Favorite Moms

Hillary & Brittany

~

When

my mom

was

my favorite toy

~

When

I

was

a little boy

~

I’d

pull a chair

up

to the sink

~

And

get me

a

tasty drink

~

Of thee

olde

  Colorad-

 ohhhhhhh

~

Way over

‘dare

  in San Dieg-

 ohhhhhhh

~

Brittany & Son, Marina Del Rey, 2009

~

San Diego

~

Deep Desert Blues

by

Rawclyde

!

Democracy Now

http://www.democracynow.org

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Spiritualities

our beloved one

http://www.regalrena.com

~~~

I met a woman

she wasn’t there

not even air

words & pictures made of light

~

She was

what I have come

to behold

a spirituality

~

Alas, our fingertips danced

oceans apart

something was there

besides air

~

Words bounced around

balls of silly putty

‘tween us & then poof!

she was gone

~

She had a whip

and a smile

to employ

in a dark place

~

But I saw something

completely different

in the lady’s

smiley face

~

T’was

an

angel

a spirituality

~

These pictures

they’re made to steal

with a click

do with them what you wish

~

But there are consequences

yes, she’s here, she’s gone

touched yet untouched

an internet spirituality

~

Beautiful warm

so vibrant & real

hair flowing, shoulders with

a smooth firm curve

~

Eyes of color of soul

make my heart glow

make my words bounce

across the sea

~

Silly

putty

spirit-

uality!

~

Another woman come along

smoothly chirping

a bubbly brook

a fluttering floating song

~

For what is she looking?

fingertips deftly dive into my pocket to find

the prayer of a tramp

a coin-less hole

~

An exquisitely well mannered dove

she too welds a whip

but it’s for me to use on her

I won’t, I can’t!

~

Click

whoa!

I find pictures more pictures

pictures galore

~

She’s born-again gorgeous

has no whip

nor

is she a whore

~

She’s simply there

dressed up & dressed down

in a thousand dresses

for any old horn-dog clown

~

She

is

Catholic

as can be

~

And I am

old

poor

yet free

~

Beloved spiritualities

flitting in & out of

my eye ~ how can I

not love you?

~

Love ~ is it

really there, really here

made not of brick

made not of air?

~

from Rawclyde!

~~~

palace restaurant prescott

http://www.historicpalace.com

~~~

Quite a gal…

courtesy of Evelina Galli 2

~~~

GUN 2013

Chapter 7

~~~

Submissivania Whapp, it turns out, is not only a pretty woman.  She’s become an accomplished pony rider over the years in a secret canyon of the urban sprawl of Los Angeles.  And she’s become the best-selling author of the world’s most sought after erotica in the late-night glow of her bedroom computer.  And she’s a top-gun corporate executive on week days.  And she’s the youngest of the White House’s favorite secret agents ~ 24 years old.  And she hasn’t moved out of her parent’s sprawling suburban-ranch home yet.

Ms. Whapp lets go these autobiographicals as she massages my neck & shoulders.  This massaging endeavor of hers causes me to swiftly recover from my swoons.  Now her close proximity is elevating me to a clairvoyant height I’ve never obtained before in a Greyhound bus seat.  Her flowery scent, her warm breath, the congenial display of valley and hillock within licking distance lifts my consciousness out of a muck that it’s been languishing in for I don’t know how many years.  The clairvoyance I’m experiencing is startling.  I actually witness angels grouped around the exterior of the bus protecting it from traffic accidents as it speeds along the highway.  My religiousity soars as Ms. Whapp’s hands, saintly lampoons, knead all cares and worries out of my teetering over-the-hill body.  I’m an ecstatic old timer ~ downright near experiencing levitation.

We roll past stacks of cotton on cotton farms, into the desert town of Gila Bend, and park for a hamburger and a coke.  We’ve got 20 minutes.

While we scarf-up the delicacies at Carl’s Jr. I tell Submissivania, “This is where I sold books out of a truck once upon a time.  Right here, right here where we’re sitting.”

“Really, Rawclyde, you’re so funny!” bubbles my favorite secret-agent partner.

“Right here in this very spot, before this hamburger joint was ever here,” I tell her.  “I sold a little book of lyrics written by old Hank Williams to a school teacher one day.  A half hour later another school teacher come by all excited and buy a fat biography of Pancho Villa.”

“That’s hilarious, Rawclyde!” giggles Submissivania.

I got the feeling that this pretty woman is patronizing the old man.  Which, in actuality, is okay with me.  She slyly looks around, sticks a french fry into a puddle of catchup on her tray, pops it into her mouth.  I take another bite of my burger, gulp down some coke.  The burger isn’t too bad.

“I called that old truck ~ Rawclyde’s Book Mule.”

“Oh Rawclyde!  How cute!”

~~~

photo:

http://evelinagalli.com

~~~

In Heaven with Diana (part two)

tumblr_ma6az60QwI1rdbsf8o1_500

~

So here stand Diana and I holding hands in the living room on Sunday morning.  Our house is not on planet Earth.  Our house is in Heaven.  And our honeymoon is endless.

“Now, baby, now,” whimper I to my Diana.  She’s my beautiful wife.  And I am so lucky ~ oops, I mean blessed!  I say to her, “You gotta put on a dress if we’re going to Church today.”

“We’re in Heaven, Clyde,” says Diana.  “We can go to Church naked if we want.”  I almost believe her.  The way she is holding my hand, the way the green green grass of home ricochets in her eyes, the way her sacred body emits its glow and warmth ~ all this, everything in the universe, tells me to believe her.

My knees are more and more wobbly.  I have a bottomless craving to kneel before we even get to Church.  Jesus please have mercy on my soul.  I want to kneel in front of my wife!  “C’mon, Diana, please.  Please go put on a dress.  We’re going to be late.”

I am dressed swank ~ really swank.  I’m even wearing my grey top hat.  I am ready for Church.  But Diana ~ my long legged, green eye-ed darling…

“Why? Why, Diana?  Why are you doing this?”

She’s not totally naked.  She’s got the pelt of a raccoon draped over her head.  Something her Uncle Davy gave her.  It’s paws hang down to either side a bit past her neck, intimate pals with her gold-streaked hair.  If they hung down any further their claws would be resting upon her delightfully elongated boom booms.  She shrugs in reply to my exasperated questioning.  And my wife says, “I am a forest priestess.  What do you expect?  Look into my eyes.”  She steps closer than she already is and, with her breezy breath fanning my inflamed face, whispers, “Look deep.”

The head of the raccoon pelt, its nose sticking out a little over Diana’s forehead, its little marble eyes staring off into space, is perched up there like a baseball cap.  But forget that furry thing!

I lose myself in Diana’s cathedral windows.  A point-blank reflection of Heaven is in there.  She let’s go my hand and her fingernails etch a trail up my sleeve.  She rests the fingertips of her magic hands on the tops of my ears.  Like I’m a steering wheel.

I kneel.

~ by Rawclyde!

~

art courtesy of:

http://krystleyez.com

~

In Heaven with Diana (part one)

~~~

She's got a new hat...

~~~

Here in Heaven it is Sunday morning and time to go to Church.  The front door is open.  Outside the birds are chirping and the bells are ringing.  I am wearing my grey top hat and dressed swank on the edge of the couch ~ waiting for Diana.  We’ve been married for about half a year.  It’s absolutely ridiculous how happy we are.

She twirls into the living room and stands in front of me.  She loves to stand in front of me when I’m sitting down ~ especially when she’s naked.  I love it too because she’s beautiful and she’s my wife.  But why is she naked now?  And what is that on top of her head?

“I’m ready,” she says.

“You’re naked,” says I.  “How can you be ready when you’re naked?”  I’m looking up at her pretty startled.  The contraption draped over her head has eyes and claws and lots of fur.  It looks like the skin of a wild raccoon.  “And what’s that on top of your head?”

“Uncle Davy gave me this.  C’mon.  Let’s go.”  She lifts my hand in her very warm one and in her gentle way pulls me up off the couch and toward the door.

“Hold it!” I protest as I abruptly stop in my tracks.  I shut the door, accidentally slamming it.  Obviously I’m losing my cool and on the verge of causing a scene, which doesn’t really matter because we’re home alone.  We’re still holding hands.

Thank God we’re holding hands.  But are we going to make it to Church this morning?  Diana’s point-blank emerald eyes are killing me.  She raises one smooth shoulder like it is the “good morning” sun ~ a few inches from my chin.  Meanwhile my knees are beginning to wobble and I am on the verge of kneeling before we even get to Church!

Jesus Christ have mercy…

~ Rawclyde!

~~~

Photo courtesy of Fashion Tadpole:

http://fashiontadpole.blogspot.com/2010/04/davy-crockett.html

~~~

Forest Priestess

cheri-3549

~~~

Going To Prescott

chapter 3

~~~

All kinds of growth poking up out of the rot, here, in this Ponderosa Pine forest at the edge of the little city of Prescott, Arizona.  Lots of trees verily verily tall.  The wind keeps blowing but only touches the tops of the trees ~ and sings its song ~

To me.

What’s so important about me? Nothing. And everything. A remnant of Walt Whitman’s song to democracy.

Lordy Lordy, thank-you for getting me out here ~ out here where I don’t belong. Ask the deer. They’ll tell you I don’t belong here. Ask the ranger. He’ll tell you the same.

I didn’t know what I was doing, but You, oh Lordy Lordy Lord Jehovah, got me out here anyway ~ camoflauged away from the highway, which sings its motorola song down below my own true-blue knob of silent granite outcrop, behind which I have pitched my tent, here on the mountain side that I share with the birds and the deer, the rotting logs, pine needles & pine cones & all these tall tall trees.

Which reminds me of Diana, the forest priestess from Portland, Maine. Thinking about her, the mountain chill no longer bothers me. Suddenly, I like it!

A soft lump of gooey play-doe in the bottom of my belly is all thats left of the hard brick of jealousy that once long ago reigned in my chest ~ over the flesh & blood woman who is now the idolized priestess who rules deep in the night ~ especially here in the forest when the wind has stopped blowing and the quietude is topless & bottomless. It’s a slice of the pie of the mystical reality of reality that I am now a slave to the etheral priestess ~

Diana!

cheri

She, a newly-arrived PFC in the U.S. Army, took me jogging thru the snow-flake-ed woods at Fort Ben Harrison, Indiana, in the frost-bitten January of ’81. I was hung-over. I couldn’t keep up. And my 30-year-old wang-dang froze off.

Diana!

She was 28 years old, long legged, long haired, and long over-due and I don’t mean pregnant. She was way ahead of everybody else & nutty as a fruitcake. T’was I who was her chosen slaughter.

Two years later, up on the Presidio Military Post in Monterey, California, disenchanted with barracks life & unwilling to put up with other women, Sp5 Diana pitched her tent in a woody grove of the military post.  She actually knew how to live in solitude  while in the U.S. Army. When I finally caught up to her, she told me of how a deer with whom she lived in this patch of pine trees would eat out of her hand.

Diana!

http://bakdezerttrail.yolasite.com/

cheri-3493

http://ambralightplay.wordpress.com/2012/12/06/the-pagan-priestess/#

~~~

Lost Goddess Ishtar

Fattah Hallah Abdel - Tutt'Art@.jpg.opt757x495o0,0s757x495

~~~

Walk Like An Egyptian

~~~

After a while the people of Yuma, Arizona

grow tired of I, the old mummy,

wandering around town bumping

into things and getting in the way of traffic

~

Plus my bandages have become yellow &

brown with crusty nausea fluttering

in the wind & dragging on the ground

I unintentionally cause 2 traffic accidents

~

The police finally catch-up to me

drive me to the California border

point this tired old mummy toward

the dunes, ah yes, giant hills of desert sand

~

It takes me two days to climb

to the top of a sand dune, ten minutes

to roll down the other side

& then I hear a bird-like female voice

~

We make small talk until finally

I tell her, “I wish you weren’t

a creature of darkness”

she rips a rag off my face  “Ahhhhhhh!”

~

And leads me to an ancient Egyptian temple

half buried in another dune

where she presses a button that moves

a slab & we step inside

~

In a colossus vault painted with moving hieroglyphics

I finally find the lost goddess

or she finally finds me

   an overflow of bubbly joy causes me to collapse…

~

A Ghost Town Called Love

~