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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 10, 2015 - 01:51pm PT
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LIFE AND ESSENCE
There seems to be one source of truth.
It is benevolent.
All else is commentary on the truth and it’s benevolence.
Life is a continuum.
Physical-birth and physical-death are just two events on the continuum of life.
This continuum is much more than a one-way street between maternity ward and funeral parlor.
Our purpose here is to evolve spiritually.
This earth is a spiritual kindergarten wherein
we trade time for experience,
experience becomes intelligence,
intelligence becomes knowledge,
knowledge becomes wisdom,
wisdom becomes consciousness,
which is what we take with us when we are done riding around in this beater of a physical body.
We sort of begin THERE where we left off HERE.
For me the essence of human experience is the ideal behind Christianity, warped now, but undeniably useful, in which one might could find that
the essence of Christianity is the Bible,
the essence of the Bible is in the Gospels,
the essence of the Gospels is contemplation,
the essence of contemplation is stillness,
the essence of stillness is silence,
and the essence of silence is probably God,
but I’m not there yet.
(Not mine, precisely, but a gent's named Bill King, one of my book customers, always seeking. I've simply modified it in form.)
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Feb 21, 2015 - 07:14pm PT
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I'm working on some poetry using only words that all start with the same letter all the way through the poem.
It's lighthearted and a little challenging.
'Try to Tally Tommy's Total Tucumcari Trolly Track Texting to Trudy Total'
Texting Tommy texted Tuesday,
Tried two times to text to Trudy,
Tommy texted twice to tally,
Texted twice times two totally,
Texting Tommy texted truly,
'Til Tommy truly texted Trudy,
Twice times two to total tally,
Taking Toms ticket totally,
Total two times two to tarry,
Two tickets to Tucumcari,
Tommy took two trolley tokens,
Two times Tommy took two tens,
Taking twenty tokens Tuesday,
Two to track ten trolleys total,
Twice to Tucumcari Trudy,
Tried to total Tommy's toll,
Texting twice to Tucumcari,
Trying twice Tom's total tarry,
Taking twice two trolley tickets,
Trudy took Tom tawdry trinkets,
Tawdry trolley trinket tarry,
Twice two trips to Tucumcari,
Tom texted tricking Trudy,
Trudy tricked Tommy twice truly,
Total Tommy's total texts,
To total texting tolls to Trudy,
Total trains times trolley tracks,
To Tucumcari total truly.
-Timmy
10/20/2012
'Zella's Zany Zoologist's Zeppelin Zone'
Zebras zapping zygote zealots,
Zarzuela zooplankton,
Zed Zander's zinkifying zeal,
Zippy zealot zit zinging,
Zinging zippy zealot zits,
Zoocephaliccally zootoxificating,
Zella's zany zoologist's Zeppelin zone.
-Zeke
ZZ/ZZ/ZZZZ
'Angry Arnold and Andy's Axe'
Andy asking angry Arnold,
"Aren't an aardvark always at,
An acute angle at an axe?"
Angry Arnold accused Andy,
"Ask an Aardvark, Andy ask!"
"An aardvark ain't an animal,
Availed at answering at all,"
Andy arguing Arnold as,
An apt aardvark ambled away.
Aardvark's assumptions are assured,
As Arnold's adams apple's at,
An acute angle at Andy's axe.
And an aardvark's aptitude alas,
An aardvark's attitude as asked,
Away, away are an aardvark's ass.
-Aardvark
8o/8o/8o8o
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Feb 21, 2015 - 07:49pm PT
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THE OLD POETRY SHACK
It stands out in the corner of the yard hidden by the wishteria vine.
There is a pile of broken rhymes and twisted metaphors lying next to the door.
Some obsolete cantos are stacked between the fence and the south wall.
Swiss chard has taken root at the sunny end of the stack.
Under the eaves is an abandoned hornet nest.
No longer will barbs infest any verse produced here.
The kiln itself is still, the fires long extinguished, like the old boy who used to come out here to play with words and watch them turn into genuine works of art or functional utensils holding odd ideas.
I would never bother him when he was there.
I hid on one side of the viny curtain and listened, though, as he cursed his way through verse after verse.
He would shout Aha Yes and stand up and do a little dance, take a cigaret and smoke it standing in the doorway, then go back to his labor.
One day he was smoking like that and he said out loud,
“Does your mother know you come here?”
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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[Click to View YouTube Video]
just another fire hydrant
a real live barking democratic dog
he is just about to have his picture taken
"Ferlinghetti!"
"No, Snyder! With John Cage, too!"
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 15, 2015 - 09:34am PT
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The Totalitarian State of Mind Control
I was lost in a sea of writhing coiling robot arms that encompassed the earths face,
O'er every thing and every place,
The world was possessed by criminal organizations known as corporate run governments,
Forcing trillions into tents,
The perpetrators forced all manner of punishments and medical experimentation upon us,
In a world full of mistrust,
The oppressors employed billions of military police to detain and torture and maim and kill,
To bend us to their will,
The artists of tyranny had imbedded mandatory robotic implants into my aching head,
To monitor all I said,
There were wires and tubes and circuits and lights on every manner of everything,
Nevermore would anyone sing,
In a black steel tower the disease riddled mutants who were the CEOs of earth,
Fed on those after their birth,
Wealthy patrons ate at a banquet of puréed remains of all species and biological waste,
Seasoned by our blood to taste,
I groped the ropey tendrils offshore from all the mayhem to design a desperate escape,
But was wrapped and bound in tape,
Then their words enslaved my mind with the mantra of their logic as it looped around my brain,
For the world had gone insane,
As I lapsed into unconsciousness to dream of an existence still preserving all held dear,
But I washed ashore to here.
-bushman
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 16, 2015 - 06:39am PT
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'Sergio'
As Sergio pulls the long commute,
The interstate it calls his name,
As the twisting turning rambling highway,
Gives way to reveal another long day,
The birds and sun awake to greet him,
"Good morning Serge," they seem to say,
And all the world unfolds its colors,
As all the darkness slips away,
Methodically his waiting workload,
Meticulously complete in time,
Like life his work is always waiting,
But Serge he tends to what needs done,
For each and every day completed,
Meets the setting of the sun,
And rambling back along the highways,
Returns him to his loving one.
For the sun will shine and the birds will sing,
And tomorrow they'll still have their fun,
But today's a day that still is dawning,
'Til evening comes and day is done.
-bushman
04/16/2015
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 17, 2015 - 05:10am PT
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'The Salty One'
The sawdust floated in the air,
It settled here and settled there,
Upon the floor and on the chair,
On wings and fuses everywhere,
Eyes focused with intensity,
For what seemed an eternity,
He sanded at the density,
And shaped it with tenacity,
"Here's the secret to how it's done,
It takes awhile yet more to go,
Go too far and you'll screw it up,
Then you'll have to start over you know,
Where are those other templates?
Use the strongest wood you've got,
I don't use power tools tools or else,
Looks like it's built by a robot,"
But I never knew a man,
That looked to land a punch,
Who knew how to take hunch,
Then take a break for lunch,
As when I met the Salty One,
And learned how building can be fun,
Never to be done in haste,
For time's too valuable to waste,
As fast as wood chips flew,
Off of his carving knife,
The expletives flew faster,
As he described the wood to life,
I could see it in his work,
And crafted in his art,
Built into every project,
Were pieces of his heart.
There's no other like the Salty One,
I call him for the C-Man knows,
That like the winter winds that come,
That words will come and words will go,
He's treated me like a brother,
He's like a train that's on a track,
And like some long lost relative,
I'll never send him back.
-bushman
04/17/2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 17, 2015 - 05:33am PT
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The constant last, the watch-mans past shadows his dawn patrol,
The gates stay locked the cameras stocked twin machines on one and seven,
The ride out to the far gate is seventy minutes away.
The sun is coming up on a new day, as dawn arrives his crux will be,
To sleep or go climb rocks.
FOR 'LOBES'
I have not stepped up but thank you. Bushman
The wealth of emotions that your writing ranges over pursues me through out the day and I read your words into a cold at grade, basement. No man cave it holds the ruins of many lives, some living some not, but all well represented by the flotsam, trash from lives lived in-between
The current world while hanging on to a few things from the past.
One tool 'layed it down' on a sunny day in May. On a straight-away at eleven in the morning?
I have no idea how high he was or how bad he'd got ? The thing is, his - 'Tough old'- boy came back to him in his unconscious state, he faught death as it enveloped his body.
His mind seemed far away but still in the fight. He lingered broken, to me, he seemed to be/was re-climbing every pitch he'd ever climbed since the days of banging pins and star drives to the Shield, in his mind.
When I opened the box of stuff of his, the stuff that nobody wanted that was to be thrown away, I fond the sad remains of crushed love, emotional correspondences, mixed with boasts and wild tails of failure at the hands of fate and alcoholism.
The accident report was only for family. Three days after the fact, there was nothing to see at the spot of the accident. I walked it. A sunny stretch of pavement split by a grassy berm, the truck route is an easy goin' spot after the morning rush.
How or why a mad bad asz could put out his life here?! Compared to the rocky places where he had cheated death, only coming close to dying.
well now I see it was this that was to be . . .
Death by Harley - and a good thing in the end?
He was also known for silly bad stuff . . .
breaking a good friend 's thumb, is one of many,
Some very bad stuff! He drank too much for too long.
On the five twenty five of twenty fifteen I'll climb Duck!, Bob, and Weedge,
cleaned already, it may need chalk!
Scrappy face climbing for fifty feet, too a crack that widens as it gets steep and a good crack leads into a chimney.
The crux for most is working up and out and back I step across the gap three times,
Twice with mandatory gear, (the Weave) the thinly protected face climbing up left avoids harder climbing that goes straight up.
D. B. W. Takes the path of least resistance the natural , old school, line and stops short. . .
In the fond memories of my friend, LOBES.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 17, 2015 - 07:23am PT
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Prologue to The Canterbury Tales
When fair April with his showers sweet,
Has pierced the drought of March to the root's feet
And bathed each vein in liquid of such power,
Its strength creates the newly springing flower...
Like hell.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 17, 2015 - 08:33am PT
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'I'm My Uncle Brother's Stepson'
Said the pregnant woman who gave birth to her mom,
"That the child is my parent is terribly wrong,"
To the doctor she said, "How on earth could this be?"
He said, "She came back through a time travel machine."
She said, "If I'm her mother and she is my mom,
Then what of my father to be name of Tom?"
The doctor then shouted, "Oy Vey, Tom's my son!"
The woman replied, "See here, what's going on?
If my son-in-law's my father then you're my grandpa?"
"Of course," he then said, "And I'm happy to say,
That I welcome my new daughter-in-law great granddaughter today!"
As it goes with time travel there's more than just fun,
You can be a big family all wrapped into one,
If you ask which came first was it the chicken or the egg?
Of my great uncle grandson is the question I'd beg.
"Oh Great uncle grandson, solve this riddle for me,
Who invented that crazy time traveling machine?"
"Well Great nephew grandfather," he asked to be true,
"There's only one question I'm asking of you,
If he came from the future might not then he be you?"
I said, "I've done no time travel that I can recall,
I'll have to ask Aunt sister my great great grandma..."
(Banjos playing in background).
-bushman
04/17/2015
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 17, 2015 - 09:23am PT
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Hey there Gnome,
So I tried to honor you a while back with a poem, the title was a twisted play on your name, Gnome.
I enjoy reading your writing, it's kind of like a riddle to decipher with a wacky Kerouac style, mysterious, both light and dark, and laced with the pain and memories of your life (I guess) and your adventures. And like a lot of us, a little scarred and somehow touched a bit in the head. Here I'll post again what I wrote... hope it isn't too offensive. It's not about you exactly, but based a little on the feelings and ideas I got after reading your writing.
'Knewm on the Dial'
As he was known,
Knewm was his name,
He had no other just the same,
A curious sort,
With his wicked game of some acclaim,
His deejay role his claim to fame.
Hosting jazz music in the midnight hour,
His phobias though dire,
Caused some to question and inquire,
His robust argument for funds,
To feed artistes long since deceased,
Their obligations long released,
Assuming not what Knewm had known,
Their first mistake,
His dirt would not their thirst to slake,
And for all his loyal following,
No different from his memory clouded,
Their deejay was in mystery shrouded,
Until that day in month of May,
He disappeared my dear friend Knewm,
And more than likely met his doom,
The mystery deepens year by year,
As I realize from womb to tomb,
Though I knew Knewm I hardly knew him.
-bushman
Mar 19, 2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 17, 2015 - 09:37am PT
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as a play to the darker side a curse and I am one to suffer under the beatnick verse that glorifies the NO THING and dares one to jump instead of do it static, thanks of course and as you know I was most inspired by your brother. that as you saw when I posted the old magazine article and shared how much it had reached into me, when he, the hero for the coming generation, shook off his mortal coil.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 20, 2015 - 02:12pm PT
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'Only a Stanley'
My banter so ingloriously,
One day it got the best of me,
Trash texting were the lot of us,
My words somewhat opprobrious,
Alluded to unnatural acts,
And unsubstantiated facts,
'Bout Kimo and a porcine's ass,
Of that I'll speak no more alas,
The things I said were all in jest,
Such crudeness showed my worst at best,
But still the sting was sharp enough,
My biting tongue one might rebuff,
Insults and innuendo such,
My vulgarity a bit too much,
How I sullied names of innocents,
I knew not them in my defense,
But then I thought to get some rest,
Resigned that I meant no offense,
I slept the sleep of guiltlessness,
And woke to business no less,
But there a message more or less,
Admonished me in friendliness,
'Twas met by me with some distress,
Appears I'd struck too close to vest,
I saw that Kimo my good friend,
Had texted I offended him,
My hurtful words somehow so grim,
Was it his faith I had condemned?
Or virtue of a faithful friend,
Defamed within my repertoire?
Had my rude slanders gone too far?
That my vulgar fiction might undo,
A valued friendship would not do,
I had to right these wrongs I'd done,
These insults that I'd poked in fun,
And now in haste I must endeavor,
Heartfelt amends unless I sever,
More than just our mutual trust
But comradeship so true and just,
For friendships earned is friendship gained,
With some not easily attained,
I sent this message to my friend,
In earnestness I would depend,
On his good graces and forgive,
My foolish words and bawdy banter,
And in it see I meant not to slander,
The views and people he held dear,
And so I left it lying there,
What's done was done and said was said,
And went to business in my head,
The day went by and not a word,
Of judgement and what it inferred,
That I had finally crossed the line,
Of something only hearts define,
O'er solemn wisdom's fickle grace,
That biting humor might deface,
A bond 'tween brothers and their faith,
That loyalty and trust embrace,
No message came and I resolved,
To take what came where chips may fall,
No message text or friendly call,
My phone so silent as the night,
My recompense a distant slight,
Compounding on my few regrets,
But roosting there like big egrets,
And there at dusk a single text,
With nervousness I thought, "what next?"
For what had Stanley Kimo sent?
With all sincerity I'd meant,
My words expressing deep regret,
But then at once it dawned on me,
Who could this man of virtue be?
A pious wholesome devotee,
Or flirtatious Don Juan wannabe?
Who's honor was never secondary,
But garrulousness so legendary,
What veiled enigma was there to,
This friend of mine I thought I knew?
I read his text so cautiously,
Three words they said it all to me,
His simple note was, "Got you sucker!"
That dirty rotten mother------!
-Bushman
04/20/2015
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Apr 20, 2015 - 05:12pm PT
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The things I said were all in jest,
Such crudeness showed my worst at best,
But still the sting was sharp enough,
My biting tongue one might rebuff,
Insults and innuendo such,
My vulgarity a bit too much,
STILL MID- READ
GWAD, Thats good!
Hope that 'ell has
a wordsmith worthy
when at last, With full
acrimony I die
and the Devil, my soul, he keeps
for letting me live out my life
With a view that was better than
the view from the cheap seats.
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Bushman
Social climber
Elk Grove, California
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Apr 20, 2015 - 09:16pm PT
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'Nitrodiaperman'
See the Nitrodiaperman?
Sh#t happens when he wins,
The nitrodiaper truck he drives,
Is full of cats who wear Depends,
And each and every diapered cat,
Wears diapers in nine lives,
And the Nitrodiaperman,
Has fifty seven wives.
-Bushman
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Apr 20, 2015 - 09:46pm PT
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and as you know I was most inspired by your brother
Brother!
I mean Father!
Relax, Jake, it's Chinatown.
You guys are rockin' the boat
Wearin' hip boots to wade the shallows
Wishin' you'd remembered to bring the marshmallows
Two guys remain to watch the dwindling flame
Bottle rockets at night what a stone delight
Memories made of stone last longest
Even scribbled down on bum wad
I give you each a vigorous nod
And one lost thumb up
A voter saint!
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pud
climber
Sportbikeville & Yucca brevifolia
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May 14, 2015 - 09:06am PT
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love not lost.
For all the times we missed,
for all the times we kissed
For all the times we never spoke,
for all the times we shared a joke
For all the help that wasn't there,
for all the times we showed we care
For all the memories we lost,
for all our love at any cost
For all the dreams we swept away,
for all the plans we share today
For all the hugs we never gave,
for all the memories we save
For all the experiences gone by,
for everything we want to try
For all the things we faced alone,
for all the years our love has grown
Through all these things our love stayed true
My heart and soul belong to you.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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May 14, 2015 - 09:09am PT
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pud thank you for
shattering my pane
of misconception
for i previously
thought,
based upon your
love of motorcycles
that you were made
of steel
and that your heart
pumped oil.
but now i know
that both you and
i are arranged
in a strangely
similar chain
of carbon.
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Norwegian
Trad climber
dancin on the tip of god's middle finger
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May 14, 2015 - 09:14am PT
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here's one:
my entire existence
is a favor to satan
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