Ah Shucks, Let’s Go For A Ride





Hop on up

T’is my favorite mode of transportation

Pegasus is a good friend of mine

Come on now


Take my hand

It don’t bite &

Neither does this flying horse

Ah yes

Let’s go


Flying low flying high

Let’s go find some sky


Ah yes

Each cloud a smiley face

Each patch of blue endlessly

happy happy


Feeling kind of crappy?

Well well

Let’s go

Find some ghoul

Whose head

You can puke on ’til

he’s drowning in a pool

of disharmony &

We’ll fly away full of

happy happy again

Oh my

We’re higher than all those

puny skyscrapers below

The wind singing awesome songs

We’ve never heard befo’

You’re smiling so much

My goodness

My goddess

You’re smiling so much

So so much my goddess



Copyright Clyde Collins 2016


B&W of Pegasus by Daniel Eskridge


Homeless in Philadelphia


Sitting here

in this morning’s niche

I haven’t noticed

anybody noticing


except that secret-agent

sparrow on the sidewalk

spying again





(Text Copyright Clyde Collins 2016)

NRA Court Jesters



The National Rifle Association (NRA) leaders, as vocalized by Wayne La Pierre (its spokesman) & Ted Nugent (a board member), seem to believe NRA members lack enough durability and intellect to obtain a gun license, and to register and insure their guns ~ and thus obtain partnership with their democracy and government.

The NRA leadership is alienating their members from the rest of the national population via paranoia, conspiracy hoaxes, and a dumb logic so full of loopholes that it resembes taxes for the rich in the United States of America.  The mass murder of children in an elementary school by an over-armed citizen in 2012 seems to have generated such reaction instead of an attempt to work & compromise with the rest of the nation in order to narrow the possibility of such evil to occur again.  Instead, the NRA leadership’s knowledge & ownership of deadly hardware seems to have gone to its head.  Consequently, all that they inspire is a goon-ish & blatant backpedal into Civil War consciousness.  These NRA leaders seem to want to generate targets for their well-armed members ~ so that they have something very serious to take pot-shots at ~ like U.S. drones, attack helicopters, warthog planes, F-14 fighter jets, and other armed vehicles, not to mention American soldiers & policemen.

The NRA leaders’ most viable role in American society & politics, around the corner, if not already, is as their membership’s & the gun industry’s court jesters. 

If I was an NRA member, I’d campaign for & elect some real leaders…






Who is Submissivania Whapp?




Submissivania Whapp is fiction.  As a literary character she’s barely alive ~ but alive never the less.  She’s the heroine in the short novel GUN 2013.  It’s a secret-agent story.

Ms. Whapp’s origins are many.  A pretty stranger that got on the bus.  A crazy friend of mine from the U.S. Army.  A charismatic writer of erotica.  And a quite attractive fashion designer.  Place these 4 real women, and any other woman who walks by, in a box & tie it with a bow, and you got Submissivania Whapp ~ thru mine eyes.  I love her ~ as well as the women on whom she is based ~ be the love shallow, superficial, or just plain simple.  I created her ~ with a little involuntary help from my sweetest of friends.

Of course, the claim is Submissivania Whapp has absolutely nothing to do with anybody real & is pure fiction.  This claim is author’s protective armor & that is all.  But in actuality she is based on a woman I knew & a few others I wish I knew but really don’t.

What happens to her now?  Well, I guess that’s up to me.  Submissivania Whapp is what makes being an author ~ fun.



The story:



Mission accomplished…



GUN 2013

Chapter 23


I am sitting at Submissivania’s knee.  Her fiery hair is a flow all over my dreams & her firm smooth shoulders.  I am not real sure how this happened.  I am a fortunate old feller.  Hallelujah.

This evening when I returned from the Prescott Public Library to my neat little room at the inn, I found her in a miniskirt, knees up, sitting in my chair.  She had glass in hand, shoes kicked off, her wiggling toes in command.  This is the first time she’s been in here, her room being across the hall, in which I’ve never been.  But other men have been there, I know for sure.  Midnight dalliances over there do not go undetected by this here secret agent, yours truly.

So she was sitting in my chair.  But now I’m in the chair & she’s sitting on the table next to it ~ her toes in my lap.  We’ve just finished watching Peeintheair & the paltry news on TV.  My secret-agent partner points one of her domineering digits at it.  So I click the idiot box off.

“We got our orders last week,” says Submissivania, sipping her wine.

“Nice of you to let me know,” says I, chagrined.  “What are they?”

Her feet tap a titillating fandango for an instant or two.  It’s a lap dance.  She’s killing me.  She’s really killing me.  She even bumps me in the cheek with her knee.  “O wants us to locate & destroy an NRA ammo-dump hidden somewhere in Prescott.”

“Didn’t we do that two months ago?”

“Quite accidentally.  With some help from our friends.  Yes, Raw.”

I’m so distracted by Submissivania’s legs that I kiss her knee.  I can’t help it.  It’s only natural.  It’s so nearby.  This is the most intimate we’ve ever been.  And I am getting a bit delirious.  She even knocks off my new hat.  Then she starts messing around with one of my earlobes ~ pulls it around ’til, like she’s Cleopatra, she gots me kissing her other knee too.

“Mission accomplished,” I sigh.

“I guess,” says Submissivania.  “The NRA has secret ammo-dumps all over the nation, Rawclyde!  The NRA leaders blame the federal government for hoarding bullets when it’s the NRA who is doing the hoarding ~ thus causing a nationwide shortage.  White House secret agents are blowing up NRA ammo-dumps all over the country now.”

“Sounds like insurrection, Submissivania.”  My lips move to the side of her knee, which tilts a little bit.

Pillars loom high, supporting the roof of the temple.  Heaven’s gate is revealed.  There is no veil!

“And there’s no new assignment?” asks I.

“None for now.”

“So you’re going back home?  To LA?”

“Yes.  And you’re coming with me.  I’m moving out of my parent’s house.  You’re going to be my butler.”


Pillars move.  The subterranean tongue slithers forth.  The stairwell of love quakes.

“Yes, Rawclyde!  Yes!  Yes!  Yes!!!”

Wish Bone

(the end)


H R Giger artwork:



Two months later…



GUN 2013

Chapter 22


At the end of the event, I know what I saw & what I didn’t see inside the burning saloon.  A large wooden eagle & Wayne Peeintheair were in there.  Then they weren’t.  And that’s all I saw.  The rest is smoke & flames.

If the colorfully painted sculpture of the Bald Eagle, 8 to 10-feet tall, transformationed some how into a live entity via a mysterious divine magic ~ if this holy bird picked up Peeintheair in her mighty talons & escaped out the partially burned-away dome in the ceiling of the flaming Bird Cage Saloon ~ if this actually occurred ~ it buffaloes me as much as it buffaloes anybody else.

You, kind & gentle reader, can believe it or not.  It doesn’t matter.  But I know what I saw.  And I know what I believe.

“The son-of-a-gun got carried away by that fricking bird!” bursts forth I to Submissivania while viewing the bellicose NRA spokesman on television a couple months later.  And, alas, I’m wearing my new hat, breaking it in, so to speak.

On the evening news, there’s Wayne Peeintheair saying, “There is nothing President Obama will not do to destroy the 2nd Amendment…”

The gall!  After all we went through Peeintheair is still leading folks astray so that his gun-manufacturing cronies can get filthier & filthier rich.  He’s probably still handing out loaded derringers to unsuspecting children too .  “Well, this isn’t over ~ not by a long shot!” bluster I.

“I like the plastic ear on the side of his head,” calmly comments Submissivania.  “That’s really cute.”

She smiles broadly…


by Rawclyde!

Inside the Bird Cage Saloon VI



GUN 2013

Chapter 20


The double doors are a rattling in the big birdcage above our heads.  The log perch hanging from the arch is swaying.  Giant formidable talons move nervously back n’ forth on the swaying perch.  Of course it’s only my imagination gone beserk.  The bald eagle up there in the dome is a statue made of wood ~ and is still.  Maybe I’m the one having a nervous breakdown.

“Now, baby, now!”

Bang!  Bang!  The slick long-barrel derringer in Wayne Peeintheair’s spastic hand twirls thru the smokey atmosphere of the saloon.  And one of his ears disappears for good measure.  Agent Whapp, to the left o’ me, proves to be an expert marksman!  And nobody else fires a shot ‘cuz she’s so damn scary.  A sullen skull chalked like a mask on her face makes it so.

“So be it!” shouts Ted Newscent, just a guitar player, to the right o’ me.  He covers all of ’em with his 45.  He’s no longer grinning.  His jaw muscles are taunt ~ working overtime ~ as his teeth grind.

The floor is smokin’.  The boys are leavin’.  And the Bird Cage Saloon is burning down.

The bristling cannon-ware of Submissivania (Has she’s grown 5 extra arms aiming all this stuff?) offers encouragement for all AR-15 conglomerates to fold-up and depart.  And so they do.  Some of these tough guys dance a little bit as they seek an exit, for the bullets fling & sing up outta the crackling ammo dump (I presume it’s a secret NRA ammo dump) in the cellar below.

Peeintheair’s four bodyguards have become statues.  “Why don’t you guys move!” bellows my favorite old rock n’ roll star turned Obamasiah deacon.  He waves the barrel of his Colt toward the door.  Submissivania shoots somebody’s hat off ~ more encouragement.

“What the…?”

Peeintheair is doing a jig!  His clown shoes flip flop madly as he pyroots around & around, holding the ear-less side of his head as it spurts blood ‘tween his fingers.  He’s kind of like a twirling lawn sprinkler spraying red dew on the smoking, splintering planks around him.  The expression on his face is that of a grinning circus clown ~ even after having wiped off all his make-up.  He’s got a grin on his face so big his eyes are squeezed shut.  He seems to be in his element.  The racket below is deafening.  A carbon stench pervasive.  Smoke is slithering around him like out-of-body experiences.

“Hell!” snarls Ted.  He waves farewell with his gun & exits in disgust out the back door, grabs his guitar on his way out.  A large section of the floor explodes behind him & flames leap up ~ begin waltzing with our NRA celebrity.

Peeintheair’s bodyguards remain catatonic.  I guess they cannot decide whether they want to defend their looney leader or shoot him.  They haven’t moved a quarter of an inch for maybe five minutes.  One of them has a sawed-off shotgun half pulled out of his coat as if eternally posing for a camera that is not here.  Meanwhile his a-whirl dervish boss starts singing:


“What stops a bad man

with a gun?

What stops a bad man

with a gun?

Maybe nothin’ can stop him

but the rising sun!”


The coat sleeve of one of Peeintheair’s bodyguards catches fire.  This snaps the feller out of his statue-like stillness.  He drops his guns & runs ~ like an Olympic torch-carrier for the front door ~ hollering.  But he doesn’t get too far.  The floor collapses under him in a burst of red sparks.  He tumbles head first into the spluttering tumult of ricocheting bullets below ~ then comes flying out riding a piano-sized fireball that propels him back over our heads across the room.  After that I lose track of this unfortunate individual.  He probably just lies on the floor some where behind a table, perhaps on top of a table, a sizzling charbroiled hamburger…

by Rawclyde!


Inside the Bird Cage Saloon II



GUN 2013

Chapter 16


As Mr. Newscent begins to talk, saying such things as “How’s that leg doing?” and I reply, “Not bad, thank you, sir,” and he continues, “You don’t have to ‘sir’ me, I’m just a guitar player, call me Ted,” and as our conversation continues forth, I begin to notice a few details in this new environment, the most noteworthy of which is the ceiling of the saloon.

It is a regular flat ceiling, kinda dark, but centrally located there be a sizable dome, artistically & brilliantly designed to resemble the inside of a bird cage with a sky-blue background.  Up there in the dome, hanging in midair, there be a large perch a hanging, and on which is standing a colorfully-painted sculpture of a bold & fearsome Bald Eagle.  The effect is quite beautiful and creates a down-home patriotic air to the place.

I suspect as Ted & I talk along we are actually bonding.  “Yes, Ted, to support laws that force us to be unarmed & defenseless would certainly be sheeplike.”

“Extremely so,” says my new rock n’ roll friend, plucking a few strings on his guitar.  “That kind of equality is for sheep.  Be better or get sheered!”

“Well of course, Ted.  That makes some sense alright.”

“What’s yer handle?”

“Rawclyde!  That’s with an exclamation mark.”

“Glad to meet you, bro!”  He holds out his paw ~ and squeezes mine in a vice-like grip.   He’s grinning of course.  “Did you say Raw Slide?”


Meanwhile, Wayne Peeintheair twirls around on his stool and orders a drink.  He taps with his fingers the counter, which is wood lacquered & polished to an extreme glare.  When he finally gets whatever he ordered, he raises the frosty glass into the air with a keen bravado & baritones, “What stops a bad man with a gun?”

“A good man with a gun!” shouts forth in gleeful reply everybody at the bar, which includes some “Iron Brotherhood” bikers.  They all laugh & drink-up ~ and play around with open rucksacks & briefcases on the counter ~ sacks & cases full of happy clicking & clinking gunware.

As time passes, Peeintheair repeats this favorite refrain of his over & over again, always answered in enthusiastic chorus by those around him.  Even Newscent bellows forth in this coddling of the famous NRA spokesman.  There at the bar, semi-automatic rifle congomerations get snapped & twisted into all kinds of outlandish configurations ~ constructed from simple pistols.  When one spider-like weapon gets completed, it is raised in the air & “hoorah!”s are shouted.

I absolutely do not know what is going on here.  Are these happy-go-lucky men celebrating Wayne Peeintheair’s birthday?  Does anybody here, besides me, know about his sinister clown activities sneeking out & in the saloon backdoor?  One thought that flashes through my perplexity is that Peeintheair is in the middle of a full fledged nervous breakdown & his friends are trying to get him to “blow it out of the water” so that he can return to “normal” sometime soon…


Old Glory by Red Skelton


Stepping forward…



GUN 2013

Chapter 13


What perverse ideology leads a man to don a clown costume & give loaded derringers to children?  He’s over the edge.  He’s over.  Period.

The sad scene behind me on Cortez Street dictates courage, dictates that I investigate.  I slither out from behind the trash bin.  I straighten up.  I step forward.  The clown disappeared up the alley & I want to know exactly where.

Limping now, I step forward again & again.  I step across Gurley Street ~ named after a surveyor & officer in the U.S. Army who set out for but never made it to Prescott.  He was going to be the town’s first mayor if I remember my history correctly.

A motorist almost runs me down.  What else is new?  Another motorist slows, stops, condescendingly  wiggles her fingers at me to continue across the damn street.  I do as beckoned & back alley drift between the tall edifice of Saint Michael’s Hotel & a little Buddha gift store ~ both built of crumbling brick.  The clarity of the situation is hitting me now.  The shadows, though shrinking, are deep & mystical.  This reminds me of when I walked down Oak Creek Canyon along the highway under a full moon.  But I’m in Prescott & it’s almost noon.  And, as usual, there’s nothing to fear but God.  And He is known to loves us.

I think I am getting Gurley mixed up with Whipple when it comes to the historical personalities of Prescott.  Was Whipple’s first name Fort?  No, I don’t think so.  And it might very well be he was going to be not Prescott’s first mayor but Arizona’s first governor.  He never made it.  I best stop thinking about this.

And it’s getting hot around here.  Sweat is dripping down the side of my face.  My armpits are sopping wet ~ might be because I’m wearing a new vest.  I pull down the brim of my old hat.  My hair, I’m sure, is all over the place, like, I’m an over-the-hill hippie with a silver beard…

~ by Rawclyde!


copyright by Ken Loots



Fading away on the balcony…



GUN 2013

Chapter 11


“The common sense gun regulation bill got buffaloed in the senate.”

“You mean the gun control bill?”

“No.  I mean the common sense gun regulation bill.  ‘Gun control’ doesn’t sound right to me.  I don’t use the term.”

“All the people I’ve talked to around here say Obama wants to disarm them of their firearms.”

“That’s the NRA lying to the gullibles.  Our Commander In Chief doesn’t like little Americans in their elementary school getting their brains splattered all over the walls by an over-armed maniac.”

“What do you propose?”

“Well, with the gun bill defeated in the senate, I propose intelligent voting by American citizens in 2014.”

Submissivania laughs.

“Hey, if the American people refuse to be buffaloed,” I say, “This gun legislation can still get through!”

Submissivania laughs again ~ bitterly ~ and shrugs.

The Earth’s aura is thick with mystery and so is my head.  The town is a mother lode of human spirit.  The American motorist rules.  Benches are prevalent downtown, never the less, for weary pedestrians ~ a generous gesture by the city mothers and fathers to the tourists, and to people like me.  A chilly wind is knocking about.  But the sun is arising.  And Thumb Butte keeps winking at the White House’s two favorite secret agents perched on a third-floor balcony above Cortez Street in Prescott,  Arizona.

By n’ by a feller come outta the hall door behind us & lean on the rail to the other side of alluring Submissivania.  It doesn’t take long for her to divert her attention in his direction.  He is younger, more outgoing, more stupid than me.  I cannot comprehend why Submissivania’s alarming shoulder is bumping him now instead of yours truly ~ except I suppose he’s one of the boys that has been in & out of her room in the wee hours of the night since my secret-agent partner & myself have been rooming here.  That’s how it’s been at the Downtown Prescott Inn.

I don’t know what they’re talking about.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  They’re yammering on & on about balance & awareness & loping & rearing up & eating grass along the trail.  His hand fondles her knee and that too submissively swings in his direction.  In fact, my fair lady eventually swirls around, leans her back against the balcony.  Pretty soon they might as well be slow dancing & I might as well be Perry Como singing Moon River specially for them to enhance their romantic inclinations.

My happy face has faded entirely away.  My new mood is becoming pretty transparent.  But they don’t notice.  Or care.  I might just as well be a ghost.

As I’m deciding how to sneak away from there, my favorite duet leaves instead.  I think they say something about riding horses before they go.  They’re gone without any good-byes to the old grey ghost who has been fading away on the balcony.

So now what?  Am I going to go to the gym across the street or the public library up the hill?  Will I hit the church for free grub or the ornery mother goddess for free coffee?  How ’bout the community college library?  I could go there.  Or I could visit a friend.  I happen to have had at least 3 years of familiarity with this place, Prescott, before I returned two months ago accompanied by Submissivania ~ and the day is actually becoming more and more beautiful.

I’m about to turn & head out when something catches my attention on the sidewalk across the street.  What’s a clown doing down there?  A man in a colorful Bozo costume just handed a little kid a small gift-wrapped package.   The clown just handed another kid another one.  That’s nice.  The little boy and girl run down the sidewalk tearing open their free whatevers.  There’s a loud bang.  And the boy drops ~ drops dead?

I turn, run down the hall, tumble down the stairs, to investigate…

~ by Rawclyde!


Artwork by Quintero: