Emaciated Horses

Yes

tin hats

It comes to me and it comes again … like leaves circling in the wind, higher and higher away from the mud and blood upon my hands

A blank face, a lost bet, and let us consider the dead, let them awaken upon the river rocks, let them lift you upward

Look where the green blade sprouts through the eye socket and how there is advantage to everything if one can read the invisible signs

Take my hand little one and let us traverse in reverse to where you have come from, let us cut our bodies and go two by two into the genes of your blood, sit astride the lightning of who you are

Let me show you how it comes to me and then comes again and you can do it too

It comes to me in the blindness of shadows when the sun goes down and…

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Favorite Doors of 2019

For me, one of the bright spots of this year has been Thursday Doors, a  challenge by blogger Norm Frampton that encourages photographers (and those of us who point and click) to share entrances, arches, doors, and even sometimes windows from around the world, both the grand and the not so grand.  Sometimes those entrances have a backstory and sometimes they’re just whatever catches the eye.

My favorite doors from this year were actually garage doors.  I found them in a neighborhood of San Francisco known for its extremely diverse culture:  The Mission District.  Before the 1970s this area was heavily hispanic and not on any tourist’s map.  Then artists and hipsters, attracted by the low rents, began to move in.  They convinced home owners, restaurants and shop keepers to let them brighten otherwise dark and suspicious alleyways with their artwork.

Many of the murals (like the above) have political messages.  Others are whimsical.

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A few had cultural overtones. I don’t know what Che is doing in the above mural but there he is.
Because the Mission District is named after 1776 Mission Dolores, it’s not uncommon to see religious murals. Some are inexplicable.

To see other Mission doors click on any of these links

Finally, this door caught my eye down in San Diego.

Name Dropper

I’ve known Duke since 2014 and this is the first time I’ve understood the dog and pony shows that people would rather see than the greed that will destroy us.

tin hats

I’m a name dropper.  We’re all name droppers … barking on all fours at the feet of the well-know, people just like us except they’re better looking, luckier, richer, probably more fucked up.

Cheryl Tiegs, the model, you remember her, right?  I asked her if she’d mind if I took my pants off in order to get a shot of penicillin.  I told her to just sit there, but she said, no I’ll wait in the hall.  That was a real missed opportunity.

Just back from the genocide and the phone rings.  I don’t answer.  Later I find out it’s Julia Roberts calling, she wants to come over to discuss what I saw.  A few days went by and a friend told me she had called, but by then she and Lyle had already left town.

Tipper Gore will be there and you have to show her around.  I said…

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Peach/Pit

Alarmingly honest and beautifully written.

tin hats

I thought I ate that bleeding peach
enough times for my chin to stain
a sour shade of pink.

I can’t recall, the moments fell like towers-
but did I grind the pit into a powder?

Pressed beneath the skin like all the hours
you never spoke to me.

And every grain of it is like a silt of iron filings,
that’s settled in the center where
you said there was a furnace
burning hotter than the sea.

I always want to tell you that
it felt more like a cage that held
the eyeballs of a voyeur.

Either way the poles rip holes
with every waking hour.

When all your love for me was spent in
sordid miliseconds-
was it frail just like a springtime flower?

Or was it more like fingertips in winter-
a livid numb that in time feels like power?

Or was it more a nihilistic…

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What really happened to Beauregard

What do you do with pictures of people you’ve never met but who were special to someone you loved? It’s a icky, sticky, wicket to those of us who inherit our grandparent’s photos and memorabilia and guess what folks?  As the eldest grandchild on my mother’s side of the family all those boxes and albums are in my possession and my siblings and cousins couldn’t be happier! 

Hello people I don’t know. You seem fine and dandy and I do love your photos but I can only guess at who you are. Or were. Or are.

So what will I do with all these pictures of folks I don’t know?  Invite them to some ghostly Thanksgiving seance so they can tell me their stories?  What would you do?

And now – the truth about what really happened to Beauregard

I tried to think of a funny Thanksgiving story to tell but the only thing that came to mind was the year my father decided to confess at the dinner table.  I believe his aunt Katherine was in attendance as well as his cousin Jim and recently widowed sister Helen Betty.  And of course, his adult children. The table was set to perfection. The entrees ready to go.  Everything … but the scalloped potatoes. They’d been delayed by Dad’s two inept and half-drunk divorcee daughters and we were in Deep Shit. The air was icy; the perfect dinner ruined and so Dad in some half baked attempt to save his daughters from eternal damnation rose and admitted he’d lied. On a recent hunting trip, Beauregard, his wife’s favorite basset hound, hadn’t been hit by a car and killed.

Dad had mistaken the dog for an elk and shot him dead. We tried not to laugh, we really did. Poor Dad. The things parents go through for their children.

Happy Thanksgiving – and please remember to turn on the oven before you start drinking the wine.

Love, the Boy, the Car, and the Girl

I was wondering but he is still alive … or has mastered the art of ghost blogging

tin hats

Without a first line you have nothing.

(That’s not true, but it sounds good.)

What could go wrong?

(Lots of stuff.)

You sit on the porch of an old house in a college town and the stuffy air fills your lungs.  The sound of cicadas drives the dream even hotter.  Texas withdrawing into a July day. Distant shafts of sun cut low across the lawns and the threads of red and gold weave their way through the trees and you wonder as you look at the carpet of light and then you wonder still as the colors enrich themselves in the way of all things immortal.  Summer school is in session and the students are in a state of perpetual picnicking, lying around on the grass underneath spreading oaks hoping to levitate with pot and wine, praying for a good breeze to carry them up into the evening.  Some of…

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They Volunteered

Lawrence Standerwick Jameson, World War I.  He fought in France and returned home … never to travel oversees again.  Both of his sons also served in the military although neither directly saw combat.

Robert Bruce McKee, Jr. World War II, Air Force.  Fortunately for his mother, the war ended before he was deployed.  However Dad had been raring to go.

I’m sure both men would have volunteered despite warts or bone spurs or any number of ailments.