Yuma

~

by Rawclyde!

~

Yuma’s “good morning” skies

are

the desert goddess’s eyes

barely open now

and awaiting

her nausea to go away

while radiating more n’ more

solar rays

tainted pretty pink, tainted gothic purple

and finally flashing their blue baby blue

all over the place

and the desert goddess moans

“Is this Goonsville or

is this the ghost town called Love?”

~

(Copyright Clyde Collins 2011)

~

 A Ghost Town Called Love

poetry collection

2012

by Rawclyde

!

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Going Greyhound

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~~~

GUN 2013

Chapter 5

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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!

~~~

To Senator Jeff Flake AZ…

~~~

Hello Senator Jeff Flake ~

In the wake of the Newtown tragedy of 20 first-grade children and their educators slain by an assault-weapon wielding mentally-ill young man ~ something must be done.  I believe we have no choice.  This is why I urge you to become involved in the legislation of, at least, smaller magazine clips and thorough background checks for the purchase of guns, especially at gun shows.

Also, I think it would be beneficial, for Republican congress members and for our public schools, if you were to insist on the hiring of and providing federal dollars for more school resource officers, preferably armed, in our public schools.

I voted as an Independent in Yuma, 2012.  I served in the U.S. Army, 1980-84…

Which brings to mind, Sir, I believe our soldiers in Afghanistan would like to see Chuck Hagel commence his Secretary of Defense duties ASAP.  Your co-operation in regards to this appointment would be much appreciated…

Good day, Sir.

Yours truly ~
Rawclyde!

P.S. Good luck with your Sequestration debacle…

(e-mailed)

~~~

To Senator John McCain AZ…

~~~

Hello Senator John McCain ~

Further delays of positioning Mr. Hagel as secretary of defense are not recommended by this citizen…

I believe the majority of our soldiers in Afghanistan want Hagel as secretary of defense ASAP.

I voted Independent in Yuma AZ in 2012…

I served in the U.S. Army 1980-84 under Health Services Command Hawaii as a journalist (71Q)…

Also, Sir, in regard to current gun laws, I believe smaller capacity magazine clips and more thorough background checks, especially at gun shows, should be legislated.

Incidentally, when in the U.S. Army I continually qualified “expert” with the M-16.

Good day, Sir.

Yours truly ~ Rawclyde!

(e-mailed)

~~~

Sor Maria de Jesus de Agreda comes to America…

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Sor Maria de Jesus de Agreda (1602 – 1665), also known as Sister Mary Agreda, or the Lady in Blue, survived the Spanish Inquisition, advised the King of Spain, and left an even more inspiring legacy in her chronicle of the life of the mother of Jesus in The Mystical City of God, an eight volume set of tomes, in which she also described her own spiritual visions of Holy Mary…

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Sor Maria de Jesus de Agreda also is known to have mystically appeared in the American Southwest ~ most notably in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. There, she is revered as the legendary Lady in Blue because of the miraculous nature of her preaching appearances to the Indians, that is, without arriving by boat like all the rest of the Spaniards.  The widespread effect of her missionary work is cited in numerous historical texts of the time, predating the famous Padre Eusebio Kino’s more conventional missionary work…

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Yet, Sister Mary Agreda has yet to be canonized a saint, though there has been increasing groundswell to do so since the 400th anniversary of her birth in 2002…

~ info from Marilyn Fedewa

http://www.cambridgeconnections.net/Maria_TradRevDec05.html

~~~

Note from Rawclyde!

Being a red-blooded American Catholic boy, I couldn’t help but run across the popular abridgement of The Mystical City of God by venerable Mary Agreda translated from the original Spanish by Fiscar Marison (Rev. George J. Blatter).  Alas, I read this fascinating fat tome from cover to cover.  Years later, stumbling into the desert town of Yuma and abiding there for a spell, after having read such a book and another beauty entitled Mysticism by Evelyn Underhill, being who I was, I couldn’t help writing, DEEP DESERT BLUES.  It took about 3 years for me to write this narrative rhyme, a long one in which I had a vision of the Mother of Jesus in the midst of a mystical adventure of my own.  It’s fiction of course.  You can read the vision part starting right here ~ DeepDesertBluesV.yolasite.com ~ and onward.  If you do read this, though, be careful ~ it rhymes ~ so you might start singing…

~~~

Lost Goddess Ishtar

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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

~