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)

Spitball Fury

    by Rawclyde!                                                                                                             ~

The small sphere

Hurls Ghost Face

Deeply into space


“Where did she go?”

He grits as the metal ball spins

Over Hong Kong


There’s so much space out here

His eyeballs

spin too


And his head flies off

Knocks around

Seeking a way out


His body goes thru a


From weak to weaker


Slows down to such a degree that

His cantankerous head decides to sneak back onto

The top of his neck


Ghost Face secures it there

With a few pieces of duck tape

Leans on the stick


The spitball burps

farts &

Speeds forth


(Text Copyright Clyde Collins 2016)

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!”





Love is in the air…

dreamstimefree_796245 geese


GUN 2013

Chapter 6


I find it peculiar being an old man.  Being a young man is one thing.  Being a man is a little bit of another.  But being an old man is indeed peculiar.

I have loved women on occasion, physically & heartfully, but never committed to marrying one.  So now I live without that comfort, that company, and actually don’t know that much about it.  Consequently, for me now, what is Love?

God, Jehovah, Allah, Krishna is love.  Mary, the mother of Jesus, is love.  And Jesus, himself, is a man painted with God colors.  I pray, usually alone.  For me, prayer is a certain thought in a certain direction, sometimes vocalized.  I pray that my love for life all around me never dies.  When an attractive woman comes along & gives me the time of day ~ this is a special moment ~ a poetic moment ~ when love blooms like a little desert flower ~ like a little miracle from on high.

When I regain consciousness a 2nd time on the Greyhound heading into Phoenix ~ I take a long look at the other secret agent and tell her, “Love is in the air.”

She laughs, being a woman with a good nature.  And she says, “What?”

Maybe she wants to hear the quaint news again.  I don’t know.  I cannot stop myself from continuing the refrain.  My hand waves around like an archangel’s wand.  And I say,  “Love is all around, in this run-a-way bus, in the desert air outside!  Look!”

I see in her two big emeralds a quizzical regard toward he whom she’s giving her sacred attention.  I believe she thinks I’m crazy.  But I believe she might like crazy, my kind of crazy.  She glances around in token respect.

What does the fair & desirable secret agent see?

The couple in the seat behind us is buried in a blanket.  Two single men further back cannot stop talking enthusiastically in a foreign accent ~ crossing America.  Two kids back there are teasing their mom.  Or is the big lady their aunt?  Upfront older folks have flocked around the driver like he is George Washington, despite the strange plastic cubicle inside which he is confined.

Outside our rolling thunder, the creosote is pretty prominent in these parts.  The saguaro cacti is pretty scrawny and occasional.  Anything called a mountain is pretty far away.  There’s lots of space.  Most of it is limitless blue sky.

“What did you say your name is?”

Stray strands of red hair swirl around.  She smiles.  “I am Ms. Whapp.”

“Would you happen to know what time it is, Ms. Whapp?”

She pulls out her phone.  Click.  “It’s 3:10.  And you can call me by my first name if you can remember it.”

All I can remember is her first name is one long roller-coaster ride…

~ by Rawclyde!


Going Greyhound



GUN 2013

Chapter 5


At the Palm Street Station, a few miles this side of the Mexican border, a few others & I stand in the dark waiting for the trolley when ~ when nothing happens.  Except that eventually the trolley comes by & we all get on.

The trolley ride is uneventful ~ except that I am surrounded by hungry Mexicans.  None of them have guns.  El lone gringo is not molested.  Sometimes I become fascinated by this group of people who daily commute across the border to work or otherwise carry on.  They’re so, so earnest.  The young women, of course, fascinate me the most.  From where does such stoic & penetrating beauty come?  The only answer I can fathom:  it comes from below the border.

At 12th & Imperial, I get off, walk across the street to the little Greyhound Bus veranda,  show Security my back-pack & wait for the Greyhound.  The sun moseys up into the sky & I contemplate the colossus public library, fresh built, not yet open, a little ways up the street.  I’m proud of San Diego for planting such a fancy edifice to knowledge on the southeast edge of downtown rather than locating it in a distant suburb.

Years ago, I’d driven half-human junior-high-school ghetto-rodents in school buses outta this area to the swank suburb of La Jolla, for the Voluntary Ethnic Transfer Program.  Now those kids are men and women.  Bless ’em.

And here comes our bus.  Some Black & Asian Americans & me wait some more.  The driver, a skinny old White man in uniform & with rock-star-length white hair under his Capt’n cap, steps out of the bus & does his chores, one after another, an endless string of ’em.  Finally we are allowed to deposit our bags into the belly of the beast.  The driver finishes up some more chores.  He takes our tickets.  We climb aboard and wait some more.  Then at last, at last, the old codger climbs behind the wheel, says garbled things on the loud speaker and we roll outta town ~ get waylaid in El Cajon where more folks board and we wait some more.  Then we head up over the mountains & down into the chartreuse desert ~ a-glide to Arizona.

Sooner or later when you ride Greyhound the pretty woman gets on the bus.  This time it happens in Yuma.  She come walking across the shopping-center parking lot arm-n-arm with her stud ~ a Hispanic skin-head in a baseball cap & t-shirt.  They look smug and happy and we all know what they’ve been doing.  The young lady jiggles along in a sleeveless low-neckline tight black-denim fit.  She looks pretty good from a distance.  She looks even better bobbing alone up the aisle ~ slender & long & pale & freckled & strands of long red-hair falling out of a sloppy bun ~ here come da’ White Girl!

She sits directly across the aisle from me.  I rip off the glue and avert my eyes ~ look out my own window at a quaint Jack In The Box across the street & think, “Oh my oh my.”

Once the bus gets out of Yuma, the desert landscape gets significantly enthralling, the sacred feminine entity gets significantly relaxed, and I find myself to be a dirty old man glancing there & here & staring there, in Picture Book Heaven.

Then the plot thickens ~ like a brick slammed up against the side of the head.  It absolutely knocks me out ~ when her warm thigh bumps into the suddenly no longer empty seat next to me & a voice girlishly bubbles & perks next my ear, “Are you Rawclyde?”

I turn my head and boom ~ I’m out.  The blackout is complete.  Apparently I can’t handle pretty women in my old age.  I don’t know how long this blackout lasts.  When I come to, her hand is squeezing my knee & she is worriedly asking me, “Are you okay?”

“No, I am not okay,” growl I.  “And, yes, I am Rawclyde!”

“Glad to meet you.”  She holds out her hand.

Limply I grab it.  My head is spinning.

Her delicate fingers are warm and cool.  Point-blankly & with outlandishly green green eyes she says, “I’m Submissivania Whapp, your partner on this mission.”  When she smiles, her teeth magnificently ricochet the desert light from outside our galloping coach.  With a roll of her eyeballs she adds,  “I’m the White House’s other favorite secret agent.”

She has knocked me out again.

~ by Rawclyde!