to the west.  No, not villages of dogs or parrots.  These are villages of people! I was born in one.  My parents were killed in one.  My brother took charge of one.  That is why I walk east.

               I tote a cane.  It helps me step.  It sturdies my ankle and lessens the pain in my right hip.

               I have six friends.  I have six friends in the fields.  Some just roam haphazardly.  Some go north.  One goes south.  I know others that are repeatedly not friends.  And I have four friends in the villages.

               In the last village I walked through they had some stupid television show called “The Bionic Man.” In that show they put circuits, gears, and robotic arms into these animals.  Then those people had to watch out for Gear Deer.  Horns grinding into their backs and heads and stuff.  The backs and heads that got ground were the humans.  Those humans then got surprising help from Gear Wolves.  They had help anyway until the Gear Wolves ate all the Gear Deer.  Then the Gear Wolves ate them.  What a surprise!  Then they were so proud of themselves.  With their real bionics they combined biology and mechanical engineering.  They created the real Germ Man Gear Man.  And, some more surprises, this Germ Man Gear Man took over the world.  Ain’t that surprising.  There is something that sounds so familiar about a Germ Man Gear Man wanting to take over the world.

               In another show they had this Biological Woman and some Biological Man.  Boy they were very wrong.  It was so obvious that there was no logic to either of them. And, wait till you see that Botanical Man!  Gee, he should be planted six feet under.  Him and his sidekick, Sunny Boy.

               Then, all of the sudden I realized; these were not cartooning.  These were not super hero shows.  Those were not stupid little kids mesmerized by watching the TV.  Those are stupid grown adults mesmerized by watching that TV.  What they were watching is what is now called “The News.”  The News used to have a different meaning in the past.  When I used to use the term “meaning” I used to mean “definition.” Do you remember when a definition told you what a thing was instead of what you should say a thing is?  Boy I miss the past, sometimes.  Boy I glad I missed the past, other times.

               And you know what?  Those people I just told you about, those are the good guys.  Now, what about that Evil Poet, The Bardman of Alcatraz?  He rhymes and he chimes with his crimes.  We also got to look out for The Chimp Monk.  His ammunition is Monk He See Monk He DooDoo.  Watch out, that was really Monk He Pee Monk He Poo.  There was that time when he robbed that bank, him along with his Primate.  Just because everyone thinks Banks are so Holy.  First, he robed the bank and then the village just gave up Pope.  This Chimp Monk has a partner in crime.  His sidekick is named Cardinal Lester.  All over the city you hear people yelling “I just couldn’t Card Less.”  Chimp Monk is competing to be named the Villa Villain.

               One of my friends lives there in that village.  He is a real gem of a neighbor.  That community just thinks he’s gold.  The neighbor’s kids think he is a super hero.  No, not Batman or The Flash.  They call him Iron Man.  You should look at his broad shoulders.  He appears to be really a square living individual.  He carries his own weight.  You would be impressed.

               A lot of people dig him.  They brag that he is “A friend of mine.”  Or is that “the mined?”  Or maybe “mines?” A lot of people get taken in.  He is a load off their mines.  And when those people are stoned like loadstone, they are really attracted to him.  I tried to warn them that something smelled of rotten eggs.  “Don’t feel enriched by him.  There ain’t much value in a Fool’s Gold.”  I became very wary about pirates in the past.  We need to be warried about Pyrites in the present.  My good friend, good old Irving Ronald Pyrite.  He likes to go by his first initial and his short middle name.  I. Ron Pyrite.

               If that is how I view friends, you can imagine what I put up with day to day.  I tried to live in that village once.  It was not pleasant.  I’ll always remember, one morning when I was going to work.  I got out of my car and was walking up to the building.  I did not want to trip.  I bent over to tie my shoe and I split my pants.  So, I stepped off to the side to get out of the other workers’ ways and I slipped on a banana peel.  I stood up, straight, to take it like a man.  And I fell flat on my face.  Boy that is the way life is for me.

               People keep calling me a vegetable.  Frank over there said that I’m a gourd.  He called me Gourdo.  Hank laughed that I am a pea brain.  He yelled that I am fat too.  “Look over there!  Two peas in a pod!”  Helen just smirked and called me a potato.  “Go ahead, roll your eyes, Mr. Potato Head!”

               After a while I said, “Okay.  I’ve heard it long enough.  I accept it.  I am a vegetable.  But you had better watch out.  I am not a pumpkin.  I am not a yam.  I sure ain’t no legume.

               “I am a Carrot.  Call me ‘Ted.’  And I am from a fighting family.  Remember us, my family’s name?  We are the Artillery.  Now I don’t care that I just did fall flat on my face.  To her.  To him.  To you.  To anyone.  To the whole world.  I am dead to you.  And I am happy for that.  I will just Rot.  Why else do you think I told you to call me CarRot?   I am your Carrot Ted Artillery! 

               “Life is for the birds.  Do you see that bird out in that field?  That bird over there!  I control that bird!  That Wren.  I may be a dead carrot but I am the new Dracula.  And there is my Wren Field.  ‘Heh hehh heh hehh heh hehh.’ 

               “Helen, you called me Mr. Potato Head.  Get ready.  I’m going to have you attacked with my Tator Tots. 
               “Because of me.
               “Because of me.
               “I quote not a kook but a cook: 
‘For each celery stalk which is sliced at its heart, to be seared in that frying pan right.
That stalk on that block making a chicken stock, with those capers just burned too bright. 
See it take on a bloom in the refrigerate gloom
A monsoon for a diet at night.”

               I would have quit my job.  I’m just thinking to myself. “One, Two, Arbuckle My Shoe.”  But what would I do?  I did not want to get a job like selling bait.  I just don’t want to sell grubs or caterpillars to sport fishermen because of both the fish and the worm.  Both lives are being killed for sport. 

               So, I just left.  Even though they had super heroes I couldn’t stand it anymore.  Maybe to you they are a hero.  To me they are quite below that.  Instead of Superman he is really Sub Par Man.  And he sure makes a pig of himself.  Instead of a Hero or a Hoagie I would say he is a Hoggie.  With all of the spin the newspapers put on him I can see why they call him a hero, or maybe a gyro.  Spinning like a gyroscope.  

               It figures.  I got the name wrong.  He isn’t called Superman.  He is Suprem Man.  They leave his middle name out for convenience.  His middle name is Acist.  And we all know that he is an Acist. That may sound like assist to some of you, but he sure don’t assist nobody.  Acist sounds like something else and that sure don’t assist nobody neither.  And that is what this Acist is.  This Suprem flies off the handle with his cousin, Suprem Girl all the time.  In the family of Suprem Acists if you are a boy, even a whiney little baby boy, and most of them are, you call them a Man. That is what a Man is to them, a Whiney Little Baby.  That’s how we got Suprem Man.  Now, in that family, if you are a female.  Even if you are adult, grown up, and mature, they don’t call you a Woman.  They are just Girls and they know it.

               You sure know when he is around, too.  “Stop thinking and just listen to all his lies.  Twittering like a Bird.  He sure is a Bird Brain.  It is plain as the nose on your face that he’s stupid.  Yes, it’s Suprem Man. Bestest person who was Chosen to lead us.  With a mind and vocabulary far beyond those of moral men.  Suprem Man, who is polluting the contents of our drinking water.  Who keeps robbing and stealing from us with his bare hands.  And it’s he who despises Clark Kent and all those honest Reporters.  Making collusion with Putin and obstruction of justice the American way.”

               Do you ever wonder how Suprem Man and Suprem Girl keep their secret identities?  You know that if you transfer things electronically you encrypt them.  Well, Suprem Man EnKremlins his secret identity.  He sure thinks it is secret anyway.  It is so secret that nobody knows what he is.  Yeah.  Sure.  I guess that gave this next bit away.  Gee, guess what, Suprem Man came from the world of Kremlin.  There is of course, Red Kremlinite and Greed Kremlinite.  Red Kremlinite makes Kremlinoniums and humans alike reckless, evil, and dangerous.  So, I don’t know how we can tell the difference.  Red Kremlinite was once Greed Kremlinite that passed through a Putin Hued cloud on its route to Earth.  Greed Kremlinite intensifies their Suprem Powers, and it makes their eyes pop out of their heads. It also makes us humans feel pain when we are near a Suprem Man who has been exposed to Greed Kremlinite.  We are told that Suprem Man’s hair turns orange red after exposure to Greed Kremlinite.  I think he exposes himself all the time.  In fact, he brags about exposing himself.  What recently saves a lot of those Suprem people is a dose of Putonium.  Our Suprem Man likes to start his day with his breakfast of Putonium.

               I just think back at those villagers that became vile agers.  They thought they were safe.  They thought they were protected by their Super Heros.  Well, they just became a bunch of Supper Heros or Gyros if they were Greek.  And their guns that protect them.  Those guns just prepared them to get buried in the ground.  It made them heaps of fertilizer along with their other liars.  What else is fertilizer?  His Tax Data is Encrypted.  He is EnKremlined.  And the people who let him rule are getting InCrypted.