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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 25, 2013 - 08:15pm PT
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IT'S MORE THAN HAIKU
TO SAY HOW MUCH I LIKE YOU
i feel i o u
ALL u people
THANK u people
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Gary
Social climber
Desolation Basin, Calif.
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Apr 25, 2013 - 08:50pm PT
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More Brautigan for Mouse:
Death is a beautiful car parked only
to be stolen on a street lined with trees
whose branches are like the intestines
of an emerald.
You hotwire death, get in, and drive away
like a flag made from a thousand burning
funeral parlors.
You have stolen death because you're bored.
There's nothing good playing at the movies
in San Francisco.
You joyride around for a while listening
to the radio, and then abandon death, walk
away, and leave death for the police
to find.
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apr 25, 2013 - 11:58pm PT
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The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Dream Work)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:09am PT
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a tattoo haiku
tells you dot dot's the dotter
your daughter has wed
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:31am PT
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Dead Car Found on Park Place
On a bench in Park Place
It sat
It radiated love
It had been joy-ridden
Obviously
The trunk was full of old comedy reels
Laurel and Hardwood
The Tree Stooges
The Light Comedy in the Forest
and so on through Hollywood
The cops stood around
Was there a moving violation
Or was it a parking violation
They felt it was moving
So they took out their tools
And they fixed that crate good
It never ever moved again
They hauled it away with a logging chain
It was put to rest in a pine box
Norwegian-crafted
And inlaid with emeralds
In oddly hexcentric shapes
And Bob Dylan sang
The car song
By Woody
Would he approve
The hearse was a woodie
Why certainly
Cried the baldest cypress stooge
The king of braut again has died
Long live the king
Auto the Magnificent
[Click to View YouTube Video] Thanks, Gary!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:48am PT
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He Wants to Tap a Keg at the Leap
I mean, He Wants to Leap on a Keg and Tap Dance on Dikes
why not go all the way
why not take all of me
why not a bunch of mes
why not hike your pants up
why not you satisfied
why not utter sweet nothings
why not fool around with me no more
why not u like me no more
I'm sorry if this offends.
I just up-chucked it.
The mouse-muse is full of moonshine tonight of all nights.
Chuck's twice the man
i am
after all
i am
just a mouse
hangin' nine
surfin' the rhyme
next time
i am
buyin'
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 07:06am PT
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Nose In A Day Dream
Donini’s nostril
gospel
hostel
hospital
lost bell
liberty bell
go to hell
goat boy smell
Lafayette Bunnel
admiral
clam shell
wishing well
oh, do tell
William tell
no tell motel
‘ink well’
show ‘n tell
holding cell
farmer in the dell
and he finally fell
and on cloud nine they dwell
Little Nell
je m’apelle
set a spell
have a nail
eat a snail
cut up the handrail
belay them last three, varmint!
they all smell
just as well
couldn’t tell
better sell
Colgate gel
Cornell yell
more cowbell
Samuel Zell
all is well
sing Noel
Maroon Bell
run pell-mell
kiss n’ tell
Disney cel
“Life in the Salton Sea!?”
This here ain’t no Disney nature flick, ya varmint!!
Git back ta bizness, blast ya!
KA-BLOOEY!!!!!!
No more to tell, etc.
Dette er ikke en Disney film om natur, kjeltring, irriterende person eller dyr, forsomme.--Benny Anders Marlofsen
I may have butchered that, py yiminey.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 26, 2013 - 03:59pm PT
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Hard Core Spondee
Dusting away on the dark side they hung
Not a hair out of place, nor even a tongue, among
White founts falling in the courts of the sun
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run
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Fletcher
Trad climber
The great state of advaita
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Apr 30, 2013 - 03:38am PT
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"Poetry meets deep, essential, unremembered hungers. It is food and drink for the soul - memory of the soul."—Krista Tippett
Now I remember for whence here I came...
For lunch, natch!
Eric
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 30, 2013 - 11:00am PT
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Nachos for lunch...
Sure It Could Always Be Verse
They say things should rhyme
But I haven’t the time
To babysit pronouns all day
If they want it so
I want them to know
We consider myself to be they
So f. them and the lamas
(And especially them commas)
They all rode in on today
Beck to verk, Fledger! Vite!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Brilliant, rr!
And historically accurate, too!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Insert photo RR,pensive pose back cover shot from My Life.
Me-did-tations Midst Rubble
Before I worked in Yosemite as a houseman I fried hamburgers and made chicken for a franchise in the Bay Area. The hamburger we sold was "The Big Barney." Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubble, OK?
I yearned for the mountains, back then, though I knew not what could possibly happen up there.
I found that in the mountains, Time passes slowly, hand-to-hand, until it is no longer legible.
It's then used for TP.
What I am resting on is the detritus of monoliths.
They are like the piles of dead skin cells which accumulated underneath my mattress.
If Sentinel sheds skin, this is it, and they have been laying here for, like, quien sabe?
It is a poor conceit for what has happened here in the side-hill oak forest.
I never notice skin flakes falling off me or the noise they must make if they do.
Let’s set that myth on its heels.
Everything makes noise but we all are not equipped or NEED to hear
the crash and boom (or their tiny-world equivalents--maybe whiff and poof?)
of dandruff or hairs hitting the deck.
Maybe the dust mites can detect the sound.
You’ll hear an oak leaf as it falls among its brothers.
You’ll hear the pine cones run away from their mothers.
You cannot hear the acorn when it is sprouting.
You sure can hear the mountain when it is shouting!
Why am I formalizing this rambling mental dialog?
Why ever not?
Have I not
spent many hours wishing that I were
here and not
somewhere that is more stressful
and far less enjoyable
like down there?
I am in danger from having too much fun, thinking about what possibly could go wrong on this...what...quest? OK. It sounds New Agey and corny but it is rather descriptive.
I am trying to find Sentinel Creek so tha I might have a unique view of a seldom-seen scene, Sentinel Falls.
It is a legitimate quest. Call me Sir Beansalot. And If I am not satisfied that I have completed the quest, I can always return, at least I can always want that.
Face it. It is what I want, to die up there.
I could back off a boulder trying to increase the depth or width of a shot.
I could put out another freaking eye if I do not wear glasses.
I could put out another freaking eye if I do wear glasses.
The fact is I have better coordination when I wear nothing on my nose.
This also eliminates sweat problems, not that I am moving so fast that I acutally break a sweat.
St. Galen sweated plenty for our sins--patron saint of talus runners andphotgraphers, y'know.
I have been comfortable all day in a T-shirt and a light sweat top.
My feet have room and it is because I removed the inner soles and left them at home. The peds tend to swell now, quien sabe? Take yer peds-meds and hush.
There is a huge difference in sound between the forest and the creekside.
Notorious as a waterless trail, the four mile only crossed one that I recall from my only other passage (downhill), but I have a whole half-gallon in my pack, a precautionary measure should I be so stupid as to get hurt in the Raucous.
my attentive audience
I also have a headlamp.
I recall lessons learned last fall near Dewey Point, a low point.
I believe I have redeemed myself in my eyes, which are the only ones which need to see this and the only ones really fit to judge, according to some.
But I'm generous, they tell me. It is nice of them to say.
Let them who refuse to ask for help get on their knees and pray.
I pray when I walk.
I worship when I shoot.
I listen to its talk.
It has shown me how to walk.
How could I not be a seeker?
How could I not be on a quest?
I have seen myself become meeker.
I think it seeks for me the best.
"Sun-lit meadows"
"forested slopes"
"cataracts plunging"
"topographical sculpture"
"another hit of fresh air"
All seem canned phrases describing my wish-life.
[Insert inane crudity about tuna and spouse if you dare...I don't care.]
5.1! Siesta time.
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Gary
Social climber
Desolation Basin, Calif.
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my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent
war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting
for,
my sister
isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds) of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera, my
mother hoped that
i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my
self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et
cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)
e.e. cummings
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dirt claud
Social climber
san diego,ca
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By: Rose Milligan
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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To Ogmian Hercules
Your labours are performed, your bye-work, too.
Your perfect ashes float on Oeta’s peak;
Here is escape then, Hercules, from empire.
Little Hebe, youngest of all Goddesses,
Who circles, leaping, on the Moon’s broad floor
Harbours no jealousy for Megara,
Auge, Hippolyte, Deineira
But sighs for their distress: you broke all hearts,
Burning too Sun-like for a mortal bride.
Rest your proud shaggy head on Hebe’s lap;
What wars you started let your sons conclude;
Meditate the new Alphabet, heal wounds,
Draw poets to you with long golden chains--
But still go armed with club and lion’s pelt.
--Robert Graves
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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http://www.jessieevans-dongray.com/essays/poem055.html
Excerpted from The Grave Robber by Don Gray
"Life, its way, the way God made it, can't help but be
morally shabby. Consider grim nature's law...
hardship, mental anguish, fatigue of body, dirt;
cruelty, disease, duress; necessity, pain, death;
equivalents of man's lust for money, evil,
expedient deceit, scoundrel hypocrisy.
Religion, man's wholesome, feeble, corrupt attempt,
to seek, reach out for, counter, God's reality,
desirous, rejected, ambivalent, still-born
in futility, contradiction, helplessness....
Ruled by hubris, enshrined in feral transience,
we cavil and splutter through life, believe we are gods,
omniscient, with blinkered wisdom from the playpen
of our petty thrones."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Somewhere In My Palm He Lies
A lack of wit and charm and grace and style
Is all I have to overcome: With guile
And lies, misdirection, innuendo,
Factoid, pretense, I make some sense though
To those who choose not to hear but to show
Agreement with my utterance.
So.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Life as it is is just not good enough for us anymore without electricity.
“Better living through electricity.”--old timey G.E. commercial slogan, and it's true (the LSD part)
Kindle Kitty
Google Glasses on her head
Tiny ear buds in her ears
Small green vibe between her thighs
Just confirmed my worst fears:
She’d be just as happy being a robot.
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Anastasia
climber
Home
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deep is the heart
and yet what blooms
needs strong hands to reach
to share, to pick the fruit
what is given freely
don't hesitate to grasp
for if you let the fruit fall and hits the ground
it is spoiled and is lost to us both
and as I watched you
so strong and quick
not lifting a finger as I fell
I hit the ground hard
...and this is what's left
words sound hollow now
all the meaning lost in the wind
that sweeps between us
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